Please stop telling your children to stop wanting to go into creative things like music education or photography or art for a career because they might not make the amount of money you want them to make. Please stop telling your children that their dreams are stupid because you care more about money than them achieving what they desire the most. Please stop telling your child to spend their lives in a boring job that they hate to make more money. Please stop teaching your children to be miserable with their lives knowing that they could have achieved their dream, but didn’t just to make more money. But please encourage them to keep their dreams close to their hearts. Please remind them that nothing can stop them from achieving their dreams. Please influence them to continue doing the things they are passionate about for the rest of their lives.
Yuri knocks on the door for the third time in ten minutes
and pleads, “Please let me in.”
He can hear the soft shifting of bed sheets and the wet
gasping of quiet sniffles. Otabek never did like for Yuri to see him crying.
“Beka, baby, I can’t help you if I’m out here. I can’t do
anything if I’m out here.”
“Just leave me alone, Yura,” Otabek croaks, “There’s nothing
you can do.”
Yuri knows that he’s both correct and incorrect. He can’t
fix it – nobody can – but he can be there. He can stay by Otabek’s side and do
whatever it takes to see him smile again. Otabek hiccups, but it sounds
muffled. He must be wrapped up in the blankets.
Yuri sighs, “Alright, here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna go
make us a cup of tea. Then I’m coming back and you’re drinking it with me. Then
we’re gonna talk about what you want to do from here. I’m going to let you be
sad, but that’s not all you get to be.”
Otabek sighs, which Yuri takes to be as good of a yes as he
thinks he’s going to get, so he heads into the kitchen to put on the kettle.
While the teabags steep, he thinks of the best way to put his thoughts into
words. The x-rays of Otabek’s knee were heartbreaking. They both knew what they
would see before the doctor even showed them, but having to face the cold
reality of the end of an era was so much more difficult when you couldn’t
pretend it wasn’t real anymore.
He grabs the teacups and moves back toward the bedroom,
considering the best way to approach this. Bracing himself, he knocks one more
time. Yuri loves Otabek, he really does, but he’s getting pretty tired of
looking at this door.
“Alright, you don’t have to let me in, but you do have to let this cup of tea in. I
made it just how you like. Lemon and honey and everything.”
Otabek doesn’t say anything, but Yuri can hear him trudge
across the room and slide down the wall next to the entry. Yuri waits patiently
and after a few minutes, the door cracks open and a tan hand just barely slides
out. Yuri smiles and presses the cup into the fingers splayed before him before
watching the door snap shut in his face.
“So,” he starts.
“So,” Otabek chokes out.
“This sucks, huh?”
“Yeah. It fucking sucks.”
“OTABEK ALTIN,” Yuri clutches his chest for dramatic effect.
He knows Otabek can’t see him, but he also knows that Otabek will know exactly
what he’s doing. “SUCH LANGUAGE! YOU KISS YOUR MOTHER WITH THAT MOUTH.”
Otabek snorts, “I do worse than that with this mouth, Yura.”
Yuri throws himself against the door, “BEKA. MY SENSITIVE
Otabek chuckles. Good, now he’s getting somewhere.
“Look,” Yuri starts, “I know this is hard. And I know it’s
sooner than you wanted it to be. But I’m here. You have me, and you have your
family and friends. You have your music. You have your education. You have the stuff to get through this. We just have to get you through it.”
A few more silent minutes slip by while Yuri taps his
fingers against his knee to keep himself focused and calm. Eventually, he hears
the soft click of the lock and the light creaking of the hinges swinging open.
Otabek pushes his hand out once more and Yuri grabs on tight, lacing their
fingers. Squeezing lightly, he tries again, “Do you know how much I admire you?
I always have. I remember when we first became friends thinking that there was no
one else on earth that had the strength you did. I thought there was nothing
you couldn’t do with just your grit alone. But you don’t have to do that, ya
know? Maybe this time let me be that for you? It’s what I’m here for. So
please, please let me in?”
His hand is getting clammy now, but he resolves to let it
happen for as long as necessary.
Rating: Teen & up Pairing: Hannibal/Will, Will & Bev Tags: au, fluff, romance, mild drug use, music, Bach, shopping, gender identity, references to Pretty Woman Set after I’ll Be Your Mirror
I desperately needed to write some fluff and we can’t really have too much of it at the moment, so here’s a Quicksilver timestamp based on a conversation I had with @samui-sakura88 (why can’t i tag ugh) about a million years ago.
@samui-sakura88 I always meant to do something with it and it seemed to fit really nicely into the timeline right now - I hope you like it :)
For people unfamiliar with this series: Will is a genderfluid psychology student. He lives with Bev, his best friend. Hannibal is crazy in love with him and grows his own cannabis (in case you get confused by that mention). Just… try to go with it.
Even in the beginning, Hannibal had never been the type to drag Will off to bed as soon as dinner was over. He enjoyed the ritual order of clearing away, and he enjoyed taking time over his pleasures, whether that was cooking, eating, or an unhurried glass of cognac. Will was no exception to this rule.
After their feast would come a cosy, quiet passion which lasted only until it was quiet no longer. Will would curl up on the sofa to read, preferring a few hits of Hannibal’s homegrown pot to a nightcap. Hannibal would never be far away, occasionally sketching at his desk, but tonight allowing Will to use him as a human sofa cushion. He showed no sign at all that he minded. In fact, Will was certain from the firm arm around his middle, holding Will against him, that it also counted amongst his pleasures.
Both of them had books, but only one was reading. Will had lost interest in Wuthering Heights some time ago. He knew it almost by heart anyway and reading was too much effort after a voluptuous meal, especially so deep into the semester. Instead, lulled by the rise and fall of Hannibal’s chest, he listened to his own sluggish thoughts and the rhythmic sound of pages turning behind him.
Hannibal peered over his shoulder. “Not in the mood for your book?”
“I’ve looked at too many words this week,” Will said. “I’ve pored over them, mine and other people’s, and I’m sick of text of all kinds.”
Hannibal put his own book aside, so he could wind both arms around Will. “At least you are being stretched,” he said. “Maybe you should have a holiday, when the semester is over.”
“Ugh, there’s finals first,” said Will. “I can’t even think about the summer until they’re over.”
“In that case,” Hannibal said, releasing him to stand smoothly, “I recommend music. If you cannot be transported in body, you shall be in spirit.”
Will half-expected Hannibal to sit at the harpsichord but he moved past it and went to the record player on the other side of the room. He deliberated by his small record collection, concealed in a carved cabinet with varnish like treacle, before selecting one. The needle was lowered into place and he returned to Will’s side.
There was a long moment of crackling silence, emanating from hidden speakers. Then the music began. Its effect was immediate, bursting into the room in a sublime rising chorus of voices, strings and brass. He rested his head against Hannibal’s shoulder and closed his eyes to listen. It was hard not to picture soaring spaces of holy stones, of golden light and beseeching praise. After a few short minutes, it ended and all was once more quiet.
“You’re watching me again, I know it,” said Will. He opened his eyes to find he was right, and laughed.
“I wanted to see your response,” Hannibal said. “See if and where you were transported.”
Elementary Student Teaching-Are You a Boy or a Girl?
I'm student teaching for elementary music right now. My first week I was anticipating the "are you a boy or a girl" question... and it came. But in the most hilarious way possible that's too good not to share.
*introduced to the classroom*
I have a question.
YOU LOOK LIKE BATMAN! (explains why my eyeliner makes me look like Batman.)
*few minutes later
Why does it look like your wearing make-up?
Because I am.
Only girls wear make-up.
No, you're wrong.
Are you a girl?
...nooo, I'm not a...
YOU'RE WONDER WOMAN!
I'm keeping my eyes on you!!!!
(If the spectrum were set-up between Batman and Wonder Woman... that would be awesome, and not terrible.)
I want someone who like the champagne I like, my a-alike
Someone to talk me off the bridge any day or night
She teach me how to live, she ain’t afraid of life
Not easily impressed with the rich and famous life
‘Cause she done been there and heard all the rumors before
She loves art, she ride out with me on my music tour
She like the herb’s natural medicine, she cookin’ good
She tell me everything is cool when it ain’t lookin’ good
For real, the world so ill, yo I want a girl so real
Who not after material wealth but get dough still
Or maybe an educator, a lady with etiquette
Who can be from out the hood or even work for the president
As long as there’s no selfishness
Yes, as long as her love for the people is deep-rooted and evident
You can be easily recruited, you’re heaven-sent
Your smile put me at ease
You’re the woman I need, but where is she?
12.03 The Foundry coda, 1,046 words. I live for Dean and Cas having supportive phone conversations.
Dean had stopped crying a while ago, but the edges of his eyes were crusted shut, his eyelashes damp. Sam had gone to his room not long after mom left and closed the door. Dean had caught the droning narration of a WWII documentary when he’d gone past on his way to bed. His stomach groaned but he had no appetite. There were no footsteps in the halls tonight.
His laptop was plugged in to charge; the lone blue LED light caught the objects on his nightstand like ghosts: his phone, an empty water glass, a fat paperback Cas had borrowed from a motel lobby and never read. Dean picked up the phone out of habit. Cas had checked in hours ago to say he’d reached Ohio, but Dean, still angry Cas had gone without them, had given him only a grunted “okay.”
No new messages. It was four in the morning but wherever Cas was right now, he was awake. He wouldn’t mind if Dean called. Still, Dean was nervous as it rang, thinking Cas might not answer this time, that Dean’s clipped tone earlier might earn him another rejection.
Cas answered swiftly, assuaging his fear. “Dean. Just a moment.” From the sound of it, he was driving. A DJ droned on the radio and the phone practically shook from the rumble of a large vehicle passing the truck. The radio went silent. Cas’s voice was rough, like he hadn’t spoken in hours. “You’re up late.”
Title: La Douleur Exquise Word count: 2,403 Character: the Marquis de Lafayette
“Another sonata, Madamoiselle Y/N!” A familiar, teasing voice called out to you from across the room. You smiled, shaking your head, allowing your fingers to dance over the keys yet another time. The merriment and dancing swept through the room again, making the flooring of the chateau positively shake beneath the brilliant light of chandeliers. Night had long fallen beyond the tall windows, but French salons stopped for nothing, especially not those held in Paris; in fact, the darkness contributed to the often radical discussions that floated through salon rooms. You melted into the atmosphere well, considering the only job your mother assigned you was keeping the crowd entertained with harpsichord pieces accompanied by a popular Paris musician on the violin.
However, as your ears blurred out all the voices and focused entirely on the melody, your mind drifted somewhere else– rather, onto someone else. Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette was always invited to your mother’s salons, who adored him due to how he had always treated you amiably despite his position as an awkward orphan, albeit a wealthy one. He had so far not made an appearance anywhere in the crowd of thirty or so people, which was odd, considering he usually did his best to attend. Or maybe you were overthinking it because you had not seen him in two weeks, which had been suffocating your mood for the entire fortnight.
Since last we heard from Chairlift, frontwoman Caroline Polachek has been on a wild creative tear — releasing solo records, scoring ballets, collaborating with Beyoncé… you know, everyday stuff. Polachek’s come home for Chairlift’s latest, Moth, the duo’s long-awaited third LP which dropped just a few days ago. The band’s most cohesive LP to date, Moth’s also their most sonically complex—a percussive pop playground bolstered by Polachek’s dulcet, endlessly elegant vocal melodies.
In preparation for NYFW, Caroline sat down with music producer, remixer and DJ Justin Strauss in Room 1201 at Ace Hotel New York recently to talk about inspirations, fashion and that whole Queen B thing.
Justin Strauss: I’d like to talk about fashion with you and its relationship with music. Let’s start with two words: David Bowie. Does that do something for you?
Caroline Polachek: I don’t think there’s an artist that’s lived yet that has gone to wilder extremes. David Bowie is particularly inspiring to me because he shows artists that you never have to see yourself in the context of what you’ve done before. You can change so radically — I think a lot of artists have done that, but none so elegantly and with so much sense of play as David Bowie.
JS: Was he an influence for you growing up?
CP: Yeah. I discovered David Bowie shamefully late — I didn’t get into his stuff until college. You hear David Bowie on the radio everywhere, so you can’t grow up in America without hearing his songs, but I’d always thought, “Oh, that’s the guy whose stuff isn’t for me.” I was at a party in college and I heard Low, and I just sat down and listened to the whole record without talking. My mind was blown.
I listened to that record on repeat for about a year following that, and it was hugely influential to the beginning of Chairlift. I was especially inspired by how, even within one album, he would go from these ambient songs to these punk songs, and everything in-between. That sort of format of an album is still my favorite — it plays like a mixtape you make someone, as opposed to a bunch of songs of the same mood. It’s more like a film or something.
I read somewhere that people are unsure what your role will be if/when you become First Gentleman of the United States. I have a suggestion: why not take out your saxophone and promote music education in schools? This is an issue that could use some high profile support. I think you would enjoy it and, as a public school teacher, I know the students would love it. Thank you for considering my idea.
I really don’t understand how your musical education ting works…pls reblog with explanation/literally any comment on my confusion ty
-okay I don’t know what DCI/colour guard is
-I kinda know what marching band is, but is that what ‘band’ is? If someone in the UK says they’re in band, I immediately assume concert band/wind orchestra…
-how do people start playing instruments??? Is is true that band directors go ‘we don’t have enough bassoons - here play this’ or have I got completely the wrong end of the stick??
-how does college work?? So you can major in music…but then places like Julliard are conservatoires? Like Royal College etc. in UK?
-how do you know how good people are?? like…in the UK we have grades (not school grades, but like exams you take in music and then you say ‘what grade are you?’ and they say ‘oh I’m working towards grade 7′ and then you’re like ‘oh nice!!’) but what is the equivalent in the US?
-do you have private lessons with instrumental teachers??
-can anyone be in band/orchestra or do you have to have previous experience?
-anything else? Just anything the slightest bit of note about music education in the US??