𝘚𝘖𝘊𝘐𝘈𝘓 ㅤ 𝘊𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘛𝘜𝘙𝘌

[denastudio]

The fountain scene in Boxing Helena (1993) dir. Jennifer Lynch

[passlonplt]

[8thsea]

“yep—“   to   the   question   of   the   parlor   stairs,   “—should’ve.”   to   the   question   of   leaving   them   there.   but   they   both   know,   and   the   clever   walls   of   this   house   know   too,   that   he   never   would.    the   simple,   diluted   truth   of   it.   he   never   has,   he   never   would.   the   fact   of   it   doesn’t   settle   easy   on  shea.   shea,   who   wants   so   desperately   for   everything   to   be   firmly   in   his   control.   he   loathes   the   concept   of   this   liability,   in   theory.    the   unceremonious   removal   of   his   illusion   of   choice.   the   fact   that   somehow,   the   shoes   are   controlling   him   now.   the   fact   that   she   can   call   him,   any   time,   and   he   will   answer.   it’s   a   leash   that   in   theory,  he  needs   to   break.   if   he   knows   what’s   good   for   him.   in  theory.

in  practice,   her   hand   lies   flat   to   his   chest,   and   there   are   no   tears   shed   over   the   loss   of   that   particular   illusion  of   choice.    in  practice,   he   doesn’t   want   to   choose.   in  practice,   he   is   choosing.   over   and   over,   he   has   chosen.   he’s   choosing   now,    in   fact.   when   he   kneels,   slow,   obliging,   and   slips   the   heels   on.   like   natural,   like   following   the   forward   motion   all   the   way   to   her   door.   he’s   choosing,   and  maybe   it’s   not   a   deliberate   choice,   but   he’s   choosing   here,   to  let   his   palm   slide   —   slow,   obliging,   up   her   ankle   to   linger   softer   and   for   longer   than  is   in   any   way   strictly   necessary.   so   maybe   his  parents   are   right:   shea   thomas   does   not   know   whats   good   for   him.  

listen,   he’s   run   the   odds   on   this   one.    worked   it   from   a   thousand   angles.   it   doesn’t   work.   but   god   he   can’t   say   he   doesn’t   want   it.    want   something.   he   stands   up,   gets   his   face    completely   too   close   to   hers   as   he   swings   through   the   doorway.   hurricane   beatrice   has   come   swiftly   through   this   suite.   it’s   remarkable   how   together   she   always   looks   having   torn   the   room   apart   to   get   there.   there’s   something   else,  too,   about   her   ability   to   make   any  room   her   room.   she   could   be   anywhere,   and    there    she’d    be.   contradicting,   coalescing.   creating   some   abstraction   of   a   home   out   of   egyptian   cotton   and    perfume.   

his   hands   shoved   in   his   pockets,   shea   tips   himself   backwards   onto   the   bed.   stares   up   at   the   ceiling.   lets   out   a   days   worth   of   a   sigh.  “i   really   fucking   hate   this   place.”   boy,   does   he   mean   it.   “he’s   everywhere.”   and   boy,   is   he.    the   ghost   of   the   manor.   always   guest   of   honor   in   absentia.   here,   here   it’s   suffocating.   he   waits   patiently   for   bea   to   find   her   way   to   him   with   the   liquor.   a   hand   is   outstretched,   absentmindedly,  for   a  glass.   he   opens   an   eye,   appraises   her   for   a   moment:   “good   dress.”   an   altogether   indecent   thing   to   say,   in   that   tone   of   voice.   really,   and a   lot   of   that   going  around.

[culpabilities]

if you're watching — if you're reading this — what you have to understand is she's not asking for everything. she's not even asking for it all. all that beatrice nassau-fellowes is looking for is a length of rope long enough to get her from one day into the next. if you are measuring, if you are the one with the length of twine and the yardstick, this is less than 16 inches, before you account for the back end: enough that she can take it around the throat and throw the rest over the support beam above the door.

give them enough rope to hang themselves with, they say.

shea thomas walker is rarely so kind.

that is, when it comes down to it, the fundamental difference between the two people in the room: shea wants to bring her down from high, uncertain places, and bea doesn't mind swinging. ( if she had to pinpoint that predilection, it's likely from the nassau-fellowes new years eve party 2004. thank you, new years eve party 2004, for both the sex thing and capacity to hang. ) the core of their disagreement shea has already told you: he believes the string between them is a leash he ought to break. to beatrice, this is a noose she must wait to have slipped over the head. a little circlet she bends for, on her knees, shoulders drawn back, straining to show her heels to the headsman in order to make the fit a little easier. he comes when she calls, sure, but she's always been right here: sat patiently on the executioner's block.

that makes it sound terrible. but it's not, really. not to her. and anyway ⸺ is there any difference between a man on the chopping block and a dog left leashed on the street corner?

so there they are in the liminal space of the doorway, and he's got his hands around her ankles, and bea's got her gaze down around the gap at his neck, the place where the back of his collar juts and leaves an opening, and she's counting how much rope he's just given her. fingerpads lingering on the back end of a calf is six inches, at least, which when laid down flat leads straight to the middle of the night. so it isn't all the way enough, not yet, but she's gotten distracted by that aperture between cloth and skin, the warm place a flat hand would fill. she wants that, the chaste thing, her palm run down along the protruding notches of his spine. her eyes turn up now, exhaling from parted mouth a breath that has no business being that empty. god help the girl. a second later shea rises, and his face obscures her vision.

god ⸺ bea stifles a smile when he passes, tongues the gap between teeth and lower lip ⸺ ever efficient.

from the bed shea sighs like he's emptying himself, and bea wonders if she'll have to catch what comes out. she ambles in slowly and her eyes flick to him, just in case. they stay there just because. you wouldn't know it to look at him, but he's probably the most beautiful person alive. certainly the most demoralizing. the list of shea's superlatives is as expansive as it is contradictory, and bea can recite them all by heart.

he's everywhere. bea pours the whisky and considers this. then she walks the length of the gap between them, deposits filled glass in extended hand, and considers some more. "he was already everywhere else," she answers, climbing up on the edge of the bed so that her shins sink into the quilt, heels against the backs of her thighs. what bea doesn't say is i don't mind it. and really, she doesn't mind lucien leaving a ghost: it feels, in her mind, if not just than at least right. a fair distribution of matter. it's the shadow she resents, the immaterial thing tied to all of their shoes, following them to every high noon.

then good dress, he says, and call beatrice a size queen, but that's a full nine inches, and one she takes with a throb in an unnamed area. that's a stretch of rope at least the length of his forearm. take it off me, she could say, or i know. neither are quite as tawdry as what she finally chooses, which mostly is just to look at him, knelt up against his side. light eyes on dark eyes. his back laid on her (temporary) bed. humid air flowing over warm ocean water, or whatever. hurricane conditions. her mouth curls, and she looks away because she has to. no natural disasters in the guest room.

for posterity's sake: "its got ethics."

it's a nothing thing to say, a piece of confetti thrown up between them, but she's a child. she wants to play with him. she's only ever just wanted to play with him. bea places her own glass on the flat of shea's stomach, one edge unbalanced against the curve of a button.

then, "he's allowed to be here, i think." because everything she's ever kept from shea has always come out on the next breath. absently, bea moves the liquor bottle from beside her knee to to the lining of shea's chest, the area where anatomy tells us the heart is stored. bea has some theories about that, about how it moves from one place to the next depending on where it is needed — see, now, she has a pulse in the outer lining of her left thigh, where it grazes shea's opposite hip — but that's neither here nor there. the bottle neck wobbles some with the rise and fall of shea's chest, but bea doesn't reach for it. it's not an intentional method of paperweighting him, but it wouldn't be the worst thing she's done to get him to stay. "he lives here. we're just the fucks who came for a visit."

[cloudswamp]

courtney love: the real story, poppy z. bright

[thatchickvixen]

[ceremonial]

Cold War (2018) dir. Paweł Pawlikowski

[helenasbertram]

[redrola]

[8thsea]

in which we find ourselves where we have always been 11 - 04 - 2016, friday afternoon

“no,   dude  —  i   don’t   think   you’re   understanding   the   extent   to   which   patrick   completely   fucked   me.”   he’s   talking   to   luke,   the   brother   he   talks   to.   as   difficult   as   shea   finds   it   to   level   with   that   reality.   “okay,   i   never   didn’t   say   fuck   dad,   fuck    dad   for   sure,   but  —  dude  —  patrick   fucked   me.   yeah.   no,  i’m   not   there,   i’m  —  no,  i’m  at   the   marchs’.   ha,   no.   highlands.   uhhhh   huuuhhh.   so   i  can’t,   or   i   would,   but.   i’m   here.    so   i   can’t.   no,   dude,   and   it’s   fucking  weird.   uh   huh.   yeah,   she’s   —   she’s   here.   yeah.   of   course   he’s   here,   it’s   his   fucking   house.”  the   world   spins.

but   he   catches   himself.   narrowly   escapes   catching   teeth   on   the   staircase.   it’s   halfway   through   this   forward   motion   that   he    understands   what’s   happened.   he’s   tripped.   on   a   pair   of   heels.   and   extrapolated,   without   having   to   look,   why   this   has   happened.   bea.   it’d   just   about   have   to   be,   right?   it   only   makes   sense.   narratively   speaking.   he   knows   he’s   intuited   his   way   to   the   right   sequence   of   events   when   he   collects   the   shoes   that   tried   to   kill   him.   if   she   hadn’t   taken   them   off   and   put   them   on   his   lap   in   the   helicopter   today,   he   could’ve   regardless   picked   them   out   of   several   hundred  lineups.   “yeah,   no,   i’m   still  here.   i   just  —   yeah,   okay.   fuck   off,   yeah.   i   gotta   go   man.”   he   looks   at   the   slick   black   pumps   hanging   off   his   fingers.   trails   off.   hangs   up.

shea   likes   to   have   a   plan.   he   likes   to   know   where   he’s    going,   and   why,   before   he   goes.   this   is   a   sort   of   fuck   you   from   the   universe   on   that   particular   front.   he   had   been   on   his   way   up   to   his   room.   he   was   going   to   grab   his   laptop   and   his   coat   and   chainsmoke   on   a   balcony   until   the   next   corporate   torture   session.   maybe   write   some   emails.   because,   if   he’s   being   honest,   the   fucking   walls   are   closing   in.   lucien   is   everywhere.   art   is   everywhere.   his   own   self,   younger   and   maybe   worse   but   maybe   probably   better,   he’s   everywhere.   around   every   corner.   quiet,  listening.   all   day,   since   the   helicopter,   there’s  a    buzzing   in   his   ear.   a   tightness   in   his   chest.   a   bounce   in   his   leg.   so,   when   you’re   in   the   damn   trash   compactor,   and   the   walls   are   closing   in,   best   course   of   action:   egress.   even   partial.   balcony.   at   least   it   was   cold.   at   least   it   was   quiet.   it’s   a   good   plan.   this,   though,   the   thing   with   the   shoes,   has   pretty   completely   fucked   that   plan.   because   before   he   knows   where  he’s   going,   or   why,   he’s   gone.

there’s   a   stray   barcart   in   the   hallway,   bottles   missing,   another   environmental   blessing.   shea   abducts   rocks   glasses,   lets   his   feet   carry   him   the   rest   of   the   way.   just   an   object   in   motion   staying   in   motion.   that’s   all   it   is.   he   doesn’t  give   himself   any   time   to   think.   suddenly   he’s   at   her   room.   it   was   like   he    was   on   the   phone,   and   then   he   blinked,   and   now   he’s   here.   he   braces   a   forearm   above   him   on   the   doorjamb   and   knocks   thrice   with   the   heels.   when   the   door   opens,   he’s   got   two   rocks   glasses   and   two   shoes   to   present   in   offering.   and   somehow,   even   though   his   ears   are   still   ringing   and   his   heart   is   still   overbeating,   even   though   he   can   still   feel   lu’s   dead   hand   heavy   on   his   shoulder,   he’s   got   a   smug   face   on.   something   altogether   fond.   “hey kid.”

@culpabilities.

[culpabilities]

behind the door is another creature of momentum, just of a different locomotive.

bea's perpetual motion is not born of an obligation to shift from point a to point b ⸺ though she views the red pin and marked cross of these things along the way, turning with mild interest ⸺ but the desire to move beyond a different place entirety. a harder thing to spot on the map, the unrest of her body. there is always a restlessness about her, but its turnings have grown faster since arriving here at the march home, and she is trying to outpace it in some way: to move her body through and past the disquiet with rhythmless action. it's why she wanders highlands after disembarking, an extensive search for something immaterial. it's how her shoes, the ones she intended to wear tonight, end up abandoned at some undocumented point. it's what lead to this, now, with half of beatrice's lovely doll body tucked into the dark oak of a wardrobe, pulling apart the collection of designer shoes. "fucking ⸺ christ."

in the turning over of the room there comes a point where she seems to forget what it is she's looking for, why it is she's pacing back and forth along the carpet of an assigned bedroom wearing a cocktail gown and a sense of loss. one moment she knows, the next it's gone, leaving behind only bare feet and the vague sense of remorse. at this juncture bea pulls a cigarette out of her purse and rubs at something sharp behind her temple, a nail driven in many years ago. at this point bea thinks of lucien.

shortly thereafter she's naked on the bed, though this is not in the interim of changing outfits. she's smoking with her dress on the floor, a remission from that brief attempt at linear progress. get dressed. get ready. go downstairs. the sidestep, of course, makes sense to her: the gown feels wrong without the shoes, the shoes cannot be found, and so the dress comes off. it feels more right to be stripped entirely than in a state of partial correctness. similarly, it's uncomfortable. also, she doesn't want to fucking go.

bea hears the sound of a lawnmower going from the garden below and considers stepping out to the balcony to say hello. it occurs to her, as she takes another drag while staring at the ceiling, that this will likely result in the gardener being dismissed. if the groundskeeper is distracted by a naked woman waving on the third-floor terrace, it will call the greatest attention to the poor timing of his chore's execution. it's what her mother would have done, asking why this man was on the green after an hour when guests had already arrived, not already tucked away unseen. and why, kingsley, were you present to see my naked daughter?

by the time she works through the play-through, the sound of the mower is distant. too far away to interrupt. by the time there's a knock on the door, she's already woven in and out of the hallway, retrieving a single malt off the bar cart. either before or after this, bea partially redresses.

what you should understand is this: beatrice nassau-fellowes doesn't believe in the established order. this has less to do with desiring confection before dinner and more to do with a lack of faith in the architecture. still, when she opens the door to find shea leaning against it, it should be said that bea knows what is going to happen. she understands, intuitively, that she is about to have her appetite ruined. she knows this early appearance will mean she won't eat for the rest of the night. hey kid.

her gaze flicks to his hands, an offering in each palm.

"shoes."

it is in some way accusatory, while also sharing facial similarities with an act of revelation. she is remembering what she had lost while also recalling that it's always shea who finds it. her annoyance at this is open. still, after a beat she leans her temple against the doorframe, a breath away from his. "hey." still, his eyes are dark and full and reminiscent of the summer she called him national velvet. a joke that took on more meaning with time, as it became increasingly clear shea bore the same high-strung privacy, the mean watchfulness, of a thoroughbred. as it stands, really, she's just thinking about his eyes.

"parlour stairs?" this one, soft and probing, an inquiry with blonde hair fallen over one eye. at their appearance the memory returns; at their return, the fondness swells. and then, if it seems for a moment she will make shea explain himself, if their eyes hold a little too long in the stopgap of an open door, the red seam of her mouth splits open. a grin. white like bleached teeth, like fire of a certain elevated temperature. "should've left them."

she straightens out and reaches for the rocks glasses, pinching their rims between two fingers and alleviating shea of their bulk. in turn, her remaining hand comes flat on the line of his chest, raising onto expectant toes. situationally appropriate, it's the set up of a trade: before i fill these, you must fulfill me.

situation notwithstanding, his hands on her ankles also feel nice.

"entrance fee, please."

[timotaychalamet]

A Faithful Man (2018) dir. Louis Garrel

[antigonick]

“As a child she was described as having the eyes of a half-tamed creature, being drawn to the unnatural, with a penchant for improvising tempestuous fairy stories.”

— Patti Smith, in her Introduction to Wuthering Heights

[genterie]

Princess Yvonne of Sayn-Wittgenstein-Sayn in Germany and her brother Prince Alexander, photo staged and taken by their mother Princess Marianne Sayn-Wittgenstein-Sayn (1955)

[sadbby456]

iconic picture of Kate Moss hanging out of a window

[so-sexy-and-hot]