uncorrupted,
carmine red
escaping lavishly
unto the page

a flag of wisdom
monochrome
laden, bathed
in crimson shade

another mistake
it must be
why would I let it
get to this

small, tender opening
should it ever stop?
flow, pour,
myself amidst the words

truths untold
dwell inside
swaying
on this scarlet road

it stung then
it stings now
will it sting
til there is nothing left

its taste
intimately unknown
a discovery, I
feed on myself

the cycle
a hint of recognition
this is I
feasting on a blind desire

I bleed myself
over and over
for
you

And I bleed myself
over and over
for
me

My love, it lies so deep

Are you a purist, or do you like it when other writers expand on an established, canonical tale? Think what the What If… series is for the MCU. Think what 50 Shades of Grey is to Twilight. Think what Pride and Prejudice and Zombies is to Pride and Prejudice.

Sometimes it’s just someone who looked at an already established story and thought:

“Ok yeah, cool. But what if I told it differently? After all, I might be a better writer.” Or the classic: “This thing’s famous; I can probably make money off whatever dumb take I create quickly enough.”

And ta-freaking-da: Content.

So! Where does one find a story that is ridiculous, dramatic, and old enough to have an almost infinite supply of content?

Ancient Greeks did not have AO3, thank our lucky stars. They had poets, oral traditions, possible competing versions of the same stories, and absolutely no copyright system to stop anyone. Now, approximately three millennia later, we are still discovering, learning, watching, reading... basically consuming Ancient Greek fanfiction. And we love it. We eat it so greedily!1

I want to talk about mythology proper.

Why? A new Odyssey film just came out!2 I’ve been replaying Hades II because of all the hype; yet I’d rather write.3 You understand how it is when several ideas that were idly dancing around in your brain suddenly, finally, listen to this specific rhythm that makes them all just click. Sometimes all it takes is for a new idea to arrive and suddenly the party’s back on!

But, and this is an important but, all of this needs to start somewhere, and for the version of Greek mythology many of us inherit, that somewhere is Homer. His Iliad and Odyssey have become some of the foundational texts through which we now understand the Greek mythological tradition, even if the stories themselves existed long before they were written down. And once we start looking beyond Homer, things get considerably messier. Messier and much, much more interesting.

I won’t entertain you with all of it though4. As writers, we need a focus, a pivotal point, an anchor.

For me, that is Circe.

“Post-Homer myths really expand Odysseus’s story, especially with Circe and Calypso, it’s like fanfiction but ancient and kinda iconic”5

Three thousand years apart and we’re still writing fanfiction.

We know Circe first through Homer’s poem. Yet, somehow, across thousands of years of retelling, we have accumulated an increasingly complicated picture of who she might be; most of it written by people who took what Homer wrote and decided there was more to explore. That is what I’m interested in here.

What is so fascinating about Circe that we keep rewriting her? And why?

Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?

I. The Witch

I read Robert Fagles’s translation of Homer’s Odyssey. I much prefer his style to some of the others i’ve encountered, though each translator brings something new to the epic.6

Most of the poem reaches us through Odysseus’s perspective, hence, through his biases. We encounter Circe just as he does: an unknown danger standing between him and his home.

Just like with the cyclops and the sirens, Circe becomes another obstacle through which the poem reveals something about its hero. She bewitches his men, transforming them into pigs with a drugged brew and a spell through her wand, and our hero is none the wiser as he isn’t present. Only his second in command, Eurylochus, escapes from the witch and informs his king what had happened. Our first impression of this witch goddess is not actually formed by meeting her, but by hearing what she had done to Odysseus’s men.

So how will our hero overcome this trial?? Well, obviously, with help.

Enter Hermes. Zeus’s son, gods’ messenger, and, depending on which later myth you’re reading, another man in Circe’s complicated romantic history. And he basically spoils the entire encounter for Odysseus before he even reaches Circe’s home!

I know, right? Quite… helpful. Odysseus proceeds to do exactly all of it.

This doesn’t seem like the straightforward triumph of utter mortal cleverness that we might expect. Yes, Odysseus is certainly clever, but divine assistance is doing some heavy lifting here.

Even so, our hero has to be relatable! How else are we supposed to love him?

Furthermore, we need to experience his enemy as our enemy. It is how it has been so far after all; the cyclops, the storm, the giants.. everything is another test to this poor man.

Crux of the matter is: Spell didn’t work, Odysseus saved his men through his oh-so-unparalleled wit, and they all stayed with Circe for a year partying it out before returning to the sea. However, I find that this is where the story becomes far more interesting than the simplified version of “our hero defeats the evil witch”: Odysseus stays.

After their confrontation, their relationship changes almost immediately, and, through it all, we learn far more about Odysseus than about this one pebble in his way. We learn of his cleverness, his leadership, his... devotion? Isn’t he supposed to be this icon of monogamy and faithful love? Huh. Guess whose bed Odysseus ended up in during that year.

Later post-Homeric myths would speak of the children Circe and Odysseus had. And because apparently no one in Greek mythology was allowed to have a sex life without someone else writing about it…7

Anyway. This isn’t a “gotcha, Odysseus cheated on his wife” argument; that would undermine Homer’s work and what we know of ancient Greek culture quite tremendously. What we have is a complicated power dynamic between two people who initially have every reason not to trust each other, in which, with Hermes’s intervention (let’s not forget how unbearably nosy those gods are in mortal issues), Odysseus is given the means to resist Circe, while she still retains the power to decide whether to release his men and what happens to them. Their relationship therefore shifts from confrontation to negotiation, and eventually to something resembling mutual trust.

And then there is the matter of sex. It would be tempting to treat it as evidence of either romance or infidelity, but the scene and context are more complicated than either interpretation would allow. When Circe invites him to her bed, Odysseus first demands (or begs, depends on the translation) her to swear an oath not to harm him, and only afterwards does she restore his men. Sex is therefore entangled with the negotiation; less so a declaration of passion, or gods forbid, love, and more as part of a bargain through which they move from enemies to allies.

What matters here is that the year they spend together ultimately delays Odysseus’s return.

Look at that! I say I want to speak of Circe but all I do is mention Odysseus over and over. It’s like it is his story, not hers… yet here I need to be careful, because, again, it would be a disservice to the epic poem to merely call her an obstacle.

Circe here is fascinating, truly! Powerful, dangerous, clever.. like, I get it. But within Homer’s story she is primarily important because of what happens to Odysseus when he meets her.

Here, perspective belongs entirely to Odysseus.

II. The Mystery

Let’s move on to mid-July 2026, specifically to an ultra limited 70mm IMAX theater because otherwise it’s “just not the same”. Christ…opher Nolan with his latest! And don’t @ me, I quite loved the film.

Fair warning: I’m keeping this as spoiler-free as I want for those of you who are yet to watch the movie, but there will technically be spoilers.

Samantha Morton.

Dear Hestia that woman is scary (good). She portrays Circe on the film and the character is frightening. Very frightening, actually. Morton, whom I already found deliciously terrifying from seeing her first in The Walking Dead, delivers a version of Circe that is aggressively… human.

Gone are the luxurious braids, the divine beauty, the picture of an ethereal goddess floating around an island. This Circe looks weathered, unsettling, almost like a hag.

The whole encounter is considerably more grounded than Homer’s version. It occurs during a mere day I believe, and it is somewhat uncomfortable. It feels less like myth and more realistic; Circe feels less like a supernatural encounter and more like a woman who might actually have a reason to be afraid. Perhaps.

Among Nolan’s liberties with the tale, my favorite is this: when Circe encounters Odysseus’s men they are already inside her house. They were NOT invited. And being invited in, or not, is a serious topic regarding hospitality and decency throughout the epic and Greek culture.8

Circe here is suddenly confronted by a group of armed, strange men who could, from her perspective, reasonably be a threat. So when she reacts scared, yelling, running away.. what exactly are we watching?

Is she genuinely frightened? Is it an act? Is she manipulating Odysseus and his men already? Is she being cruel?

Want to know what I love about it? The film doesn’t answer that question at all. Delicious storytelling.

And the pigs!! They are so interesting in this version. Circe’s magic has always been about transformation, and that isn’t meant to be as clean and sterile as a mere magical swish of the wrist. Pure. Body. Horror.9 People covered their eyes at the theater I went to. Ugh so good!10

But underneath all the gore, what I find most intriguing is that Nolan refuses to spoonfeed us what Circe is thinking or feeling. We don’t know whether her fear and subsequent response is genuine, whether the cruelty is calculated, or whether there is something else entirely going on beneath it all.

Suddenly, Circe isn’t simply a thing happening to Odysseus. She is another person in the room with motives we can’t truly know. Maybe that’s what makes the encounter feel so tense: Both of them are trying to figure out each other, neither with a complete picture.

Besides! The story is still being filtered through Odysseus, of course. But how much of what we’re seeing can we actually trust? Dude’s a recovering drug addict while he tells his story! I LOVE unreliable narrators.

Nolan doesn’t give us a definitive Circe. He gives us fragments: gestures, reactions, silences, an amazing soundtrack… He sprinkles in carefully curated details and leaves us to wonder about their meaning.

Perspective now begins to split.

III. The Protector

And now it’s time for… A musical!

EPIC: The Musical

I could drone on and on about this wonderful creation and retelling of Odysseus’s.. odyssey. I won’t, but I’m SO tempted.

Most importantly, here is not simply one person sitting down and rewriting Homer. This musical is a project that grew online, through Jorge Rivera-Herrans’s work as its main composer (and his role as Odysseus), other musicians, people who sent their pitches of WIP songs through TikTok and became pivotal parts to the musical, animators, artists; an entire online community that helped turn the project into the thing it is now:

A 40-song story, divided into 9 arcs, two and a half hours long cinematic-ish experience.1112

I will, of course, only speak about Circe’s Arc.

Imagine this: Ody and his crew are horribly crushed by Poseidon’s wrath and end up at this random island. Defeated, he sends some of his men to explore, and only one comes back: Eurylochus, his main guy. And it goes like this:

[EURYLOCHUS]
Sir, since we left home we’ve faced a variety of foes from a wide range of places
Gods, monsters, you know the roster, hostile creatures that we could resist
But this was a hell of a twist, ‘cause we are weak to a power like this

[ODYSSEUS, spoken]
What was it?

[EURYLOCHUS, spoken]
A woman.

[ODYSSEUS, spoken]
… What?

[EURYLOCHUS, spoken]
She had us in just two words

[CIRCE]
Come inside 😊

[ODYSSEUS, spoken]
Damn

Damn indeed Odysseus!

Circe’s introduction by this strong, big, yet scared-shitless man is one of my favorite examples of how much you can alter a character simply by changing the emotional framing around them.

Yes, Circe doesn’t stop being terrifying. Her magic is still dangerous, her island is still dangerous. Her first instinct is still to turn these men into pigs. Only this time, there’s a fundamental reason for it, that she sings about later:

[CIRCE]
My nymphs are like my daughters; I protect them at all costs
The last time we let strangers live, we faced a heavy loss

Coooonteeext!

This is now a woman protecting her world. This Circe isn’t turning the men into pigs simply because she is a cruel witch who enjoys it (maybe she is, but that’s not all there is to it); she sees them as a threat to the people she loves. That little tidbit of context changes the moral framing of the entire encounter.

What’s more, during her confrontation with Odysseus he doesn’t exactly defeat her, but convinces her that he isn’t there to harm her and hers. He just wants to get home, to his wife. Yeah, the musical is considerably more PG than the original tale. Here Odysseus remains actually loyal to his wife, and it is this devotion (together with an apparently mutual animosity towards Poseidon) that allows him and Circe to make peace.

Now, the question is no longer whether Odysseus can overpower the witch, but it is whether he can convince her that he deserves her compassion.

That’s such a nice little twist. I don’t mind PG-ing harrowing tales if they’re well told. In this context, Circe’s compassion becomes part of her power.13 Understanding each other is what gets them both what they want. And is that not relationship goals?14

After all the monsters, gods, violence, and duress, it’s almost funny that the way forward is simply.. talking to someone. This is the important shift from the musical for me: This version of Circe is not merely a monster to defeat, but someone whose perspective we are invited to understand.

Perspective becomes a shared understanding.

IV. The Mentor

Speaking of control! This next Circe I met was with a controller in my hands.

Hades II !! Such a masterful video game. It took everything from the first one and made it better in so many aspects. They are both ridiculously fun! Highly recommended if you’re comfortable with dying. Over, and over, and over again :)

The gist in Hades II is the following: You play as Melinoë, daughter of Hades and Persephone, a witch trained and raised from early childhood by Hecate herself. What for? To avenge your family from Chronos’s (your grandpappy) actions. Because guess what.

Both games expand the Greek mythological world by treating its figures (gods, legends, titans, and monsters) as beings whose “lives” continue beyond the stories we already know. After dying unceremoniously, Achilles ends up in the Underworld where he trains Hades’s rebellious son15 and guards the West Wing of the house. Orpheus, having failed his romantic endeavor, becomes the depressed court musician to Hades after dying.16 Even Icarus becomes Melinoë’s childhood friend and returns with a new, sturdier pair of wings to assist her in her fight.

The point being, these games aren’t particularly interested in the myths’ traditional endings. They ask: Now what? What happened to these people afterwards? We end up wandering through a universe populated by characters with histories that extend beyond what we know. They have opinions about one another. They hold grudges, have friendships, remember and reference their famous stories as something from the past.

So, Circe.

She now exists outside Odysseus’s sphere of influence!! You encounter her along your path of vengeance and she offers her help to you, gratuitously; everything very thematic too! Witches have to look out for one another.

Of course, she knows Odysseus, who also appears in the game. He is part of her story after all, but no longer the reason why she has a story.

Instead, Circe is here to mentor and assist Melinoë with her witchcraft. Well… that is, if you can reach her. This is still a bit of a difficult game, so between you and your helpful, sweet, fun mentor stand the Erymanthian Boar, Polyphemus, Charybdis, and legions of hostile shades. No biggie!

But once you do reach her, Circe is no boss to defeat at all! Just your friendly neighborhood witch. It is a very different place for Circe to occupy in a story that features her: Not an obstacle, but someone you are actively trying to reach.

Perspective no longer depends on Odysseus, at all!

V. The Woman

Which brings us to … the pièce de résistance !

Let us see what Circe has to say for herself (channeled through Madeline Miller), why don’t we? After all, it’s only fair.

After spending all this time watching other storytellers decide what Circe is, be a witch, a seductress, an obstacle, a frightened woman, an ally, a mentor, etc. Miller has given us a version of the story where Circe gets to tell the story herself.

Fair warning, again: There will technically be spoilers from the book, but I’ll try to treat it more as a teaser so that you can read it if you haven’t. I recommend you read this book wholeheartedly.

Furthermore, I want to let the book speak for itself. I’m sure you’ll forgive me.

Enter: Circe

We’re starting from the very beginning of who she is! Fascinating. I appreciate how, while Homer introduces Circe as a fully formed threat, Miller is interested in the making, the becoming, of that threat.

Infancy, for as long or short as it can be in terms of time, is quite a formative experience, wouldn’t you say? Surrounded by a plethora of other nymphs and gods and some titans, Circe was exposed to, well, exposition.

By her society’s standards, Circe was plain fugly: Dull eyes, streaked bi-colored hair, a pointed chin, and her voice was unremarkably.. normal. Spoiler alert: She seemed more human, mortal, than her relatives; Oh! The misery. Like every fantasy protagonist ever, she was different!

Little by little we are hinted at what her powers are, each hint informing on the starting point for what would become the witch we all know and love.

And not only powers, but philosophies she learnt about the immortals’ way of life, which sound delectably.. titillating.

Eventually she reaches her famous island, where she learns and practices her art of witchcraft. And let me tell you, it might be my favorite section of the book.

Such a journey of self-discovery! For Circe, her magic skills are a tool of self-expression. She is stubborn and patient, she possesses the ability to marvel at every little change, and she perseveres! She learns, experiments, fails, and repeats. We can see witchcraft as an artistic discipline built through complete observation and persistence. As a reader, it is an enormous joy to see someone accomplish this ever-developing state of mind of personal growth.

While reading this book, it is considerably hard not to notice the parallel with authorship itself: Miller is doing to the myth exactly what Circe does with magic: taking inherited material and reshaping it into something that is unmistakably her own.

Here, Circe inherits the world she lives in. She doesn't create its rules, its gods, or its hierarchies. Rather she learns about them, experiments, and eventually finds a way to transform them.

Isn’t that precisely what a reteller does with myth?

Continuing on,

In regards to Circe, as someone who is experiencing such pure curiosity, for whom things like time and death are barely concepts she doesn’t need to understand, and considering her less-than-kind experiences with her fellow immortals, something like human beings is terribly intriguing.

Eventually, the first human ship reached her island, and as the genuinely good person that she is, she welcomed them, brimming with curiosity and excitement (keeping appearances in check of course, decency before anything else!)

Imagine her surprise when she discovers that human beings are selfish arrogant pricks who want everything for themselves. Everything.

As it happens in stories like this one, she has to learn the hard way not to be trustful. Another life lesson! Always learning new things, this endearing lady.

So, she then begins transforming men through her charm and magic; people would come to her island, and wouldn’t leave.

It reached a point where she grew tired of the hospitality games and the chances she would give them of being different. Eventually she just transformed them without a second thought.

I ask you, dear reader, to remember that this is Madeline Miller’s interpretation of the myth. Not an answer to Homer’s unasked questions whatsoever.

… sounds familiar?

Enter: … dramatic pause … Ulysses!!

Okay, fine, Odysseus. Please understand: I’ve spent this entire essay trying to get away from him. Anyways.

Miller doesn’t simply reverse the camera and turn Odysseus into the villain of Circe’s story. Furthermore, this is not an anti-Odysseus house. We have to ultimately accept that for Circe’s life, there is a BO and an AO17 which further helped define her as a character.

You know how it goes by now: they have their battle of wits, and all the details of the Homeric encounter are still there: the magic, the distrust, the sex, the unequal power between a mortal and a goddess. But now with the vital difference that we get to inhabit the perspective of the woman on the other side of these details.

She falls for him. How original.

Yet it’s intriguing how it happens! At least in my opinion. What does it mean that these two recognize something of themselves in each other? Both are clever, both are wary. Both have learned to survive by reading other people. Both understand manipulation and both have very good reasons not to trust easily.

Their relationship is not simply “Odysseus meets Circe, but from Circe’s perspective.” Miller uses the encounter to explore what happens when two people who are very accustomed to controlling the situation, meet someone they cannot quite control - at least not without first allowing some true vulnerability to shine through.

Their relationship is shaped by attraction, distrust, vulnerability, power, affection, and circumstance. All at once. And it only develops further from here on during the year Odysseus stays at Aiaia.18

And then he leaves. And her story continues.

This is where I stop with my spoilers, because the book continues in a most exhilarating way.

Sike! Just a final ambiguous one:

This is a woman who has lived through eons and has the wisdom to know she’s learnt and grown from it.

Here, at last, perspective belongs to our heroine: Circe.

VI. The Afterlife

So! What do you think? Is there even a thing such as an “original” story? Even Homer’s poems can fall victim to translators bias.

I began this essay asking whether we should focus on tradition or fanfiction. I know, funny, haha. The more I think of it, however, the more ridiculous that distinction becomes. Consider this:

Homer inherited stories. Other poets inherited Homer. Miller inherited several of these poems. Jorge inherited these works and made a freaking musical. Supergiant Games inherited the stories and made two badass games! … And now here I am, inheriting it all for a substack essay some of you will read (kudos if you reached the end of the lesson and didn’t scamper out! You get a little stamp in your forehead: ⭐️).

Each of these writers, myself included, had to think about what to improve, what to leave out, etc. Decide what works best for their purposes, and in the middle of it there’s so much potential for everything left behind or barely mentioned!

I’d argue that that is tradition in its fullest form. We are a culture of traditions evolving with the times, fanfiction being merely a modern name we’ve given to it.

Take any other story you want to think of, what do you think matters more when retelling it: Preserving what we inherited, or asking what else might be hiding inside?

Who gets to be the hero or the villain when we move the camera? Who finally gets a chance to speak their truth when we stop looking through Odysseus’s eyes? And just how many Circes are still waiting in the background of stories we think we already know?

I don’t know. I never will. I only know that I want more of it! Give me more myths, more cultures, more weird interpretations, more “What if…” shows for everything that has been written.19

And I’ll be there.

‎

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN:
No.
Don’t.
You know where this goes.
You start remembering… the music.

That’s the problem. You forget the years. You forget the exhaustion, the dismissal, the rejection, the trying with everything you have to make something happen.

You forget sitting there, wondering what all of it was supposed to become. You only remember the good part, and then you start thinking that maybe you should try again.

No.
You’ve already done this.
You gave it years, over half your life.
And what came of it?

Nothing.

So leave it alone.
Just… don’t do it.
You know what happens when you start hoping again.

LIMBIC SYSTEM:
Oh, shut up! Making it sound like the music itself did something wrong. And it didn’t! You loved this.. Oooh, you still love it; that is what you keep trying to bury under everything else.

You hear something beautiful and you still stop. You take a moment and listen. Sometimes you still get that feeling — that little electric thing that says “yes, this is it, this could work!” You remember playing something and realizing that you had made it exist, if only for a moment.

That was important!

Maybe... maybe the mistake was expecting it to become a life.
Maybe music was never supposed to save you

Maybe you can just… simply love it.

REPTILIAN:
Love it from a distance, that’s safer.

The moment you start working on it again you’ll start expecting something and you’ll want to improve. You’ll want to finish things. You’ll want someone to hear them. You’ll want a witness to this.. this.. autopsy of a dream.

And then we’ll be back here.
Back where we started.
Again.

PREFRONTAL CORTEX:
You’re both making this more complicated than it is. The relevant distinction is fairly simple: The self loves music, and the self does not necessarily want to work with music.

Those statements are perfectly compatible.

SELF:
Mmm.. I don’t know

CORTEX:
Fine. But you’ve spent years treating them as though they weren’t.

SELF:
Well, yeah! I thought they were supposed to be the same thing.
I studied that career for so damn long, what was the point if I wasn’t going to do something with it?

CORTEX:
That is an emotional question disguised as a practical one.

SELF:
[sighs]
And what is the practical answer?

CORTEX:
That you studied music for years. You learned it. Became capable at it. And you experienced things you otherwise wouldn’t have experienced.

Yes, it didn’t become the career you imagined. That is unfortunate. But it doesn’t retroactively make the years meaningless.

SELF:
It feels meaningless.

DEFAULT MODE NETWORK:
The self looks backwards and finds, beneath a recurring dreamscape, years of study: Lessons, practice rooms, scores, performances, deadlines, expectations. One achievement leading naturally to the next, each one carrying the obvious assumption that eventually all of it would converge into something valuable:

A life.

That convergence, regretfully, never came.

And although the music remains, the future attached to it is now nothing but a forgotten dream.

LIMBIC:
You don’t have to throw it away just because the future has changed.

REPTILIAN:
You don’t have to keep hurting yourself with it either.

CORTEX:
You could simply stop demanding it to further justify itself.

SELF:
And you could all stop telling me what to do, no?

REPTILIAN:
Sure… decide then.

SELF:
I… can’t.

LIMBIC:
And you don’t have to. Who in their right minds would listen to a snake, right?

CORTEX:
Stop that, Limbic System.

And you, will eventually have to decide.

SELF:
And that’s exactly the problem!

DMN:
Judgement continues; it never truly stops so long as there’s something to care for.

Someone pulls toward safety. Someone toward desire. Someone demands an answer.

The self, however, stands somewhere between them, attempting to determine a proper course of action. One that, at least, results in respite.

REPTILIAN:
You have no idea what you’re doing.

SELF:
Well, neither do you!

REPTILIAN:
I know enough to keep you from doing something stupid.

LIMBIC:
And I know enough to remember why you cared.

CORTEX:
And I know that neither of you has proposed a particularly useful solution.

SELF:
Oh, shut up.

ACT II - THE VOID

REPTILIAN:
You know you could simply leave it be.

Don’t sell it, don’t break it, don’t break yourself, there’s no need. No one needs a dramatic decision, just leave it where it is. Your dad still uses it for those same old 3 songs anyway.

And the unfinished pieces? Leave them behind too. Pain is safer when left alone in the past.

Nothing is coming after you. There isn’t anything anymore to protect yourself from.

You don’t have to fail if you don’t try. You don’t have to disappoint anyone if you don’t show them anything.

It’s quiet here.
Stay.

LIMBIC:
Remember when you used to want things?

You would hear something and want to play it. You could have an idea and immediately start wondering what it might sound like. You would so often hear somebody doing something impossibly well and feel that horrible little mixture of envy and admiration and excitement!

I remember that.. you used to want things.

But, where did that desire go?
Where did you go?

CORTEX:
There are still things you could do.

You could practice, or write, you could finish something just to get it over with. You could find another direction. You could decide that music is a hobby and put your energy somewhere more practical.

There are, technically, many options and I’ve considered most of them. The problem at the moment is that none of them seem to matter very much right now.

That isn’t the same as saying there are no options.
There are plenty.

DMN:
The self struggles to distinguish itself from the darkened room around it.

Although the years retain their ordinary shape, late mornings following late nights, nothing has really changed. Nothing dramatic has happened.

That may be why it is so difficult to identify when something has changed within.

REPTILIAN:
You know what happens if you start again. Yes, it could feel good at first, but what will happen when you start measuring yourself against everyone else’s progress? You’ll believe you should already be further along and consequently stop.

We’ve seen it countless times and it hurts.
It hurts us all, not only you.
Just… stop.

CORTEX:
You can at least rest from asking the question. There is no deadline this time.

There is no need to decide what music, what art, in general, means to you today. There is no need to construct a coherent interpretation of your own life.
Actually, there never is.

You could simply do nothing.
In fact, doing nothing has a certain consistency to it; a consistency you are particularly efficient at…
No new commitments, no new disappointments.

SELF:
I don’t care.

REPTILIAN:
Good.

SELF:
I mean it.

DMN:
The self no longer fights the thought. It now sits somewhere beneath them, forgotten.

There are memories, yes, but they have become strangely flat: A performance remembered without the adrenaline. A piece remembered without the desire to improve on it. Career friendships that ended before they started to blossom.

Some days, even regret requires a certain amount of energy, and the self has very little to spare.

LIMBIC:
You know? I could tell you to remember.

I could remind you about the applause and the praise... Like the first time when those fugues clicked and Mr. Greiffenstein stopped doing his sudoku to look at your score! Or about the ridiculous little rush of hearing an idea in your head and realizing you might actually be able to make it real; that one happened often...

Yes... I could tell you all of that.
But I don’t think you’d care.
And I…
I don’t know if I have the energy to pretend you would.

SELF:
Maybe I don’t.
Maybe I don’t want it anymore.
Maybe that’s what happened.

LIMBIC:
You used to want it.

You’d hear something and you’d stop. You’d want to know how they did it.
You’d want to make something yourself.

SELF:
I know!
…
I.. don’t know.
I used to know immediately,
music would pull at me.
But now
…
nothing.

CORTEX:
I could keep producing reasons for your defeated state indefinitely, but eventually that becomes another form of avoidance.

There is still, of course, teaching, don’t forget that. And you know what they say, “thos-

SELF:
Don’t you dare finish that thought.

CORTEX:
…
Anyway, there are options.
That’s all I have.

DMN:
Years of study remain where they were left.
Does the music remain still?
The future attached to it is still a forgotten dream.

REPTILIAN:
Then leave it alone.

You don’t have to decide whether you still love it. You don’t have to decide whether you wasted the years. You don’t have to decide whether you should have done something different.

And just leave it where it is.

LIMBIC:
Hey! That’s not a decision though

You’re saying it’s better to leave the music alone because you’re afraid of failing again, but that’s not what happened. It’s not like you decided that you didn’t want it.

You simply got tired. And now, you’re calling the exhaustion an answer because it’s easier than admitting you still don’t know.

REPTILIAN:
What’s the difference?

LIMBIC:
No clue!

DMN:
The voices slowly but surely become quieter, smaller.

The internal machinery that once produced urgency, longing, calculation, resistance; all of it continues to exist, but without much force behind it.

The self has not reached an answer, and so it has simply stopped having the strength to look for one.

SELF:
Maybe this is just it.
Maybe I.. nothing happens
Maybe I don’t have to care

VOICES:
MAYBE

DMN:
And for a good while, that is enough.

The piano remains untouched; the unfinished art remains unfinished.

Nothing is lost because nothing is even being attempted, and nothing is gained either.

The only constant is that time keeps its relentless pace, and, same as the self, does so without a care in the world.

ACT III - THE STEP

REPTILIAN:
Careful. You don’t know where this goes.
You’ve been here before, and you better be aware of how quickly a little hope can become another expectation, and how quickly an expectation can become another thing you failed to live up to.

SELF:
I know

REPTILIAN:
Then you know better.

SELF:
Hm, “maybe”.

LIMBIC:
You could be disappointed. You could discover that the thing you remember loving was only beautiful because you were younger, because it was new, because you hadn’t yet spent so much time trying to make something out of it.

And if that’s what you find, what then?

SELF:
… Then I’ll … probably know
something

CORTEX:
There is no guarantee this becomes anything. You may put yourself through all of this again and find yourself exactly where you started. There may be no audience, no career, no satisfying explanation for why you spent so much of your life on something that never became what you imagined.

SELF:
I am aware…

CORTEX:
You’re remarkably comfortable with uncertainty all of a sudden.

SELF:
Don’t get too excited.
We can still see the void staring back from the corner of our eye

DMN:
The self reaches toward the keys without knowing whether this single movement is the beginning of something new or merely another unfinished attempt.
After all, several—

SELF:
Oh my God, shut uuuup you David Attenborough wannabe!
…
You keep telling me what I’m feeling. What I’m remembering.
What everything, including myself, is supposed to mean.

I don’t like that.
Stop your inane narration.

DMN:
I..

SELF:
Don’t.

REPTILIAN:
…
You could still fail.

SELF:
… I could

LIMBIC:
You might not love it anymore.

SELF:
I might not

CORTEX:
Then you don’t know what you’re choosing.

SELF:
Nope

CORTEX:
Doesn’t that bother you?

SELF:
Nothing truly does anyway, no? It just is
…
And I’m doing it anyway

REPTILIAN:
Why?

SELF:
Because I want to.

REPTILIAN:
But that’s not much of a defense.

CORTEX:
I have to agree, it really isn’t.

SELF:
Look.. it isn’t a defense, it’s merely my decision.
One I made and not necessarily with your help.

REPTILIAN:
Oh… you really have no idea what you’re doing.

SELF:
Heh, yeah..

Watch me.

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Dear listener,
what you will hear now is my piano rendition of Nobuo Uematsu’s ‘Dancing Mad’. This piece is tremendously dear to me, same as its composer, same as where it comes from.

I believe if my heart was elevated to music, this composition would be the closest approximation to how it would sound.

This recording in particular, and my progress on the piece, is unfinished; I think that is quite fitting. Don’t you think?

I have been memorizing and practicing this piece now for the last.. seven years or so; coming and going of course - the void can be quite oppressing sometimes. It is imperfect, yes. It is unresolved, and it is still waiting for its ending.

I wonder what my life will be like when I finish it.

And when I do… watch me ;)

Always yours,
JJ

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Like a boat, lost at sea

Three years later, I still remember her fondly
That one night when it all came out
Every fear, despair, abandonment, and folly
Expelled from me, in a desperate bout

with no sails, not a breeze

Distraught, I wept beneath the moon
I wailed for an answer in the night
My rage, in my throat, like a typhoon
Now free from the throes of daylight

I am drifting cold waters

How many efforts and sacrifices
Were lost to such crippling fear
How many dreams and nightmares
Had been fueling my every year

No star to be seen.

There would be no future
The present, nothing short of a lie
And my past a mere torture
So… who was I. Who was I?

…

Is the world too much or is it just me

This was the song I sang in the dark
One I could never forget in my life
A desperate question, cold and stark
Howling, trembling, filled with strife

Everything I set upon, unravels at my feet

I cried until my tears ran dry
Screamed with a voice turned violent
An exhausted, lonely, war cry
A prayer, till my throat fell silent

Everything I’ve learnt, wasted

By cloudlight I waited for an answer
Patiently, every wound laid bare
A deafening silence tore me asunder
Leaving me alone with a vacant stare

On a girl boy who

In the end I just walked back home
Past the old mill, underneath the moon
Just a boy, afraid to be alone
On a mellow, starless night in June

Doesn’t know how to be free.

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For I have offended him.

It occurred during one of my occasional pilgrimages unto the warm Caribbean shores, a place to which I have been blessed to return more than once when the world of the ordinary had grown too loud. A place of respite from it all: bathed in the searing rays of the sun, with warm white sand beneath my feet and still waters before me, into which I descend each year for my baptism.

There, the seas stretch out in seven different shades of blue, and the breeze carries upon it the salt of the earth; a reminder of whence we came, and, in time, of where we shall return.

On that particular day, the sun was merciless.

I had ventured deep within the island, far from the breeze-blessed shores and into the wilderness, where the hand of man had scarcely imposed itself upon the ancient green. There I witnessed the untamed works of creation: green salamanders and scaled iguanas, great spiders sustained on their unhidden webs, and a dark lagoon whose waters were inhabited by the great scaled lizards, all the while dogs and cattle wandered freely along its banks as though they, too, had been entrusted with the safeguarding of such a primordial place.

The air was thick and unmoving beneath the canopy, and the wilderness demanded its offerings from me: sweat poured from my flesh beneath the unrelenting sun, blood drawn from my veins by the legions of mosquitoes that surrounded me. Upon my skin, they left their marks: small wounds which I carry still; physical scars from my pilgrimage.

And lo, it was there, beneath the merciless heat of midday, having wandered far from the sea and its cooling breath, that I began my quest for sustenance.

After a long search and a return to more civilized lands, I allowed myself to partake, to imbibe, of the natural delicacies of the land: flesh from the sea, and a Coco Loco.

I did not know, at the time, the magnitude of what I had requested.

For the Coco Loco is no common drink. Within it are gathered three different spirits: rum, vodka, and tequila; the milk of the coconut, the sharpness of fresh citrus, and the concentrated coldness of mountain-born water. All gathered into a single, magnanimous vessel.

And what mortal wouldn’t receive such a gift without its due reverence?

I drank.

And soon did I discover that the coconut god had blessed me far beyond what my mortal constitution, already weakened by the hardships of the day, was prepared to bear. The spirits were considerably stronger than what I could withstand, and so, in my weakness, I set aside my cup.

What marred my sin further was the decision I made in such a moment of frailty.

I ordered another, different drink.

A lulada.

I had turned towards a different god: the tart, the tangy, the sour, the all-refreshing, the lulo in all her glory. She received me with greater gentleness, and by her sweetsour mercy I was restored. I felt better. Fulfilled. Able to continue upon my way, my belly full.

I, perhaps, should rather say… “my belly fool”.

At the moment I believed the matter ended there. The lulada had restored me, the hunger of the body had been answered, and the great heat of the day had begun its slow retreat. I continued forth upon the remaining moments of my pilgrimage, now with a slower pace, for I will not unnecessarily disturb my innards. Hence, I walked beneath the palms and along the shores, which I had now found, resting from time to time beneath their shade. The sea remained calm, the sky continued its colorful song with the harmonies of myriad birds in its canvas.

Several hours later, when the sun had begun its descent, bringing with it a gentler, pinker hue, I walked back towards my place of evening rest. Completely unaware of my transgression.

That changed in an instant.

I saw it first, through the corner of my eye, and then heard the strepitous thunder: A coconut, ripe with age, had fallen from up high and struck the pavement but a few meters from where I stood.

My heart skipped a beat as I realized how close I had come to gazing upon my entire life before my eyes. What did struck me was the knowledge of what I had done.

I had drunk of the coconut god, but I rejected his blessing, and turned, in my hour of weakness, toward another fruit.

And he, in turn, waited. His tremendous patience manifested. Restraint untamed.

He struck me down not in the wilderness as I was already weakened by the sun. He called not upon the mosquitoes to finish their draining. He did not send the crocodiles from the dark waters nor summon the spiders from their hidden kingdoms.

He waited until I had grown careless. Until I had believed my pilgrimage to be over. There he sent his messenger: A coconut.

I do not claim that the fruit was intended for me. I am but a humble witness and am aware that the designs of those from above are beyond my comprehension.

This messenger, this vessel of divine waters, with its flesh and sweetness protected by stone-like armor, showed me my faults as clear as day.

I had received the bounty of his majesty and found it wanting. I took his milk into my body, tasted the spirits with which he had strengthened it, and, when the blessing proved too great for me, I did not humble myself before him. I simply ordered some lulo.

I had committed fruit apostasy.

For this I come before you all. For this I repent.

For who am I to question the purposes and proportions of the divine?

What am I, that I should look upon the milk of the coconut, the waters of the earth, the spirits of the harvest, and the fruits of the sun, and declare that it merely did not suit me?

I was foolish. I was proud, and I repent wholeheartedly.

May the coconut god accept this confession as proof of my repentance, as proof that I have learned. May he know that I bear no ill will toward his fruit, nor toward his palms.

This I declare, mark me:

I shall not make the same mistake again.

For his coconutness is divine,

and I am but flesh of the earth.

Forgive me

This is a thematic sequel to this other post:

And what is this but another attempt at expressing the contradiction of it all.

I’ve been possessed. There’s a gnawing at the back of my throat and a restlessness coursing through my veins. It started gently but swiftly turned into an unrelenting torrent and I count my stars and thank my luck that, for this time, I could recognize it. This… feeling, it is one that makes each and every idle moment one of pure resistance, all to assuage the appearances of the everyday, but is uncaged and unearthed in the loneliness of the night.

As of right now I feel more capable of expression, of writing, than ever before, yet I cannot fathom what can lie beneath that is deserving of the ink; not right now. It is an impulse that cares not for the subject but for the matter itself.

The seed has blossomed into Yggdrasil’s competition.

Curse the white page.

My conscience tends to arrive late and eager to diagnose. It wants to call this a madness, a rambling! Pure vanity more like. If only naming the fever was enough to break it. So inane.

There is an art to consuming. I’ve had my fill and I need more, I crave more. Feasting on the words of all who are present here as well as those who will never be, and all of who they were at each moment of immortalization has been fermenting and coagulating within me into something I can’t quite name. At the same time there is such an intense impulse to let it all out. Every thought, every desire, every forbearance that screams for action. The hunger to consume has become indistinguishable from the need to expel. To pour something, or everything, but never nothing, out before it rots inside me, hence rotting my own as I have known myself to do. Not so in a very long time though, thank God.

Each thought demands its own song but the music won’t come and so I fall limply into the hands of the written word once again. So many desires yet such little capacity. There is no cowardice anymore, or at least not right now. Every emotion that is pushed deep down can only come back to surface with a stronger force. Have you ever tried to drown a beachball? Exactly.

Only I can save me from myself and that’s how it has always been, and this moment is but one more in a long list of attempts at becoming an answer to the problem of self.

Dissuade me or not, read me or not, know that this very composition I write is one I desperately need to let out. And if you are reading this then it is because I couldn’t stop the oh so hungering craving for a witness.

I need more. More language, more beauty. More certainty and more confusion. Feed me. Feed me. Feed me.

I need this to make sense

More than that I need it to matter

More than that I need the desperation never to leave. I am hers and she is mine.

And she has so many faces. She is of creativity, and she is of desperation. She is of deep currents and of severed thoughts never allowed to blossom. We feast together on everything that wasn’t.

Is this what it feels to be alive? A raggedness to my breathing and a longing for more?

Words simply cannot be stopped, and they’ll be the end of me. Of this me that desires tonight to extract itself from this husk. Of this me that won’t fall into Morpheus’s embrace until every necessary thing has been put to the written word. Each sentence written leaves less of me unwritten.

Tonight I surrender.

I embrace this possession gladly.

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PROLOGUE

Blood.

A lake of blood, still warm, weakly reflecting the light of the chandeliers upon the dancefloor.

No hair or bone, no ring nor gown.
It was absolute transmutation — it was pure.

The dancers were none the wiser and they executed the spell to perfection. There they rested, all forty-nine of them; their last emotion that of pride. We suppose the dancemaster will be recompensed now, as those two years of laborious training culminated flawlessly.

After the change, the musicians simply stood up and left, all their instruments abandoned, their purpose fulfilled. That last chord still resonated through the room with no one else left to hear it but us. From all we saw tonight, that was the most shocking moment — that nonchalance. All that passion during the performance surely enriched the spell, but in the end that’s all it was: a performance.

Hells, there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky and the full moon shone brighter than ever. Just how many nephomancers were hired for this evening? That wasn’t something for us to question, our job was merely to observe.

And still… to think the palace itself was built for this single purpose centuries before we were even born.

We felt relief, however, for the forty-nine. They alone enjoyed the festivities — killing them was a mercy.

I hope you enjoyed this little glimpse. If you’d like to read more single pages like this one, please consider sharing it. I’ll do my best to keep writing.

I do it for myself — but I’m grateful I get to do it for you too.

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Wisdom made manifest.

Thus, space unfurled out of itself,
light broke free
and was sent to roam the everywhere.

Stars awoke in burning splendor,
forging carbon, oxygen, iron—
the dust from which all things
upon this pale blue dot
would be woven.

Entire worlds, gathered, from the dark.

Oceans and mountains rose
Rain fell and roots reached

Through time and will
through seasons and rainfall
through pollinators and fertile soil
and the countless mornings of Eos,

life, indeed, found a way.

And beneath the patient gaze
of law and providence alike

Light became leaf
Leaf became sweetness
Sweetness became sugar.

Sugar became flesh.
Flesh became fruit.

Golden-hearted,
honey-scented,
dawn-flavored.

A treasure of sunlight
clothed in velvet skin.

Within its amber chambers,
a thousand midnight seeds:
small as pearls,
dark as other pearls,
waiting for emergence.

I have studied her.
The chemistry of her sweetness
the geometry of her seed
that elegant exchange of sun, soil, rain, and root;
everything that makes her, her.

And lo, the more I learn,
the less I understand.

What scientist,
what philosopher,
what theologian,
could persist, unfazed, before such glory?

How could anyone witness
such radiant abundance of eternity
and remain entirely unmoved?

For what theorem, what sermon,
what peer-reviewed journal
can adequately prepare the soul

for this level of papaya?

No.

NO.

I come before you now
rejecting the timid language
of the produce aisle!

I hereby cast aside
the cold restraint
of the academic!

I am he who has seen the truth.

BEHOLD!

THE PAPAYA!

The Solar-Blessed
The Golden-Fleshed
The Seed-Laden
The Fragrant.

The Warden of Equatorial Realms
Guardian of the Sacred Breakfast
Lady of Nectar and Sticky Fingers
Duchess of Ripeness and Defender of Potassium.

Patroness of Tropical Abundance
Scourge of White Shirts
Bane of Freshly Washed Countertops
Queen of the Fruit Bowl.

Long may she reign.

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or at least until Friday.

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Aaah my dear beautiful friends... you who have inspired creativity back into my life and music back into my veins. I doubt you’re even remotely aware of the good your presence has done to my day to day.

Partly because of that is that I play my piano and sometimes record it so you can hear some of my passion. Some of my... gusto!

Ah, to practice and practice and practice, to record 20+ takes of the same piece always aiming for “perfection” and settling with “human” — okay I’ll admit there’s some performativeness mixed beneath it all, but anyways! — it is joyous, honestly

So please take a little moment to ignore my words and simply listen. Listen to the subtle harmonic changes Beethoven wrote so masterfully. Listen to…

I’ll shut up 😅

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Okay, there’s also the little issue of my phone not being the absolute best at recording, and of me not really knowing the how-to, but we don’t let stuff like that stop us!

There’s some frustration too, yeah.

I could play amazingly (please forgive the little mistakes nonetheless), then go back to my phone to check and it sounds like utter garbage – not even like those old-timey recordings with that granular sound mixed within. So now I have to move the microphone’s location, change some settings, and try again. And again, and again.

I mean, according to some of the teachers I had even this recording could be “oh such an artistic expression of life in this post-modernist age” blablabla, like.. come on, pull the stick out, yeah? Don’t be like that, it’s pretentious. You demotivate so many fresh and curious minds and kill them in their cribs.

…

Nope, won’t go down that rabbit hole, geez!!

‎

I feel like this is a way of love: devotion. To the repetition and the craft:

Practice, err, repeat.

Then, when one gets over that hurdle, then there’s the next:

Record, err, repeat.

And keep going!

Wow.. now I’m praising myself a little, what the— and so self-aware too! :p

I mean I have just finished a darn thesis delving on topics of meta-cognition; at this point there’s always a little me sitting in the corner taking notes in real time:

“Fascinating”

“what is?”

“the fact that you’re calling this ‘devotion’ instead of ‘stubbornness’. Feeding that oh so poetic soul thing now?”

“Oh shut up!”

(yeah I talk with myself like this sometimes)

Look, in all fairness that little me can be right; it’s all part of the process, no? He’s annoying but also useful.

Sometimes he’ll point out that I’ve played the same four measures 27 times and perhaps a short walk might be beneficial. I should crack my knuckles, stretch, and drink something too.

Sometimes he’ll remind me that recording “just one more take” is usually followed by six more “just one more takes.”

Sometimes he’ll just sit there, quietly, writing on that clipboard all professional and scientific-like.

Observing.

Very little heart to it.

Is that what years of education (with no output) do to you? — Is that simply how this mind of mine works…?

Sometimes I don’t feel like.. any experience, but just analyze it.

Sometimes I do feel something, but it’s just myself experiencing an experience.

And sometimes I only feel myself observing myself experiencing said experience!

Aaaaanyway

Music, yeah.

Hey, you (most likely) are subscribed to me. You should know by now that music is one of my main things! Some others being my complete and total adoration of the sea and everything that lives in it, some being videogames (still planning on writing about some games someday), mmm.. what else, depression? Sure. That too.

This “glorified diary” as I once put it is kinda helpful! I’m sharing, I’m also listening (shoutout to you guys who do voice recordings, you make me feel stuff and help me enjoy a better pacing of your words) ... that sounds like group therapy!

Actually no, wait. Group therapy would probably have a trained professional present. I have no clue what qualifies as group therapy! Maybe this is more like hanging around after class.

Oh yeah, great analogy cause we all are learning to wade through life and…

… Fuck I tire myself.

Look at this dude, meta-ing his way into your sub-boxes and notifications and wasting your time. How can I keep writing like this, so… carelessly, without reading so much of what you’ve written with such care!? I sometimes despise myself a little for it. I should stop writing and read every once in a while.

Clipboard guy is loving this btw

“Interesting. See how you can’t stop talking about yourself? Trying to put yourself down and feeling like you deserve it? Not everything is a Life Lesson™ you know?”

(always the scientist this one - asking questions)

“Woooow, went there huh”

“Just making an observation.”

“Can you make it like, quieter?”

“No.”

…

Hate that guy sometimes. He’s insufferable. And he’s right. I have this tendency to take things apart to see how they work: a conversation, a feeling, a memory, a piece of music (hey, for that one I was trained! Gotta make those degrees be worth something, no?)

AND THERE IT IS AGAIN

UGH.

Clipboard guy is not a separate entity whatsoever, he’s just what happens when I pause for half a second. Does anyone else know that feeling?? I’m experiencing some slight lag with myself.

It’s like my thoughts take a distinct shape when they slow down enough to be noticed and that means I can’t really argue with him cause by the time I start doing so he’s already become the thing doing the arguing.

I’m sure that makes sense.

.. yeah?

It would be even funny if it wasn’t so stupidly efficient.

It’s as if every thought was always meant to get there and I’m just constantly playing catching up.

Am I choosing what to say? Is the sentence already half-written/half-said by the time I notice?

Ew, yeah, like predictive text

Guys!! I’m an AI :D

… Please stone me.

So dramatic lol. The original thought was “please crucify me” but that’s just… no.

Moving on.

There were some ideas to continue that sentiment, but hey guess who’s here!

It’s socko!

Clipboard guy.

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I’m still me, I’m still me, I know it

Or not?

fuuuuuuuuuck

Nope.

That’s already him.

That’s already the “fixing it” voice slipping in before I even finish breaking it down properly.

Dude please let me be myself. No silent judging in the corner. No sound of that damned pen on your stupid paper. There’s not even an entrance! No moment where I can say “ah there you are again”.

Everything is constantly autocorrecting.

I am still me

… no??

Look at that! Always a question, for everything.

Admittedly my favorite question is “what if?” which works wonders for us writers.

Heh, so many Ws (no, not wins)

…

…

Theeeeere it iiiis, aaaagain, that softening of the topic; it comes a little automatically.

Yay self-awareness!

Always trying to control the framing. To find the closest safe distance to observe life from. Somewhere to analyze life from.

…

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Okay.

Be honest.

Am I boring you?

No, don’t answer.

Or do, whatever, just…

This already feels like, you know, that thing.

Overexplaining?

I can feel it happening, followed closely by a softening so it “doesn’t hurt”

Is it too late to say that I’m not a fan of when people use the word “i” too much?

i i i i i i i

Now how do I finish this rambling

Anyway, hi.

Still here

Still writing

Still doing the thing where I

i i i

…

Dear reader,

Am I even holding your attention or did I turn into background noise by now?

Are you trying to get this over with?

Cause you are committed?

I’m just curious, that’s all

Always

curious.

No, I’m not a monkey called George.

Just—

Yeah.

No.

…

You’re still here

That probably means something

Or not.

This is where I say my goodbyes

filling some leftover imaginary space.

So... did I entertain you or not?

Will you want to read more from me?

Or not.

Are you even..

Are you listening?

To Beethoven?

To my piano?

To…?

Or not.

Admittedly, I’m not the greatest art connoiseur and will get bored on most museums. But I can, and have, watched hours and hours on end of game trailers, celebrations, speeches, and music concerts during the E31 (RIP), The Game Awards, Golden Joystick Awards, PC Gaming Show, and even several of PlayStation’s State of Play, Xbox Shows, or Nintendo Directs, even when I’ve never owned a single one of their consoles.

This isn’t necessarily about video games though. That was more to say that I know my niche and can be awestruck and tend to tear up from the beauty of this artform.

Movies, pictures, drawings, music albums and/or music videos, books, etc. can come close to eliciting that same reaction on me, but it’s very rare.

Now, I want you to do something for me.

Speaking of drawings, take a look at this painting:

I’m SUCH a sucker for medieval.. well, anything! Castles make me swoon.

Love how there’s some ivy growing on the stone rampart, the castle’s architecture is quite magnificent, and even the landscape in the background appears to be that of a cold early autumn day.

It is quite beautiful!

I have just admired Adolf Hitler’s work.

Maybe you did too. Think about that.

Recent conversations, and even the smallest of interactions with some of you my dear friends, have made me question some things regarding art, beauty, and its creator.

Can we separate art from artist? Does enjoying the work support its maker? Would the knowledge of the author and their background permanently alter how we perceive their work?

Art does reflect character, right? If so..

Can beauty “redeem” a creator?

I’m sure by now you’ve thought of one or two people out there in the world.

Let me name them.

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Beginning with the one and only, a titan of typewriters, the baroness of bestsellers, duchess of narrowly escaped deadlines! None other than the high empress of ‘that’s not what I meant anymore’, revisiter of established canon, and the lady of unintended sequels! — She whose every public statement on gender and trans issues is greeted with the thunderous clash of substantiated criticisms all throughout the woorld!! JAAAAAY KAAAAAAY ROOOOOOOOOWLIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGG!!!!

….

Now that I have satisfied my inner Chaucer2 — Look, everyone is entitled to their own views and that is more than fair, like this person from a post on reddit I saw:

“Harry Potter itself is in my opinion, in the words of our own slang, mid. it’s not uppercase Bad levels of terrible, nor does it exactly revolutinize fantasy, it’s a perfectly serviceable novel that got really fucking popular on the back of marketable material and extremely relatable characters (Harry could be any Bullied kid’s avatar). What i commend it for is giving a generation of children the incentive to get into Reading”

Form your own opinions.

I simply don’t condone harming others whether directly or indirectly, and Rowling is… quite the character. I’m aware I’m not as well informed about her as many of you are, and will always greet with open arms3 anything you’d like to share; I love learning.

But the chokehold the Harry Potter books, and films, have had on me is undeniable.

Admittedly, John Williams’s score for the first film and all the main themes is the real magic. I believe that those movies, and even Rowling herself, wouldn’t be as famous if it wasn’t for his music.

And we can’t deny the impact those magical stories have nowadays. I mean… the freaking word “always” will forever be attached to one of the saddest love stories ever!

So yeah, that’s it for Rowling right now. I’m not delving all that deep into her work for the time being. You get the point.

Do you like tentacles?

I’ve eaten octopi before, not bad! I prefer the little guys alive and crawling or floating around though. They are so incredibly smart! Some of my favorite creatures ever.

Anyways, another incredible writer: HP Lovecraft4.

Imagine the most incomprehensible alien beings (yeah, most of them are tentacle-coded). Want a better description? Sure! They can be literally indescriptible.

That’s cosmic horror for you, and its most famous mascot is this little guy on the top left corner:

And look! It brought its friends!! 😄

The entire cosmic horror genre is attributed to HP Lovecraft and honestly? it’s one of my favorites (even though I haven’t really read that much from him). The interactions between regular humans and unfathomably other-wordly creatures larger than our own dimensions is such a delight to experience (however we can, of course): the Bloodborne game, the Annihilation or Event Horizon films, the House of Leaves book, to name a few.

Buuuuuuut Lovecraft was an inveterate, die-hard racist and xenophobe. And he wasn’t subtle about it — his views are crystal clear in personal letters and essays of his, as well as occassionally within his fiction… almost to the point where you can see where some of these monsters of his come from: A strong fear of cultural change and “foreign influence”.

Yeah, blame his early 20th century upbringing if you need to.. and to a certain degree that might be valid. I mean, we are all the result of our contexts - the time and place we come from. But context explains influence, it doesn’t automatically absolve responsibility and doesn’t excuse the ideas we choose to hold onto or express.

Another great myth-maker and an INCREDIBLY influential … artist (I can’t even refer to him as merely a composer), is Richard Wagner. Maybe you know the name, maybe not. I have studied this dude for years!

Want to know how impressive Wagner was/is?

He is mainly known for having wrote, and popularized, operas. Sprawling, mythical, extremely complex, operas drawing on gods, fate, world-ending events, vast interconnected mythical systems...

What’s more, he wrote about love. His music and stories are deeply tied to love as sacrifice5, or love as a force against power, greed, and the corrupted world itself6.

He also developed what is known as a leitmotif: a specific musical phrase or idea that is associated with a narrative cue in the story.
Almost. Every. Single. Movie. You. Love. Has. Leitmotifs: LOTR’s The Ring theme, Star Wars’s Darth Vader theme, HTTYD’s Flying theme.

And he didn’t just write music. No. He was so obsessed with the idea of a perfect art form that he coined the term Gesamtkunstwerk7 (all-embracing art form), effectively becoming the combining creator of music, poetry, staging, drama, etc. for most of his operas.

This dude even built his own world-famous theater! The Bayreuth Festival Theatre, an opera house built exclusively for the perfect appreciation of his art. That meant designing it all from the chairs’ positions to the roof angles and materials, all for the perfect acoustics. He even designed a hidden orchestra pit so that the orchestra is completely invisible to the audience, all to enhance the cinematic experience… you get the idea. Nowadays tickets to attend a performance at this place are both expensive, and notoriously hard to obtain.

Oh, he also wrote! Most famously Das Judenthum in der Musik (1850), an antisemitic essay on how Jewish composers could not produce “true” German art and criticized their influence on music and culture altogether. He was also quite involved in politics and strongly promoted the German cultural nationalism.

Guess whose music and writings were later appropriated by the Nazi ideology…!! I’m not writing more about him.

By now you’re starting to see the pattern, maybe feeling some feelings. That’s alright. But fuck, a break could help, huh.

Look at this doggie!!

That’s me with my baby boy Tommy back in 2012 (and look at my gorgeous hair, like.. daaamn).

I love this distinguished gentleman so freaking much!!

Okay, back to the nasties.

No, she isn’t a nastie! How dare you. But she did bring to my attention a certain someone: Andrew Lloyd Webber.

He might be a nastie.

In Cat’s words:

“he’s just such a hack ughh none of his work is even that good and ALSO he totally fucked Sarah Brightman over he sucks for that alone. He also (as a multi-millionaire) flew on his private jet from america to england to vote conservative so boo him for that”

And this got me to do some good ol’ research.

You might know him as the composer for Phantom of the Opera, or its weird little sibling Cats, among other operas. I just knew of his name in passing, even after being somewhat familiar with the Phantom of the Opera musical8 thanks first and foremost to its most popular song being covered by one of my all-time favorite bands, Nightwish9.

But who is this Sarah Brightman?

She was his muse, and his wife.. for a while. There’s this fan theory that he wrote the Phantom and Christine’s love story as a parallel of his own: A not so great looking musical genius falling in love with a very talented and attractive young woman. But the whole thing ended in divorce after some years, bringing forth a lot of tabloid drama in the music scene.

There is also this great actress, Patti LuPone10, who after working with Webber for Evita, stated:

"Evita was the worst experience of my life. I was screaming my way through a part that could only have been written by a man who hates women. And I had no support from the producers, who wanted a star performance onstage but treated me as an unknown backstage."

Yeah, he isn’t a very awesome dude. Apparently he’s extremely controlling and aggresively protective of his intellectual property, including perhaps what he might consider his property, if only temporarily, when working “with” fellow musicians, actors, and the entire production cast.

Just read this about his latest release, Bad Cinderella:

“The behind-the-scenes story has been anything but beautiful. The original London production that was supposed to open in the early days of Covid was postponed several times before its painfully short and unprofitable run. Lloyd Webber did not take the city’s pandemic protocols in stride. He declared that he was determined to open at full capacity, even if it meant his arrest.”

Oh, and he’s also been accused of plagiarism by several sources, including his own biographer.

Yet… he is also involved in a lot of charities and even founded the Andrew Lloyd Webber Foundation … Mmhmm…

Moving on

Hey look, another composer: Simon Chylinsky!

Doesn’t ring a bell for you? Most likely, I’m sure. So, some context:

Did I mention I love video games? And the art, and the production values they involve, and the behind-the-scenes, and interviews, and every creative involved...?

So there’s this sweet little game called Subnautica that I absolutely adore and it’s super close to my heart: A survival, with some horror elements, game based on the ocean of an alien planet where you crash “accidently” and have to make your way out of. And let me tell you, it’s gorgeous!

I can fawn over this game for a loooong time. Might write an entire post on it, who knows.

But something that grabbed my attention and is one of the game’s strongest points is the aural experience: the music and sound design.

Imagine this: You’re on your little submarine exploring the depths of an unknown planet, and just at the edge of your spotlights’s reach, a shadow moves… And out of nowhere this massive leviathan appears ready to devour your flesh and destroy your life because you just invaded their space!! (they’re very territorial) — And in that moment of pure unfiltered fear you hear this:

Oh hey, you can see the creature in the spotify thingy! It’s literally on the game’s soundtrack album.

And its roar, the sound of multiple arm-length teeth crashing into the glass dome of your submarine, the alarm bells ringing inside your very small compartment … ah, I love it.

It’s my comfort game, not gonna lie.

And all of these sounds and music tracks made by this Simon guy, who you can already guess, is an asshole.

He was the sound designer and composer at the game’s development company Unknown Worlds Entertainment, during which he received immense praise for his work; and so it came as a shock to us all when he was fired from Unknown Worlds about a month after the 1.0 release of the game11.

At the time the general story was the typical “a couple tweets that got him fired” tale, some of the most egregious being an attempted joke about a ‘diversity slider’ in games to “make the character progressively darker, more feminine, and less sexy”, also claiming that “importing random people from the 3rd world is also importing 3rd world tier crime rates and IQ”. ...

Like, fucker, I’M THIRD WORLD!

A bigoted man that ever since has only become more open about his views. You just take a look at his likes on twitter and it’s got a ton of stuff from alt-right artists, posts claiming COVID was overblown and a secret plot, posts waving away the issues women face in certain spaces, and much much, more.

This one did sting. Still does sometimes.

At least the company hired another great sound designer and composer: Ben Prunty, who has since delivered wonderful sounds to the new games.

Let’s move on to another video game, shall we?

Minecraft

Oh yeah, didn’t you know? the game’s original creator Markus Persson (also known as Notch) is another contender for the Industry Asshole awards!

He has been described as "an increasingly polarizing figure, tweeting offensive statements regarding race, the LGBTQ community, gender, and other topics."12

He caused enough controversy through, who would’ve thought, Twitter, with posts regarding feminism, race, and transgender rights. This lead to him selling the game’s rights and his studio, Mojang, to Microsoft in 2014, after which his name was removed from most of the game’s credits and in-game references.

So.. yeah,

Still — to this day I would quite enjoy a server for us to play some stuff, maybe some minecraft, maybe some among us? Could be ridiculously fun! Almost anything games-related with you all makes me giddy13

Ugh, so many men. Right? I get it.

Let’s change things up a little

Look at this woman… see what she’s holding? Ooooh yeah, I’m going there.

Monopoly.

The rage-inducing, friendship-ender by excellence, game about the fantasy of owning property.

But, how could this sweet looking old lady create such a thing?? Well, she didn’t.

Elizabeth “Lizzie” Magie was a game designer AND an outspoken activist for the feminist movement during the early 20th century, who created a game called The Landlord’s Game (1906), for which she received a patent before women in the United States had the right to vote. Incredible stuff.

This game was designed to criticize the economic ill effects of monopolism, land value taxes, and just plain capitalism as a whole. The game’s goal was simply to obtain wealth - nothing necessarily wrong with that, though eventually the game diverted into having two settings or variants:

1. The monopoly one you are more familiar with: own industries, create monopolies, win by bankrupting others.

2. The anti-monopolism one known back then as Prosperity, where the goal was to create products and interact with your opponents by making some deals. I believe Catan could be derived from this one, though that’s just a theory. A game theo..

Thing is, this is the typical case of “powerful men exploiting, usurping, etc. the work of a woman and turning it evil” (again, thank you for the setup).

Charles Darrow, American game designer often credited as Monopoly’s inventor, basically Thomas Edison’d Lizzie Magie back in 1935. He claimed to have created the game in his basement, afterwards selling it to Parker Brothers, who then modified and released it as Monopoly.

No Prosperity whatsoever on this new version, mind you.

It wasn’t until the 70s that a new game came about: Anti-Monopoly, created by Professor Ralph Anspach, where some sort of justice was made.

Anspach discovered the original patents from Lizzie’s work and the legal struggle that happened between her and Parker Brothers (where she obviously lost), which brought a great deal of attention to the issue and led to Magie being at least posthumously credited with the creation of the oh so popular game.

Monopoly is now owned by Hasbro, who bought it from Parker Brothers as they were the legal owners of it, and have since monopolized14 a ton from it.

… It is one of my favorite board games, specifically the Lord of the Rings edition which I own. It’s so dumb too cause it is in spanish, but they didn’t really translate it well so you end up with stuff like this:

Just look at these prrecious mini figures!

It is tremendously fun. Disregarding the game’s background and all.

So, what do you think? Can we separate art from artist?

Art might reveal the creator more honestly than their behavior could, whether for “good” or “bad”. It’s such a slippery slope.

Art can also definitely exceed its creator. Minecraft no longer belongs to Notch, whether culturally or legally, and the Harry Potter stories emotionally belong to the readers. Persuade me otherwise if you’d like, I would genuinely love that conversation.

Now, beauty is one of my favorite concepts, period. It is so morally dangerous! Beautiful things can normalize evil, glamorize ideologies, emotionally manipulate people — think of propaganda films, nationalist music, charismatic villains (yeah, your ex too!)

True, context can change perception. There will always be bias and beauty can’t, by no means, be objective — nor it should!

There are people that can understand beauty without being morally… beautiful or good, people who can express compassion without living compassionately (how? no clue. That’s for the psychologists to tell). Some people can create ugliness for moral reasons, or create beauty for immoral ones.

And what about the opposite of this piece’s theme? Are there examples of “ugly” art made by beautiful people? Top of my mind I can think of Junji Ito, whose work gives me the jeebies, but is known to being a very kind and gentle person.

‎

I know I can distance both creation and creator because, yeah! I’ll watch the Harry Potter films, buy the Subnautica soundtrack, play Monopoly over and over again only for my beautiful mom to always win because she’s the best and always wins without even trying and I don’t really know how she does it.

…

I just don’t have it in me to hate. I can abhor someone’s actions, after all, they can be harmful .. but keeping inside, acting on, or even reacting to, that abhorrence will only make me feel worse.

And I simply want to have a fun and good time with the people I love.15

‎

‎ Thank you very much for reading all of this, it was a pleasure to write and it genuinely helped me feel better, creatively.

Juan

Now, you and I have been here at this very same garden once before. We observed, played, even fed, some adorable ducks throughout the course of a season or two.

What we’ve come to observe here today is not a family of ducks, but a considerably different subject altogether. One that grows and dwindles yet stays ever-present, just like us, through every yearly cycle; growing, changing, resting, and all of it while displaying a wide array of life itself:

A bush.

Specifically speaking, as we will soon find out, a rosebush.

What we are seeing here is no special case. It is an ordinary plant following an ordinary cycle. And still… come with me, notice how much we can marvel from it.

Think of every flower you’ve ever seen. That’s a lot of course! Not even I can remember that much. Now, each of those flowers has lived a hopefully full life and was there right on time for you to admire its beauty. Could have been born a century earlier, or a single day later, but it was right there for you. How wonderful, right? In the precise time and place for you, yet a single moment in its short but very rich life.

This rosebush stayed with me for a year — or rather I stayed with it, during which I could observe it quite attentively.

For now, we will focus on the grandeur of growth; on that which transforms with the most pomp and circumstance all for its grand reveal: A single, magnificent, flower.

It’s spring already, let’s begin there, shall we?

At first, the plant is composed mostly of green leaves and fresh shoots; a thick tangle of textured green, knitted together by thin brown branches. These young shoots emerge in a soft and flexible manner, reaching upward toward the sunlight, while new leaves unfurl carefully all around them. These leaves gather the sunlight itself and transform it into energy for the plant.

Beneath the surface, the roots continue their work: drawing water and minerals up through the stem. With water rising below and light gathered above, the rosebush prepares to flower.

Now, after some days and because of the warmer weather, a small and quite unremarkable structure begins to form at the very tip of certain shoots.

Small, tightly sealed, sometimes hidden among all the leaves and surrounding thorns, a bud appears.

Do you want to know a secret? Within this tiny green droplet, every future petal already exists. Folded tightly upon itself in delicate spirals, the flower waits while the surrounding structure continues to grow larger day by day.

Protected by pointed green outer leaves known as sepals, the bud slowly changes shape over time. At first, it is narrow and firm, but then it becomes fuller, heavier, and considerably more recognizable in its form.

And look at that! Already there’s life gathering around it.

Tiny insects, mostly aphids, patrol the stem and the outer bud surface. Some are feeding, while others are searching for moisture or shelter.

This moisture of course doesn’t appear out of nowhere. Rain occasionally comes to this garden, and its droplets gather along the outer bud, clinging to the leaves and thorns while the soil below darkens with this welcome nourishment.

As the days pass, the bud continues expanding. The stem thickens beneath the increasing weight above it while the sepals remain wrapped around the flower still hiding inside.

And then, change.

Gradually, the sepals begin to loosen, and small openings emerge between them. For the very first time flashes of crimson become visible beneath the green exterior, showing us a glimpse of the beauty within.

And lo and behold, what follows is a remarkably careful transformation.

With the loosened sepals, the petals begin unfolding one layer at a time, slowly separating from one another after remaining compressed together for weeks. Each passing day, the flower broadens further, spiraling outward with extraordinary precision until the familiar shape of the rose finally reveals itself.

Here, at last, after multiple weeks of internal growth, the plant reaches the height of its display.

Its colors deepen beneath the sunlight, and its fragrance drifts outward into the surrounding air calling forth an abundance of insects.

Carefully moving between petals and into the flower’s center, honeybees and bumblebees, as well as flies, butterflies, moths, and wasps – some of nature’s pollinators and, in my opinion, the most important members of our ecosystem – will reach in to collect the flower’s nectar and, unknowingly, carry the pollen onward as they continue flying through this garden.

Remember that this isn’t a single rose we are observing, but an entire rosebush. Several roses are born and adorn the green garden with their flush reddish color.

To this plant this is part of its life, a seasonal cycle throughout the years as it keeps on growing further. If they were wild roses, this bush could approximately live up to 15 years. But through attentive care and some necessary pruning, its lifetime can extend and thrive for several more decades.

Perhaps what is most remarkable here is not the flowers themselves, but how much had to happen for them to exist at all; weeks of gathering sunlight, roots drawing water endlessly from the soil - hoping of course for rain every now and then - a plethora of insects crawling through the stems and buds helping the rosebush grow stronger—

All culminating in something most of us could admire from a distance for only a few passing seconds before continuing on our way. But it’s oh so full of life and worth dedicating endless moments to its admiration.1

These roses will eventually wilt and die, and the petals will nourish the soil once more in one way or another, strengthening it so that next year this display can be seen, and hopefully revered, once again.

We observed this particular species for several months, and its growth did not change beneath our passive observation. It didn’t bloom differently knowing we had cameras looking at it for months on end. Yet… remaining close by for long enough to observe it made certain things most difficult to ignore.

Just how much life exists within what, at first impression, seems to be still and only moved by the occasional breeze of wind. How many processes continue entirely without a care for us and our interrupting way of life. How easily that which is ordinary can escape attention when we encounter it only in passing.

Remember when I asked you to think of all the flowers you’ve seen in your life? An insurmountable number, ideally. And this miracle of life we’ve studied happens to all of them!

Now think of the flowers you will never see.

All of those marvels of nature that sprout on a neighboring garden, or a forest at the other end of your country, species of flowers that only grow on the most remote of places… and all of this throughout centuries and millennia out of which your life is but a speck of sand in the grand hourglass of life.

Beautiful, isn’t it?

Today, as I’m posting this, sir David Attenborough is celebrating his 100th birthday which is honestly impressive. I’m forever in awe of all that he has narrated and taught me over the years.

So happy birthday mister Attenborough sir!

Thank you for reminding me that today is his birthday! That single note of yours expedited this entire post.

This is also the first time I write what could be the second part of a full-on series here on substack, for which I’m tremendously grateful. You who are reading this inspire me almost on a daily basis. Thank you.

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a very small roof
on the stop
for the bus—
but which one

I’ve been here
sitting since forever
looking at a spider
and its little legs

but

faces and voices
dreams and noises
waiting near me
waiting with me

faces and voices
they come and go
banter with me
and— leave me

i look up and see
the bus in front of me
and those green eyes
in the window

the green eyes
of a man only sitting
at the bus stop
doing nothing else

and he is so scared

next bus passes through
and this green-eyed man
looks all high and mighty
in his stupid suit

another bus
he now looks old
another bus
and he is trying his best

now he’s very young
(never made it past his twenties)
now he’s going on a date
now he’s going to a wake

he has a daughter
he has a cat
he has a near empty bottle
in his hand

he’s with his mom
he’s all alone
he looks very fat
he should wear a hat he’s surrounded by friends he’s being mugged he’s smiling to his phone he is wailing he can’t tell right from wrong he doesn’t even try he knows his path he is adrift he believes he’ll be saved

he knows there’s no future ahead
he is singing for coins and bread
he reads out loud from a book
he never went to school

he has become a blur

eventually there are
far fewer buses
until the last one
passes by

but I'm still waiting for mine
so perhaps that last one
isn’t the last one
right?

no more faces
no more voices
no more dreams
no more noises

just his eight little legs
finally reaching the roof
of the bus stop
and I wonder

how many sets of eyes
did he see?

my bus never came
if it ever was mine
to begin with
so I guess—

i’ll start walking

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Somewhere in that limbo I dreamt of a white cat—
one who was asleep on my lap

Dreamt a lot more of course but can’t remember now,
there was no energy to write it down

Even now I remember his weight. Not the cat’s of course, no.
My dog’s — whose whimpers would know, while scratching under the door.

He would know
‎

I can feel so lonely sometimes in here
though I am the one who puts the weight against the door.
Yeah, the lock’s not enough here

I can always hear them laughing after I leave the table
I can hear the soccer match at the park, the dogs barking,
the incessant bass from that goddamned bar,
and the fireworks from the neighbors next door.

Why. There’s no celebration,
only the allergies their negligence gives me

All of this through my window that shows me nothing
just another four sad, badly painted walls.

My stupid walls are as white and unadorned as I am.
‎

No seasons here, nothing ever changes
You all speak of it, and it stings me to my core how I’m so far away—
again.

Only music, who now becomes my pain once more
My one constant I can never be sure of
‎

No strength to reach out, but… at least this time I know I can.
I know I will next time
‎

Next time… damn
‎

I’m writing now and it gives me back my self to me,
for a while.
That small breath of fresher air

How can there be a purpose to it all, a reason.
Please let there be one—
one that I cannot see from beneath my bed sheets.

‎

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Today began as the day ended: Hours stretching into infinity with no real purpose to them.

A regular day it seems. Okay.

I drag myself through it like I have for the past few weeks. Grey, grey. The sun feels warm on the skin, not my skin - everyone else’s. I check my phone: no messages, no mail, a plethora of useless notifications. Eventually I get out of bed and slowly shuffle myself down the stairs. Familiar voices are so distant, but so loud too.

Another day.

Eat more than I need, stay in my pajamas, further dissolve into nothingness.

A thought! The neighbors’ dog might be around. That means instant dopamine, right? Go back up, put on my buttoned green sweater – my favorite companion now. Go back down, slightly faster now. Open the door, cross the threshold, look and – nope. Why should I even care I mean it’s not like it’s my own dog, mine is gone and has been for a while and even if that other one were there what would it even…

huh.

It seems there’s mail.

I walk over to the mailbox. Open it, and sure enough: Nothing. Awesome. Stupid kids. Wait… what’s that? Mold? Of course. Love this day so far. Now there’s black mold growing on my — wait waaaait, what…? Why is it growing. It’s actually larger now. What is that … wriggling — Hooold on that’s not mold it’s not mold at all, what the actuaal fu-

Is that a mystic space portal behin-

OH SHI-

¡¡FFFFSSCHHIIUUUUUUMMMM!!

Whoever told you that interdimensional magic portals were instantaneous – dead wrong. Remember Loki falling for 30 minutes? Yeah, like that, but worse. It’s like being peeled out of reality and stretched through infinity. It feels like falling upwards and not quite as fast as you’d expect.

This one is a claustrophobic swirling mess of black, red, and green splotches everywhere intermingling.

After some unfelt time trying to focus, I can see what this mess is made out of — maybe. Those aren’t mere shapes, no. They’re letters! Words actually – whole words, drifting past like debris in a tornado.

Oh.

Oh no, that is….

Dear God, it’s French!!

I extend my hand towards a single word, brume, and it goes through but not without offering some slight resistance. Liquidy resistance. Grateful for the little light and my eyes now adapted to the dark, I can see that my hand is now dripping with dark, lustrous ink.

A growing, wriggling, ever-consuming ink.

If I wasn’t before, NOW I’m panicking. Why was I feeling grateful this is even worse now! Extending from my hand, through my arm, and slowly covering my entire body, my last thoughts obviously go to “so this is what commander Rourke must have felt”.

Great last words. No notes.

I come to face down on the floor.

Did I fall once more? Shit, that was the weirdest dream. Back to bed.

Whoa, why’s my hand dirty, looks stained. Ink. wh-

“Hey dude, you okay ? You look weird.”

I hear her voice before I see her. What?

“Come on, don’t drool on my floor ! Get up, man”

Like under a spell I do as she says while my eyes still adjust to the scenery.

Thankful for the gentle amber warmth, I can see now soft blankets draped over creaky wooden chairs, shelves overflowing with well-loved books and cared-for snow globes, several plants thriving in every corner; flickering candles carefully placed on multiple surfaces reveal it all, including her.

And her wall-climbing, ceiling-crawling, cat. … What.

Aaanyways, her.

She stands confidently in the middle of the room, wearing a detailed burgundy dress paired with a sheer black shawl that hangs from her arms like drifting shadow. Heavy, decorated boots.. huh, doc martens! Shimmering piercings catch the candlelight, scattered across her features like small constellations. Her hair seems dark at first, but threaded throughout are shifting, mesmerizing colors that move and change effortlessly. And her tattoos. HER TATTOOS! They move too. They curl and glide beneath the surface in slow, intricate patterns — there’s life to them! They are alive.

Her green eyes lock onto me immediately — sharp, precise.

Shit. I got caught staring.

“I told you, stop drooling !”
“I—”

Yeah, no. Nothing useful comes out. I just gesture vaguely. Her. The cat. The room. Everything.

She rolls her eyes, but there’s the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

“You’re stable. Good. No bleed, no echo…”
“No what?”
“You’re fine.”

That… does not help.

She sighs. A decision has been made, and so she gestures toward the door.

“Alright. You’re okay, you’re intact, and you’re not immediately dissolving into ink. That’s good enough for me.”
“That’s your bar??”
“Today ? Yes.”

Fair.

The door creaks open, cool air spilling in. She steps aside, one hand on the frame, the other making a small, gentle shooing motion.

“Go on. You’ll be okay. Probably.”

I hesitate.

Her gaze stays on me for a second longer, steady and expectant. Then, livelier, she says:

“Out ! Before the house decides it likes you.”

I pause, then I start slowly shifting towards the door, still amazed by everything around me.

She exhales through her nose, glancing back at me like she’s already accounted for this moment.

“You weren’t pulled here by accident. You’ll fit somewhere.”

That lands… weirdly well.

A small shooing motion again, softer this time. Not pushing me away but simply letting me go.

And I do.

CHAPTER II

The forest

The door closes behind me with a creak and a soft click, and I take a small moment to take it all in. The fresh air outside feels cool, clean, carrying earthy smells of resinous pine and petrichor. It must have rained recently, which is lovely. No sarcasm there. Tall trees gather around and the moss feels soft on my …. bare feet, nice.

Must have lost my flip flops on the ink vortex.

Speaking of, I’m still in my pajamas, but also have the green sweater on, phew, that’s important. Coziness. Alright!

And so, I start walking, feeling all hobbit-like in this enchanting forest.

I walk for around ten minutes, having found a pathway between the trees, still processing all that’s happened. Trying my damndest not to worry about the future. And amidst the sounds of songbirds and a gentle breeze whispering between the branches up high, I find myself still thinking of her, of , and all I saw inside her cabin. So, there’s magic here.. and that freaking cat, I mean it looked cute and all, but like, how was it-

Suddenly, a dog!

A beautiful labrador retriever walking alongside a woman through the pathway, they see me and kindly greet me, I pet the doggie a little and already feel more relaxed. That woman was with a sweet little “hello, welcome traveler!”

Still under the joy felt by being greeted by someone new, and of course the petting of the dog, I start to feel slightly elated as I walk.

That is until, some minutes of wandering later, I hear it: a gentle, wistful, impossible melody. I am instantly drawn to it and stray off the path to follow the sound.

Again, as if I suddenly was under a spell.

There, in a meadow sitting near some rocks along a small creek, is playing the flute. I don’t want to interrupt this little moment in time, it feels precious. But what I want and what the dry branches under my feet decide are rarely the same thing. She turns towards me, slightly jolted, but doesn’t stop playing.

Or does she?

The melody kept going, echoing through the trees, but her fingers did stop for a moment there. I’m sure I saw that…!

Still, I smile and wave at her and she answers accordingly with her head, still mid-melody, with a gentle acknowledgment. Mysterious. Charming too.

I retrace my steps and reach the path once more, see a couple other cabins and rustic, yet well-kept, cottages in the way, until I watch in the distance a man; that would be . He is taking a quiet walk along the edges of the forest, pausing often. He carries a small notebook in his hand but sure seems to take his time writing there; he’s mainly observing. Peculiar.

I try not to be seen, who knows what he could write about me: the random man on his pajamas wandering through an enchanted forest.

As I reach the edge of the forest I see , with a gorgeous dog accompanying her, painting on the biggest canvas I’ve seen ever! Taking inspiration from different deer and other creatures that she’s seen in the forest, painting in what seems to be a glowing canvas far too large to be called as such - in a normal world of course. This place is starting to confuse me in a most fascinating way.

The plains

The lush forest slowly begins to thin out giving way to wider paths, smooth cobblestone, and the first signs of small buildings.

One of these houses catches my eye immediately. Fabrics of all kinds hang from its walls and windows, diverse colors and arrangements that are stretching slightly on their own, snapping back, weaving together… my awe has reached new heights. This is ’s place, and I swear I recognize some of the patterns! Are those.. cartoons? Now I’m feeling nostalgic. That’s cool.

The path shifts and a few more houses appear, closer together now.

First, there’s ’s, and would you look at that! More cartoons, am I seeing a pattern here? Not yet but now expectation has been built. Gazing through the window I manage to see mountains of books, an entire shelf dedicated to … dice, and hear her hum a gentle melody. That one’s from Barbie! I recognize it!! Ok, so I’m not in another dimension altogether, just in a similar, and apparently better, place to the one I know.

Off in the distance I notice a mysterious house, dimly lit even in daylight, a sly shadow gathering around it. For some reason it feels like it belongs; it’s a contrast, yet also a vital part of the picture. It scares me a little to be fair.

As I’m strolling through, stopping momentarily to admire that shadowy effect, I hear fast footsteps getting considerably closer and turn right on time to move out of the way from this medieval-looking knight (WHAT!)

From beneath the helmet I hear a muffled female voice say:

“Hi, welcome! You look weird. Ok see ya!”
“Wha.. wait — hey! Who even lives out there?”

I say, pointing towards the shadowy house.

“Dusk guy! Nicholas… something.. !!”

And this knight doesn’t stop and keeps on trotting to where I was headed. Seriously. What’s going on. Later I’d learn her name was .

Further in, the air starts to feel slightly less wild and I notice a small open studio that rests just off the path, blending into the place naturally. Canvases everywhere, soft colors, a calming energy. There’s another beautiful, golden dog this time, looking up as I pass and that just makes me feel more in touch with this whole place. ’s studio, where she creates her most inspiring artworks.

Not too far from there, I pass by a small garden tucked just off the path. Less wild than the forest, but by no means less alive. Rows of herbs, freshly turned soil; small signs of constant care. A kind-looking woman moves through it, barefoot too! She looks up as I pass and gives me an easy smile.

“Hey there, hello friend!”
“Uh… hi”

She chuckles softly, brushing soil from her hands.

“I’m . I see you’re getting your bearings but if you ever feel like stopping by properly, you’re welcome here!”

I nod and smile. I’m absolutely coming back later.

By now the forest is completely behind me, though I can still see it when I turn. This is such a lovely place!

One more home that caught my attention as I walked by was ’s. Her house seems divided into multiple small creative spaces both outside and inside from what I can notice through the tall windows; each space dedicated to something entirely different! She glides between them freely, following curiosity. Incredible.

The village

Eventually the path evens out and leads me towards an archway that is connected to a long stone wall, barely a meter tall and built from uneven rocks stacked with careful precision, establishing the boundaries of the main village. This place is enormous! But it’s not quite a city either, it seems walkable.

These bare feet are made for walkin’ ... but now I’m tired.

It’s been a lot. Need to process. I simply sit against the wall a couple meters away from the main path and take a breather. One. Two. Three deep breaths.

What am I doing. Why am I here. It’s beautiful, yes, but also a lot. I’ve already greeted more people in an hour than I normally do in a week. Do I want to wake up? No. Won’t go back. I can’t. Besides, she said I’ll fit somewhere.

Gotta trust the weird goth lady.

And there are several adorable dogs here.

I let the quiet settle for but a moment longer, feeling the breeze pass through carrying distant sounds with it: voices, faint music, a rhythmical metallic clanking in the background, footsteps.

One thing. Two things. Three things. Four things. Five things.

Alright

I push myself up, brushing imaginary dust off my pajamas, and glance once more at the archway.

Not feeling dramatic, trying not to make it feel like a big decision, I walk in; and just like that, the village opens up.

CHAPTER III

People walking. People talking. Colors everywhere. Buildings of stone, wood, and the occasional piece of magic. Sounds mix together in what would appear to be a cacophony.

Nope. Too much.

Still looking inward, I instinctually take a step back, then another, and would have taken a third one were it not because I stumbled and fell ass backwards.

And then, a cackling laughter.

She laughed so hard! It is an infectious laughter, and so I started laughing too. Let’s be honest, that must have looked funny.

“Are you okay???”

She said, wiping away a tear from her eye. I stood up to see who laughed at me. No, with me.

And saw a woman with black, incredibly curly hair, wearing the most colorfully striped and coziest of cardigans, fun-looking pants that subtly change color with the light, a plethora of bracelets, and a beautiful necklace she later told me was gifted to her by a literal goddess.

…Was that a secret? Sorry !

“I’m alright, I think. It just felt like a lot and then, well... you saw that backflip attempt.”
“Yeah, you almost got it! But it’s ok”

And smiled again, most tenderly... a smile that felt like such a tight hug. All too necessary.

We talked for a moment, and she offered to guide me for a little while; after all, she also had to walk through the whole town delivering messages and fliers.

The first stop was the main thoroughfare, a plaza in the middle of the town where a farmers’ market was taking place. There she introduced me to who was picking some parsnip, cauliflower and strawberry seeds for her garden; , who had the most peculiar looking basket where every fruit and vegetable she placed in it instantly became so... well, aesthetically pleasing; and .

After taking off her headphones to greet us I could still hear subtle traces of what she was listening to; didn’t recognize it at the time but knew that those were some real bangers!

Anyway, she was picking the best ingredients for the most scrumptious salad ever, with the confidence of someone who has never in her life picked a bad tomato.

Fiona then showed me what I could only describe as the heart of the town: ’s Diner.

Warm light spilled out into the street and the coziest of chatter and laughter came through the windows. We entered and I was amazed by all the art inside — It was a place to, properly, celebrate people’s expressions of life! Paintings on the walls, a scenario for poetry and song, even the kitchen was adorned with a bunch of colored tiles depicting multiple lovely scenarios.

Inside I instantly recognized the knight from before, unmistakable with her armored dress - already mid-story of her adventures and drinking from the mightiest of tankards that would make Merry and Pippin jealous. Then there was , who was attentively listening to the knight’s story; with two swords hanging from her belt, one at each side. Tremendous. And with a similarly tremendous gentleness, sat comfortably in her chair by the hearth, smiling to herself while reading a beautiful white book.

In one table there was setting up a board game of sorts and teaching several other patrons how to play; I’m always up for a good DnD session so I might end up becoming a regular, so long as there are fruit salads on the menu. Oh, and the one by the stage singing and playing her guitar is none other than , who held the whole room together while performing a song from her adventures – something about… going to jail?? What?

There were several more people inside, all their faces reflecting the wondrous quality of the place and the food, but these were the ones my new friend introduced me to.

We both stepped back out into the street, the warmth of the diner lingering still for a moment before giving way to the cool, open air.

Now, besides all the fascinating, intriguing, and admittedly attractive people I saw, there were also cats everywhere! A town of cats! We of course stopped to pet them whenever they allowed it, which, luckily, was often.

All around us, little pockets of life kept forming: small gatherings, passing laughter, even some friendly dueling! I’m not sure when it happened exactly, but… I was actually starting to feel excited to be here.

That realization caught me off guard.

I was smiling.

Not long after, we met with , just outside what looked like a laboratory but… with plenty of books too. Fiona explained to me a little about this alchemist’s prowess on writing evocative stories (some of which can be somewhat… provocative). A fascinating man indeed.

As I was still thinking about those books, a door burst open nearby, startling us, and out stepped . Wide-eyed and with bright excitement; a spark in her eyes. Behind her, a lively arcade glowed with colorful lights and playful sounds. And just like that, she went off with a pep in her step and an idea in her head; a flurry of a dark, intricately stitched dress trailing behind her.

A few steps later we met – colorful headband on, sleeves rolled, hands deep into some half-assembled arcane mechanism. He looked up and greeted us with an immediate, almost disarmingly strong warmth. So magnetic. And to this day I still don’t know what he was working on. It seemed cool though.

And then, further along, we found , right in the middle of a small group of children. She was accompanied by a peculiar parrot who seemed to communicate fluently with her. Maybe another professor? I made a quick mental note to ask the inky witch if there are animagi here. Be that as it may, she smiled towards us without breaking the flow of the class and continued teaching, entirely at ease.

We kept going for a while, getting to know new places like the Observatory Hill where lives - she had the most incredible antique chair and work setup ever, and ’s bakery where we stopped for a little while to catch a delicious, crunchy, bite - accompanied by a cappuccino for her and black coffee for me. Someone else at the bakery we met was having her own coffee, must be Monday then, good time to notice. Well, she was kind!

I’m now feeling a little better, still taking it all in of course, and it’s a lot — but having this moment to rest and watch the village unravel outside the window is, quite honestly, a blessing.

Going outside did trigger the shock once more.

Damn it.

So many beautiful people, and I don’t want to talk to a single one. Even my voice is tired, I just — get quiet.

We walk around a little more and Fiona most likely noticed the shift in my demeanor because we stopped drifting and began moving with more purpose, somewhere.

She is now taking me towards the outskirts of the village - an idea on her mind, I bet. I’m just not processing anymore so I simply let myself be guided forwards.

There’s another archway in the distance, opposite the first one we crossed. Huh. Literally traversed the town now, I mean, that’s good. Achievement unlocked or whatever.

Oh, and my feet are now growing calluses. Those hobbits are seriously resilient.

One step, then the next.

One person close by, then the next.

A chime, then the next. And the next. And the next.

I turn around looking for whatever bell created that glorious sound and eventually find it: A bell tower crowning a small chapel. A white, wooden building just off the path, rosebushes curling around its walls.

Again, I take a couple of steps and move toward it.

Inside, I notice this lady, , pacing gently, rehearsing what must be a speech, with a notebook in hand.

This feels… nice.

A warmness.

I can definitely see people gathering around her to listen to her discourse, or her voice — most likely both.

I keep getting closer until I see her companion inside as well:

A massive orange tiger, lying calmly on the floor, listening as if it understands every word she says.

… I know I should be surprised.

I might be. I just can’t feel it right now.

Heh.

Colorful stripes… kinda like—

OH NO, FIONA!

I run back to where I last saw her. She’s not there. She’s gone. Where could she be we were just looking at that church when she simply disappeared or maybe it was I who-

Ah no wait, there she is.

Curls in the wind, walking back from the archway.

“Sir, you ditched me! How could you?”
“No wait, I jus-“
“I’m kidding! Don’t worry, it’s alright. Just one final stop for us, come on! You can do it!”

And so, we walked.

The village started thinning out, its sounds peeling away one layer at a time. Buildings gave way to wider paths, then to open space, then to the most wonderful quiet. At least in comparison. There’s now a gentle, constant murmur. One that was definitely present while we were at the village proper but couldn’t really hear over all the noise.

And now it presented its source:

A large river stretching across the land, easily twenty meters wide at least, moving in a slow and steady rhythm. Water catching the glimmer of the sun as it begins its descent towards the horizon, breaking it into scattered gold.

The riverlands

We followed the road until it turned from cobblestone to a wooden walkway, getting closer to the river itself. There are still several houses and buildings around, though definitely less so than before, multiple high reaching trees forming a grove, and there’s even a small dock with a couple of boats tied nearby.

Fiona then pointed towards one particular house, technically a treehouse, saying that that’s where she’ll go now to visit her friend and that I should definitely visit her as well some other time. I can see a chicken coop beside the treehouse, as well as a defined spot for a fireplace. It seems extremely cozy there, so I will probably go. Another day though.

Huh, “another day”? Planning to stay -me-? When was that decided?

She interrupts my thoughts:

“Okay it’s been nice to meet you, byebyeeee!”

And just like that she left. Easy come easy go, I guess. Way to read the room honestly, that’s such a gift.

I kind of stand there for a second like I’m supposed to answer, but… who wants to have the final word on a nice conversation? So I just smile and wave back even though she’s now quite far away.

Now, with the entire weight of my body, and of my heavy mind, pushing me downwards, I feel so damn exhausted.

I’ve ignored my tiredness all too much today, possibly even longer than that..

And I just plop down on the edge of the pier, feet dangling over the water while being softly splashed by the river.

For a while.

No thoughts,
no questions,
nothing.

Cero responsibility towards time; let it do what it does, I don’t really care right now.

And that is peace.

CHAPTER IV

The sun is slowly setting, the water no longer sparks, and I notice I’ve reached the end of the day still wearing my pajamas. That doesn’t happen often. That’s reserved for the worst days but today wasn’t one of those.

Not by a large margin.

Why must thoughts still form even when I’m trying to find some peace and quiet here; It’s always like that.

Meh, nothing to it. It just is.

I can hear some people walking around this side of town, and it’s good that even here it still feels lively, only softer.

Footsteps on wood behind me.

Nah, not turning immediately. Just... please don’t push me.

“You know, in rivers like this most fish aren’t actually in the middle of the current. They mainly stick to quieter edges where the water is slower; it’s simply better for them.”

Now I glance back.

is standing there, looking at the river as if in mid-conversation with her own thoughts. Behind her, slows down his step and adds:

“So they’re basically in low-energy mode; pacing themselves really well.”
“Efficiency problem!” She says. “Nature just doesn’t waste effort.”

He hums, amused.

Then she shifts towards me and says:

“Anyway, pajama-based river contemplation is an interesting life choice dude.”

Lexie laughs a little, while I just let out a quiet breath through my nose. Like the actual laughter you have when you reply “lol” — not fully committed.

“I guess? Didn’t really plan it though.”
“That’s how the best life choices usually go.”

She gives me a sly smile, while Lexie gets closer and sits down next to me.

After a moment he tells me:

“This is actually a really good spot you found; it’s got a nice calming energy to it. Kind of like you...”

Wait, did he just…?

“Long day?” He asks
“You could say that, yep.”
“Been there, it gets better though… Well, we’ll leave you to it, it’s been a pleasure! You looked lonely so we wanted to stop by, check up on you.”

That’s so touching

He then smiles and the day suddenly feels a little warmer.

We talked a little more, then said our goodbyes knowing we would most likely see each other again.

It was a beautiful sunset.

Whatever, or whoever brings the night, I know will be exciting — just not for me tonight.

The river whispered softly beneath me as the first stars began to shine through — it leads to a sea I will one day discover.

This dock, this place, this village... these people; each a melody I could learn. Maybe even write a small song for.

Tomorrow I might play, I might dive, I might just wander again.

Time will tell.

Tomorrow could bring more people, more stories, more dogs, cats, and magic — but tonight I simply watched the river and felt the world exist around me.

The hours are still there, stretching into each other... but they don’t feel empty anymore.

I look at my hand, still stained. Good.

I think she was right.

You who are reading this, know that I love you and this is but a little way to show it. At the time of writing these words I’ve been here for barely over two months and it’s been such a wild ride - specifically one of growth for me.

Please let me know what you thought here - maybe I didn’t capture your aura or maybe I didn’t mention you. This is a pretty large village, and there are plenty of people here I haven’t yet met or interacted with more than a passing smile.

I love seeing all your endeavors.

And your pets.

- Juan

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ACT I

We have been told she is special - something with her blood, something about dragons, though no one explains what that means in any way that matters once the blades come out. Orders are simpler than the truth: Keep her alive. Do not let them take her.

That should be enough.

And yet, from the moment I see her — ebony hair catching the pale spill of daylight through the high windows, her left eye half-hidden by shadows, her right eye a faint glowing ember — I feel something settle into place that has nothing to do with command. It’s not recognition, not quite. Something more akin to inevitability, as if the shape of this moment had already been determined and I have only now stepped into it.

This house is wrong for defense. Too many openings, too much light filtering in. Sunlight cuts across the floors in long, cold bands that expose every movement. Every misstep. Steel crashes and rings from below, sharp and constant, punctuated by shouts that end too quickly. Sound travels cleanly through the walls, giving shape to a fight I cannot see but understand all too well.

They are getting closer.

I guide her toward the stairs, one hand clutching my rapier, the other hovering near her shoulder without quite touching. She moves when I do, quick to follow, quicker than I honestly expect it. Good. That helps. Everything depends on that — on motion, on timing, on the fragile illusion that we are still ahead of what’s coming.

A crash breaks through the rhythm below: wood splintering, boots fast on tile, unknown voices.

“Up!” I tell her, already moving.

We climb towards the terrace, sounds follow. At the landing one of ours stumbles past, blood running down his arm and his grip on his weapon loose but unyielding. A quick, silent look. Understandment. That was the last time I was going to see him. Keep moving. Grieve later. There will be time to account for it all. There has to be.

Harsh daylight floods the upper floor, striping the world of shadow, leaving everything exposed — us most of all. Beyond, figures move with practiced, inevitable, precision. Dark coats. Measured steps. Blades that rise and fall without hesitation.

We meet them before they reach her.

The clash is imminent, overwhelming in its clarity. Steel strikes steel with a brightness that cuts through thought. A flurry of small moments becoming life or death decisions that are barely noticeable. They don’t seem to want to hurt her, but won’t hesitate either to do what must be done to secure her. I plant myself between her and them; not because orders say so, but because there is nowhere else I would rather be.

The fight stretches and compresses. Time loses its shape under the repetition of choices. Someone falls beside me, I feel their still hopeful eyes on me as they lose their spark. I do not turn, I cannot. The space in front of me demands everything.

And then, abruptly, it doesn’t.

Pressure breaks, the line falters, and the remaining attackers withdraw. Yet not in panic, but with purpose.

A wrongness settles in before I understand why. I turn and—

She is gone.

The absence is immediate and absolute, like a melody cut off in half. For a moment the world continues around this absence — the clash of distant blades, the scraping of boots on now-wet floor — and none of it reaches me. The space she occupied feels defiled, as if she should still be standing there just beyond sight.

“They’ve taken her”, one of my companions says.

Taken.

That word lands heavier than any blow.

Time stops for but a moment as if it ceased mattering anymore.

Below we hear the sound of engines humming to life. We reach the edge of the terrace in time to see the black cars pulling away along the paved street, their movement smooth, unhurried, as though resistance had never been a possibility.

I don’t remember deciding to move. Only that I cannot remain where I am.

‎

ACT II

We follow them into the dark, though I could not say how we end up finding the palace. The path dissolves in memory even as I move through it, replaced instead by a sound - a cacophony - that grows steadily stronger the closer we get. Something vast and rising, cutting through the night with complete certainty.

By the time the palace reveals itself, with its pale stone wings stretching in perfect, repeating symmetry, and its tall windows receding into shadow-like reflections of themselves, the music has already taken hold.

Fire consumes the entire west wing, its light spilling out across the vast courtyard in flickering gold and violent shadow. The flames bend the air, distort the stone, and amid the crashing of swords and the crackling of burning wood, an impossible orchestra rises — clear, powerful, unbroken by the destruction around it.

The battle unfolds as we enter, steel and shouts are absorbed into the swell of sound until it becomes difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. The rhythm of battle finds its place within the music, or perhaps it’s the music that which reshapes the fight itself. Either way, I move through both as if they are one and the same.

Forward. Always forward.

After little time I see her across the courtyard near the edge of the firelight, her hair mixing with the shadow that battles the flame. Two soldiers are taking her inwards, towards an entrance below the burning second floor. A window explodes and bathes them with colorful flashes of glass.

Nothing harms her.

Seeing her, untouched by the surrounding chaos, the world narrows down for me again towards that single and inevitable point. That same pull I felt earlier in the day is sharpened now into urgency.

I start running towards her while her captors keep on ushering her into darkness.

Soldiers in the way are cut down without a second glance; the only thing that exists is the point I’m at, and where she is.

Oh, and him.

Considerably larger than the others, his presence immediate and immovable. Firelight gathers along the curve of his shoulders and his shaved head. No armor, only glistening, scarred skin, and a greatsword that has no right to be that big. It’s basically as tall as me, how in the world would I—

No time to think - that first strike, though repelled, still surprises me. Its force travels through my arms and into my chest; a blunt reminder that speed alone will not carry me to victory. He presses forward, with an unnerving precision that wastes nothing, each movement calculated to end rather than test.

This is taking too long, she’s right there! The world narrows down to distance, to timing, to the thin margin where his reach fails and mine begins. My blade is lighter, faster, can find better openings that exist only for an instant. But a single strike from him will mean my end. I take any opening available without hesitation, each motion driven less by strategy and more by the growing certainty that I am already too late.

The music climbs higher, impossibly so, filling the space that was left by thought.

Fire and shadow dance to the sounds of a dying orchestra, one that refuses to stop even as destruction reaches it.

There! — A shift, a fraction of a moment. Just enough.

I lunge.

‎

…

The music breaks.

Not fades — breaks.

As though the thread holding it together has been cut.

‎

Blood.

Darkness.

And her blood-curdling scream is the last thing I hear.

‎

‎

‎

ACT III

The bell above the door rings softly as it opens. A small, precise sound that settles into the quiet of the shop and lingers there with its sweet echo.

I have grown to appreciate sounds like that. They are easier to hold onto.

Outside, the day is warm, unremarkable. Wonderfully so. Inside, the air holds the faint weight of old wood and older things — objects that draw the curious more often than the serious.

They’ve asked if the pieces are magical.

I tell them that they carry memories, an answer that satisfies them gleefully.

Footsteps cross the threshold — light, measured, accompanied by the soft shift of the bell settling back into place, and that of soft fabric against movement.

“Helloo?” a young voice calls.

I look up.

She moves through the shop with a kind and careful attention that feels out of place for her age, pausing at each shelf as though each object holds something worth considering. Her hands hover close to the surfaces without touching. It seems she understands that some things are not to be disturbed and so become all the more precious.

She stops at the old chest near the window. Of course she does.

A wooden dragon, not larger than my palm, rests where it always has. Worn smooth by time and gentle handling. She picks it up turning it slowly in her hands and carries it towards the counter.

Sunlight catches in her hair.

Black.

Not the same, no. Not entirely.

With the aid of my hollowed-out cane I stand. It’s still difficult, but she is worth my reverence. My hand brushes along the worn grip, thumb catching the seam where, with a twist and a click, the wood would part to reveal the thin steel hidden within. Old habits do linger.

She carries the wooden dragon to the counter, tilting and turning it.

“Where did this come from?” she asks.

Up close, the details come together too quickly. That steadiness in her gaze, the quiet yet deliberate way she stands. And then the light catches her eye—

My breath catches.

The world narrows.

I…

—

‎

I wake.

‎

‎

This story came to me nearly six years ago, at night of course.
I’ve done my best to portray it as it felt back then and believe me, those visuals, and sounds (particularly the scream), still haunt me most delightfully until today.
This is my little way of immortalizing my favorite dream so far, brought to you thanks to for inspiring the idea through the simplest and most wonderful of questions.

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Steam rises from a charming mug on the kitchen table,
the morning’s light glides across the counter
casting long shadows of cups and spoons.
A window rattles in the still air,
and the hum of the fridge, steady,
welcomes a new day.

Laundry flutters on the line outside with the morning breeze
sunlight brushing every fold and crease,
time pressing into the drying cloth.
Swallow wings stir the open air
as it lands briefly on the fence
offering its sweet song.

Two people sit side by side on a worn couch,
sharing silence and a quiet smile,
hands brushing unconsciously.
A nervous laugh slips between them
as the room grows warmer, familiar, alive.
Presence becomes everything, words falling away.

A well-loved book opens again after years,
its pages whispering memories long forgotten.
Lines once overlooked now bloom with meaning.
Time reshapes all too familiar characters
as words breathe life into tucked-away corners,
and suddenly the past feels fully present.

A single idea begins, too small to notice,
folded, repeated, and layered with care.
The piece grows, gathering weight in its own tempo,
taking shape like a calm spiral,
eventually becoming alive and full,
resonating like life unfolding note by note.

and a key change!

Todo está aquí
en lo pequeño que persiste,
en la luz que se detiene,
en lo que vuelve sin ruido,
y que poco a poco
se vuelve todo.

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Observation:
First sighting of a male duck. Plumage intact, behavior alert. He displays what can only be described as an attitude: quick turns of the head, lateral stepping, a refusal to yield ground. Some refer to it as “walking like he owns the place.”

Initial contact established via food offering (bread). Accepted without visible hesitation. Distance reduced incrementally over approximately one hour of intermittent exchange.

Subject remains within close proximity for an extended duration.

A provisional relational dynamic is created.

Commentary:
An hour is long enough to feel like something has been established, even if nothing might have. I found myself adjusting to his pace: waiting when he stepped back and staying still when he watched. It began to feel coordinated, which could mean that I was the one adapting more quickly. I referred to him as “my boy”. It felt accurate at the time, which is precisely what makes it considerably unreliable. The coordination may not have been shared. It was, however, sustained. He stayed. I stayed. That is the full account of the day.

April 1, 2023

Conditions: Light sun, intermittent cloud cover, ~12°C. Early cherry blossoms visible.

Observation:
First sighting of a female duck. Positioned at a distance beyond reach, across a narrow and still waterway (approx. 2 meter wide).

No attempt at contact. Movement pattern cautious, continuous scanning.

Commentary:
It is tempting to begin linking appearances, to assume continuity where there may only be repetition. I did not cross the water. She did not come closer.

April 17, 2023

Conditions: Mild, still air, ~14°C. Vegetation thickening.

Observation:
Adult female accompanied by multiple ducklings (exact count uncertain). Group observed moving through the waterway, passing through rather than settling.

Upon noticing my presence, she positions herself between observer and offspring. The group compresses behind her body, partially obscured, and continues moving.

No pause within the yard.

Commentary:
This was not an encounter so much as a passage. Still, the message was immediate and unambiguous. I shifted slightly, out of curiosity more than intention. She adjusted faster than I did, maintaining the barrier. There is a clarity in being assigned a position and being kept there. They passed through. I remained.

April 18, 2023

Conditions: Partly cloudy, ~13°C. Light southwest wind.

Observation:
Adult pair feeding together at a distance. Coordinated movement, no conflict observed.

Possible identification: male subject from March 29 and an adult female (uncertain if the same as April 1 or a new subject. I believe it’s the latter).

Commentary:
I observed them for an unprecedented amount of time, trying to confirm something I could not confirm. They fed together without reference to me. Whatever had been established earlier did not persist outside the conditions that produced it.

April 20, 2023

Conditions: Intervals of sun, ~15°C. Grass notably taller.

Observation:
Adult female (likely the same from April 18, unconfirmed) appears with ducklings in the yard.

Observation conducted from a second-floor window. No descent attempted.

Ducklings move in short bursts through tall grass, followed by periods of stillness. They appear to be playing among themselves, enjoying their surroundings.

Approximately 90 minutes later, a disturbance was detected: one black cat in a low tracking posture beyond the waterway. Group disperses abruptly.

Commentary:
Seeing them in the yard changed the terms, or seemed to. I had access now in a way I had not before. I did not go downstairs. I told myself this was to avoid interference, which may be true, but not complete. From above, everything organizes into patterns: movement, pause, disappearance. It becomes easier to observe and easier to remain where one is. By the time I considered acting, there was nothing to act on. It was sufficient to document and photograph.

May 1, 2023

Conditions: Overcast, ~12°C. Wind increasing.

Observation:
Adult female returns with a single duckling. Remains close to the waterline. A scanning behavior is frequent. Feeding minimal.

Commentary:
I tried to recall how many there had been and realized that back then I did not know. I had been watching without counting (though my assistant mentioned counting 10 ducklings). Now the absence creates its own measure. The number is no longer something I can reconstruct, only something I can compare against what is no longer present. There is a difference between witnessing and keeping track. I am not sure when one becomes the other.

May 3, 2023

Conditions: Intermittent sun, ~14°C.

Observation:
Two additional adults present (resting).

Primary female arrives from the water with one remaining duckling. Offspring larger, movement steadier.

Distance maintained between her and the other adults. Periodic visual checks in their direction. Departure shortly after arrival.

Commentary:
The space felt more crowded, though there were fewer of them. She kept her distance from the others in a way that seemed as deliberate. I found myself doing the same, even from inside. Never approached them. It is possible to share a place without sharing anything else. They left quickly. The yard did not seem to belong to anyone in particular.

May 7, 2023

Conditions: Early morning light, still air, ~10°C. Visibility clear.

Observation:
Upon opening the window curtains: a large wading bird (likely a heron) was observed carrying a duckling (lifeless) in its beak. Event brief.

Photographic record exists but is not included.

Later: previously observed black cat present. Remains in the vicinity (backyard). No aggressive behavior toward observer.

Commentary:
The event was brief and sufficient. I recorded it. Review did not alter the observation. The cat stayed for some time afterward. That felt like a decision, though I am not sure what it was deciding. I appreciated it, nonetheless.

May 10, 2023

Conditions: Warmer, ~16°C. Steady sun.

Observation:
Adult pair present. Feeding interaction resumes (bread).

Male subject from March 29 not definitively identified, but assumed. Possible absence exceeds one month. Female subject is the same that has been closely observed over said month.

Pair arrives together and departs together.

Commentary:
I looked for him in ways that were not entirely visual… something in the posture, the timing, the willingness to come close. Nothing matched with enough certainty. I looked for signs of despair or grief on the female, but saw none. I understand I don’t understand them. Still, I fed them. The gesture remained even if its original recipient might not. It is unclear whether this counts as continuity or substitution; I want to believe it’s the former. The language exceeds what can be verified. Yet it remains in use.

May 19, 2023

Conditions: Mild, ~17°C. Grass tall, unmanaged.

Observation:
No ducks observed.

Black cat present intermittently, using long grass as a resting site.

Commentary:
The absence settled quickly into routine. I continued to check, though less carefully each time. The cat’s presence did not appear contingent on any prior event. It remained without reference. It stayed, sometimes. So did I.

June 3, 2023

Conditions: Warm, ~20°C. Stable light.

Observation:
Cat returns. Displays erratic, playful movement.

No ducks present. Grass continues to grow.

Commentary:
The yard feels active in ways that no longer involve what I was originally watching for. I still look out in the mornings. Not with expectation exactly, but not without it either. It is difficult to stop observing once you have begun, even after the subject is gone. Still, i’m grateful for the company.

August 31, 2023

Conditions: Late summer, ~23°C. Light softening.

Observation:
Large group of ducks visible across the water. Count high. Individual identification not possible.

Probability that prior subjects are included: indeterminate.

Commentary:
I tried, briefly, to recognize one of them. First visually, that was fruitless. Then through some expectation of familiarity: movement, rhythm, something I might have learned without noticing. Nothing presented itself. It may be that recognition requires a kind of closeness I never actually had. Or that what I am calling closeness was something else entirely. Recognition may depend on a degree of mutual exposure that was never established.

Conclusions

This record does not establish stable identities, only repeated appearances. Attempts to link individuals across days remain inconclusive.

What can be noted with greater confidence is a change in observational position: from proximity to distance, from participation to restraint, from naming to withholding.

Early interactions suggested the possibility of mutual adjustment. Later observations required accepting limits that did not change in response to attention.

No intervention altered outcomes. In several instances, the decision not to intervene presented itself as already made.

Over time, certain patterns became easier to notice: how distance is maintained, how boundaries are enforced without escalation, how presence does not imply permission, and how absence does not resolve itself.

Intimacy, in this context, does not appear to require recognition, reciprocity, or duration. It is not confirmed by response, nor invalidated by its absence. It emerges through sustained attention under constraint.

These patterns do not require closeness, but they do require limits that do not change in response to it.

No further data collected. The conditions remain.

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fr.

Thus time patched me with updates slow and odd,
Each year uninstalling who I’d been—
The child who dreamed the world would stand in awe,
The teen who wore his longing like a sin.

I reach back toward the boy I used to know—
The quiet kid convinced he’d someday win.
He looks at me a moment, head askew,
As though I’d lost the thread that once had been.

No anger.
Just mild confusion.

Like—

bro.

when did we stop trying to win?

‎

Another birthday hits the chat.
My rizz? Debatable.
My drip? Perhaps acceptable.
I stand somewhere ’twixt psalm and scroll.

Yet still I tell the quiet void itself:

“Pray silence—
for I am him.”

And if this poem readeth like a cry—
Well… maybe yes, or maybe just a vibe.
For none can tell how fast the years go by,
And birthdays lowkey feel midlife-crisis-type.

So crown me with the years I’ve yet to show.
Card me at Heaven’s gate—I’ll still get in.

For I am ancient,
lowkey young,
and lo—

A mortal frame that time keeps passing through:
Soft-glitched with awe, half-shadowed, and alight.

‎

I am a meme the cosmos took too far.

‎

And somehow—

still becoming

him.

‎

So thanks be rendered unto those who sponsored this ordeal:
the Cambridge Dictionary and its Thesaurus,
Green’s Dictionary of Slang,
and every neuron brave that perished mid-composition.

They straight-up seppuku’d for the bit.

Verily.

Subscribe, I beg of you

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ok this time for real lol

I’m delighted to have you here for this moment

So, first things first: if you press the little play button above, you’ll hear my rendition of Tchaikovsky’s ‘March – Song of the Lark’, from an album called The Seasons.

It’s a small piece. Light. Almost shy; A small lark stretching its wings at the edge of spring. Not a grand, dramatic overture — just a quiet song rising into the morning air.

Larks are unusual birds. They can sing while they fly — long, continuous phrases carried upward on the same wings that keep them aloft. For centuries farmers listened for their songs as signs that the frost was loosening its grip and that the earth could be trusted again.

The lark wasn’t ornamental.

It was a soft declaration, suspended in the sky.

When Tchaikovsky wrote this piece, he avoided the kind of easy sentimentality that often surrounds spring music. There’s motion underneath it — a steady pulse that feels almost like footsteps — while the melody moves above it, climbing and circling before settling again.

Yes, there’s fragility.

Care, too.

But there’s also momentum. Like someone choosing to keep moving forward when the air is still cold.
‎

This is where my thoughts wandered to you.

(“You,” in this moment, meaning women. Men, feel free to stay, but shhh.)

Not in a symbolic, soft-focused way, nor as a “gentle muse of spring” — though I love that image too. But in that specific way of being both in motion and making your voice heard at the same time. Holding ground with one hand while reaching the skies with the other. Not waiting for perfect conditions.

The lark doesn’t ask whether the sky is ready.
It rises because it can.
It sings because waiting for ideal conditions would mean never singing at all.

I believe that is the point. Not fragility nor decoration. Not something to be admired from a distance and used for its purpose when the time is right.

But presence.
Movement.
Voice.

There is power in occupying space without apology. In continuing forward even when the air is still cold. In allowing your voice to exist at its natural volume; not louder than everyone else, not smaller either.

Just yours.

So, if this little March carries anything, let it be that: a reminder that taking up air, making sound, moving ahead on your own timing — is not audacious.

It’s natural.

And oh, so beautiful.

Recently, I saw a post by Joel L.1, where he said: “I owe women on this platform more than I can articulate cleanly.”

I don’t mean this in a dismissive tone, nor do I mean to be contrarian. I honestly don’t believe I can articulate my appreciation “cleanly.” Just as he mentioned, I too feel like you’ve welcomed me to this haven of poetry with open arms and gave me a place near the bonfire.

I’ll admit something though:

My boots were muddy.

I have been wandering the forest at its darkest

… maybe not its darkest,

my own.

Walking with my eyes closed.

I believe it is your warmth that has drawn me to the light.

‎

People sometimes say they “owe” others something for such kindness. But the word owe suggests a ledger — a balance that needs to be settled.

That is not what this place is about.

This place feels more like people, friends, sitting around a cozy fire, sharing pieces of ourselves. Vulnerable — hearts on our sleeves; trusting that warmth will be met with warmth.

As you possibly noticed, there were a couple of mistakes in my recording (and the recording itself was hell! Sound engineers, you have my respect too). I’ve been trying to learn and see the beauty of it. My piano teacher taught me that “you just keep going. Don’t stop and ask, ‘Can I start over? Please, I’ll do it right this time’” because life just doesn’t work that way.

We don’t get to save and reload the moment where something went wrong. We don’t get three or four attempts at the same conversation, the same decision, the same note.

You just play the note that comes next .. And yes, sometimes it’s wrong.

I make mistakes often enough.

No one enjoys that.

But the music doesn’t stop because of a wrong note.

You keep playing.

You listen more closely the next time.

You try again with a little more care.

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I’ve been told that I arrived here at the worst possible time given everything that’s been happening lately (I won’t go into it, I know it’s tiring). But honestly, I couldn’t disagree more.

Sure, I missed Valentine’s Day and maybe got a liiiittle jealous seeing all the love in the air. But I know I arrived right on time to witness something inspiring: a community showing perseverance, care, and solidarity.

I even got to participate a little in the conversation, so… yay!

I am really grateful for that. I’ve learned so much already — and I haven’t even been here for a full month.

You’ve been patient and understanding while I learn social cues, helped me notice things I might otherwise miss, and trusted me enough to hear the words that sometimes go unsaid. Your openness, patience, and care are small miracles in a world that often demands perfection before compassion.

You’ve made this a place to breathe, grow, feel safe — and learn.

Furthermore, I believe there is a number of lectures and books on feminine appreciation, politics, and history that will quite soon be shared here — conversations all too necessary from where I’m standing. Please give them a look when you can.2

There is so much to learn, and perhaps even more to unlearn.

So honestly I’m just thankful

That probably sums it all up.

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Oh — and I love you.

That too

Whether we’ve spoken before or not.

Like Phil Collins sings in one of my favorite songs of his:
“I don’t know you, but I love you.”

It’s Women’s History Month, and International Women’s Day falls quietly in this little March. Coincidentally, it’s also the birthday of a woman I admire (Mine as well… but sshh. Supposedly this isn’t about me.) Still, the timing feels fitting — March, like the lark Tchaikovsky wrote about, rises and sings even when the air is still cold.

Women have been doing exactly that for centuries: moving forward, speaking, creating, persisting — sometimes loudly, sometimes softly, but always present in a harsh environment that can’t wait to change for the better.

To the women here — poets, thinkers, listeners, those who speak boldly and those who speak quietly yet with such precision

thank you for letting me sit near the fire and listen.

You make the sky richer, fuller, and infinitely more interesting to fly in.

Alright.

And to the gentlemen here, thank you for your patience as well.

Today is not about us, so keep that ssshhh going on for a while more

Today is for women.

Their voices,
Their songs,
Their presence.

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Remember something simple:

Women should always come first.

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Let their songs rise uninterrupted.

1

Joel L

The Harassment Engine - The Uptick on Substack, the Structure Beneath the Noise and the Bannon/Epstein Connection

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6 months ago · 21 likes · 12 comments · Joel L

It is genuinely incredible how well he wrote this; if you haven’t yet, please read it. He lays out the architecture of digital harassment and manipulation with remarkable clarity.

Circe warned of hunger, of arrogance,
and men became what they already were.

Daenerys walked into flame;
men learned that fire remembers.

Marie Curie touched what others feared,
and science bent toward her light.

Malala Yousafzai asked for books;
a bullet answered
and the world ignited.

You see it, don’t you?
A pattern.

This pattern is old:
A woman speaks.
A man decides she does not.
Something burns.

As simple as that.

But now-
there are no desolations,
no prophets at the gates.

Only a woman in a room
choosing her words carefully
because history has taught her
what interruption costs.

Only a headline.
Only a bruise hidden by foundation.
Only the keys between her fingers.
Only a message typed and erased
because she is tired
of being called dramatic.

Only a woman speaking
and a man, uneasy,
reaching to turn the story
toward himself.

Though he sees himself an emperor
he does not see the empire crumbling
not an empire-
a partnership.
Not a throne room-
a dinner table.
A trust.

The catastrophe does not begin with violence, no
it begins with dismissal.

A joke that lands wrong,
a story retold without her name,
a warning laughed off.

Inaction on the presence of her truth.

Brick by brick by brick
the kingdom weakens.

There’s another tale
one that I cherish.

Here another king,
wounded and suspicious
was undone not by force
but by a woman
who told a story
and then another
and then another.

Night after night
she stitched mercy into the tyrant’s sleep,
not with rebellion,
not with her justified wrath-
with story.

She believed listening
could make a man human again

And it did.

Ten plagues didn’t budge the pharaoh’s heart.
One thousand and one stories changed the shah’s.

Not violence
nor spectacle-
her voice,
repeated.

A man,
finally quiet.

But she should not have had to risk harm,
death,
to be heard.

No one should
yet here we are.
A pattern as old as time
and as young as this morning.

There are no palaces now.
No sultans.

Only a man at his desk
deciding
whether correction is humiliation
or invitation.

Only a pause
in which a kingdom
either fractures
or strengthens.

He can dismiss, he can mock.
He can say “that’s not what I meant”
and explain her back to herself.

Or he could listen
and feel the small, humiliating death
of ego
and let something better be born.

Listen—
not because she is fragile,
but because she carries
the memory of what happens
when no one does.

Listen—
because force hardens hearts
yet story softens them.

Listen—
so the kingdom in your care
does not fall
for reasons history
has already written down.

Listen—
so nothing has to burn
again.


And you.
Scheherazade of our ungrateful world-
do not quiet yourself.
do not dim
please.

Your stories are not mercy for kings.
They are the light
by which I want to read at night.

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