![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
It's an unwritten benefit of being the boyfriend that I get to poke my nose into the studio most times that I want to, and I don't like to take advantage - step on any toes, or make you look less than professional, or cross some line or other of journalistic integrity, blah blah blah. No matter how much I'm assured it's not a problem, I'll probably never end up here as much as either of us could stand.
I have to admit, when I do take advantage of the chance, though, it's a nice thing. Watching you work with the bands when it's all gelling, or just you, in quiet moments. The line of your back and shoulders as you scribble a line of music down, the way your expression changes when you've figured something out about the sound.
It has been a bit, though.
"Hey," I say, unfolding myself from the chair where I've been keeping myself busy reading press releases for various bands, and lean up behind you, fingers finding the knots where your neck meets your shoulders. "As sexy as it is, watching you do something you're really good at, I think you can probably call it a night."
I have to admit, when I do take advantage of the chance, though, it's a nice thing. Watching you work with the bands when it's all gelling, or just you, in quiet moments. The line of your back and shoulders as you scribble a line of music down, the way your expression changes when you've figured something out about the sound.
It has been a bit, though.
"Hey," I say, unfolding myself from the chair where I've been keeping myself busy reading press releases for various bands, and lean up behind you, fingers finding the knots where your neck meets your shoulders. "As sexy as it is, watching you do something you're really good at, I think you can probably call it a night."
(no subject)
Nov. 25th, 2017 12:15 pm[backdated to before Thanksgiving]
I've never had Thanksgiving. In the UK, of course, it's not a thing we celebrate, and even once I'd moved to New York, it was the sort of day I spent in my flat eating Chinese takeaway. Or sleeping, since the days before were so often crammed with deadlines in order to queue up articles properly for the holidays. (That part hasn't changed, here.)
I don't suppose you spent a good portion of your life with a good roast dinner, not the part in Britain, anyway unless someone dragged you to their family's Sunday roast (the idea makes me laugh), and likely not before if I was supposed to guess. If I'd been forced to go to some do with my parents for this holiday, the way it seems half the population is, I'd have hated it, the way I always sort of hated Christmas dinner and a couple gifts that said to me they still didn't know who I was.
So I've got it in my head, then, that we should make it better. Ours, like, with just people we care about if they're around to have. Especially with a proper kitchen. I've never liked turkey, and we don't need it, either, but I've got a chicken thawing in the fridge and I'm considering peeling potatoes and carrots to set aside so it's not a job on the day itself. Might just buy gravy.
"Do you like roasted potatoes?" Mashed seems to be the thing here.
Yeah, could be I'm overthinking this.
I've never had Thanksgiving. In the UK, of course, it's not a thing we celebrate, and even once I'd moved to New York, it was the sort of day I spent in my flat eating Chinese takeaway. Or sleeping, since the days before were so often crammed with deadlines in order to queue up articles properly for the holidays. (That part hasn't changed, here.)
I don't suppose you spent a good portion of your life with a good roast dinner, not the part in Britain, anyway unless someone dragged you to their family's Sunday roast (the idea makes me laugh), and likely not before if I was supposed to guess. If I'd been forced to go to some do with my parents for this holiday, the way it seems half the population is, I'd have hated it, the way I always sort of hated Christmas dinner and a couple gifts that said to me they still didn't know who I was.
So I've got it in my head, then, that we should make it better. Ours, like, with just people we care about if they're around to have. Especially with a proper kitchen. I've never liked turkey, and we don't need it, either, but I've got a chicken thawing in the fridge and I'm considering peeling potatoes and carrots to set aside so it's not a job on the day itself. Might just buy gravy.
"Do you like roasted potatoes?" Mashed seems to be the thing here.
Yeah, could be I'm overthinking this.
(no subject)
Oct. 27th, 2017 09:50 pmMaybe I've been a little more embedded in my work than usual. It had started out a little thing, fluff piece in advance of The Purge, an assignment I'd resented about an event that horrifies me. "Just a quick list of events cropping up. There always are in advance, and then night of, well, with no regulations on noise or drugs for anything after midnight..." Louis had waved a hand, and then smirked. "You don't remember last time, do you, newbie?" I'd been forced to admit I didn't. "It'll be good for you."
Whether last time even actually happened seems to be a point of some contention if you ask the right people. But I'd gone about it, grumbly at even the whole concept of this thing. It'd started benign: a couple Purge Eve celebrations, some discount sales on weapons and "sports equipment". But the more I'd asked around, the stranger certain rumors had gotten, and I'd gotten myself intrigued and horrified. Like reading about serial killers, a bit, like watching a train wreck. I'd started digging. Getting online. Putting out feelers.
That's what I do. Investigate.
I'd told you about that much, about what I'm hearing, the strange sorts of gatherings that seem to be alluded to. I'd wanted to go out a little, to see what happened. To see who arrived, more. To prove to myself the names and bank accounts alluded to me by the few sources willing to email or DM or meet had something to them. There's this jittery feeling to it, more and more throughout the month, as though I might break something wide open and if I don't, if I don't say anything, what am I good for? Mad, maybe. But there.
I hadn't said anything about the other messages I'd gotten. Mostly anonymous, warning whatever identity I'd thought up to be a little less curious; and some not so gentle about it. It's unsettling, but it's just the internet.
Still, when the sirens start, I'm at home, whatever information I'm sitting on just that -- sat on. Even expecting it, it's an eerie sort of sound, like impending war, and I get up uneasily.
Whether last time even actually happened seems to be a point of some contention if you ask the right people. But I'd gone about it, grumbly at even the whole concept of this thing. It'd started benign: a couple Purge Eve celebrations, some discount sales on weapons and "sports equipment". But the more I'd asked around, the stranger certain rumors had gotten, and I'd gotten myself intrigued and horrified. Like reading about serial killers, a bit, like watching a train wreck. I'd started digging. Getting online. Putting out feelers.
That's what I do. Investigate.
I'd told you about that much, about what I'm hearing, the strange sorts of gatherings that seem to be alluded to. I'd wanted to go out a little, to see what happened. To see who arrived, more. To prove to myself the names and bank accounts alluded to me by the few sources willing to email or DM or meet had something to them. There's this jittery feeling to it, more and more throughout the month, as though I might break something wide open and if I don't, if I don't say anything, what am I good for? Mad, maybe. But there.
I hadn't said anything about the other messages I'd gotten. Mostly anonymous, warning whatever identity I'd thought up to be a little less curious; and some not so gentle about it. It's unsettling, but it's just the internet.
Still, when the sirens start, I'm at home, whatever information I'm sitting on just that -- sat on. Even expecting it, it's an eerie sort of sound, like impending war, and I get up uneasily.
settled, not settling
Sep. 28th, 2017 08:10 pmThe last of the new furniture's arrived, and though it comes with a team that puts it together with what seems like inhuman speed and know-how that I can only watch in a sort of baffled awe, that means there's now new, different moving available to do.
It's a good time to have a new home, sweater weather moving in. Combining two different apartments, though, one the home of a meticulous media-hoarder, and the other a messy artist, is not sweater work, and so I've got jeans and a worn t-shirt on and no shoes, a record playing as some sort of motivation, as I sort through some of the things that have been shuffled out of the bedroom to make room for a new bed.
I stretch up to get some of the last of the books sorted onto a high bookshelf and I can feel you watching me as I rearrange them.
"Looks good, yeah?"
It's a good time to have a new home, sweater weather moving in. Combining two different apartments, though, one the home of a meticulous media-hoarder, and the other a messy artist, is not sweater work, and so I've got jeans and a worn t-shirt on and no shoes, a record playing as some sort of motivation, as I sort through some of the things that have been shuffled out of the bedroom to make room for a new bed.
I stretch up to get some of the last of the books sorted onto a high bookshelf and I can feel you watching me as I rearrange them.
"Looks good, yeah?"
[for therese]
Sep. 25th, 2017 09:08 pmThe weather's getting a bit cooler, now, as the calendar barrels through September. It's hard to believe that I've been here almost a year and a half, now. The city still feels very new to me. Who I am here feels very new to me. But here I am, outed by the press and still carrying on as the press, with a new apartment with Curt. Things I'd have never have imagined.
It's partly that the city keeps changing; losing people, gaining them, something always keeping us holding our breath. It's hard to remember how long it's been, even when it feels like forever, too.
In that space of things, it's nice to have constants, and at the cafe roughly half between our work, I sip a latte that's supposed to taste like pumpkin pie -- I never ate much pumpkin, even after I moved to New York, a strange American sort of dessert, but here I've found myself growing fond of it -- and smile as I see Therese approaching. I'm not sure when she became one, but I like it.
It's partly that the city keeps changing; losing people, gaining them, something always keeping us holding our breath. It's hard to remember how long it's been, even when it feels like forever, too.
In that space of things, it's nice to have constants, and at the cafe roughly half between our work, I sip a latte that's supposed to taste like pumpkin pie -- I never ate much pumpkin, even after I moved to New York, a strange American sort of dessert, but here I've found myself growing fond of it -- and smile as I see Therese approaching. I'm not sure when she became one, but I like it.
hang on to yourself
Mar. 20th, 2017 04:22 pm[Backdated to 03/17.
CW: Loss of bodily autonomy, dissociative imagery, ...YEERKS]
I don't know what I expected, when I started to dig into things, but it wasn't -- how could it be? -- any of what happened.
It was just supposed to be a bit of investigative journalism. Maybe a little more investigation than I'm supposed to do, but isn't that me, what I've always done: wanted to know more, wanted to be more than whatever life it is I've let myself into?
The water's turning my skin red in the shower. When I'd gotten in here it was with the explicit intent of scrubbing the grime of the last few days off my body, but now I can barely feel it. As though the -- thing that had been inside my head -- hadn't taken care of me. Far from it. It had let itself easily into my life, scrubbed up, made sure I looked neat and clean for work so no one would suspect.
( after the party... )
CW: Loss of bodily autonomy, dissociative imagery, ...YEERKS]
I don't know what I expected, when I started to dig into things, but it wasn't -- how could it be? -- any of what happened.
It was just supposed to be a bit of investigative journalism. Maybe a little more investigation than I'm supposed to do, but isn't that me, what I've always done: wanted to know more, wanted to be more than whatever life it is I've let myself into?
The water's turning my skin red in the shower. When I'd gotten in here it was with the explicit intent of scrubbing the grime of the last few days off my body, but now I can barely feel it. As though the -- thing that had been inside my head -- hadn't taken care of me. Far from it. It had let itself easily into my life, scrubbed up, made sure I looked neat and clean for work so no one would suspect.
( after the party... )
you can read it in the sunday papers
Nov. 22nd, 2016 11:05 pm"...Yes, absolutely. Absolutely, no -- that's fantastic. Thank you so much, I- look forward to it. I'll do that. Cheers."
I click the phone closed and stare, feeling as though I've just been abruptly jolted from a dream, like my head is full of air. We're happy to offer you the position, if you're still interested.
Still interested?
After a moment's shocked silence, just myself and the damn phone still in my hand, I let out a whoop, echoing in the relative solemnity of the quiet apartment. Aside from actually signing the offer letter, I've done it, I've pulled myself from freelance hell and rejection after rejection back to where I started. Better than where I started.
I need someone to tell. I need --
I run a hand through my hair and look around, then -- fuck it -- head straight down the stairs, two at a time until I'm standing in front of your door, give it three sharp knocks, grinning.
I click the phone closed and stare, feeling as though I've just been abruptly jolted from a dream, like my head is full of air. We're happy to offer you the position, if you're still interested.
Still interested?
After a moment's shocked silence, just myself and the damn phone still in my hand, I let out a whoop, echoing in the relative solemnity of the quiet apartment. Aside from actually signing the offer letter, I've done it, I've pulled myself from freelance hell and rejection after rejection back to where I started. Better than where I started.
I need someone to tell. I need --
I run a hand through my hair and look around, then -- fuck it -- head straight down the stairs, two at a time until I'm standing in front of your door, give it three sharp knocks, grinning.
I wake up like I fell asleep, all at once: blinking through warm, relaxed haze. Sun's pooling in through the window, which makes it late for nobody else but me. For the first morning in a while I don't feel the urge to get up and do, like I'm supposed to be at work being something.
Your arm's thrown sprawled and heavy across me, and I prop my head on one elbow to look. Asleep, the pretense washes off you; different, a little, than being raw or vulnerable. Just relaxed, and it's good to look at. A different kind of beautiful than last night.
I smile a little and walk my fingers over your shoulder, testing.
Your arm's thrown sprawled and heavy across me, and I prop my head on one elbow to look. Asleep, the pretense washes off you; different, a little, than being raw or vulnerable. Just relaxed, and it's good to look at. A different kind of beautiful than last night.
I smile a little and walk my fingers over your shoulder, testing.
It's not New York, is all I think when I get a good look at this place.
It could have been more beautiful, more witty, but that's all I get: it's not New York. Not mine. The skyline's gone, but that's not the important part, the relocation. In more than one way, I'm somewhere else entirely, and more than what it's not, I need to find out what it is.
It's American, that's for sure, and there's a bleakness to the pavement, the lights of a tired ferris wheel that used to be more. A bit New Jersey? But there isn't a chance in hell I'd fall asleep on a train all the way to Jersey, no matter how tired and stupidly nostalgic.
Maybe I should feel frightened. I don't know.
I start walking, then, shove my hands in my jacket pockets, nothing else to do. The people are wrong, too. There's too much colour, too few cops, not enough adverts. It's like something just got released from the grip of a fist. My eyes linger on clothes that look like they're from some other world, mixed in with suits and ties I could see every day. Then I see some glitter-dusted blonde kid laughing, walking hand tucked into the back pocket of an older man and the world tips entirely.
It prickles under my skin, catches in my throat and I turn, go for the first shop door I can turn around into.
It could have been more beautiful, more witty, but that's all I get: it's not New York. Not mine. The skyline's gone, but that's not the important part, the relocation. In more than one way, I'm somewhere else entirely, and more than what it's not, I need to find out what it is.
It's American, that's for sure, and there's a bleakness to the pavement, the lights of a tired ferris wheel that used to be more. A bit New Jersey? But there isn't a chance in hell I'd fall asleep on a train all the way to Jersey, no matter how tired and stupidly nostalgic.
Maybe I should feel frightened. I don't know.
I start walking, then, shove my hands in my jacket pockets, nothing else to do. The people are wrong, too. There's too much colour, too few cops, not enough adverts. It's like something just got released from the grip of a fist. My eyes linger on clothes that look like they're from some other world, mixed in with suits and ties I could see every day. Then I see some glitter-dusted blonde kid laughing, walking hand tucked into the back pocket of an older man and the world tips entirely.
It prickles under my skin, catches in my throat and I turn, go for the first shop door I can turn around into.
