* WELL, LIFE GOES ON.

build me 𝘂𝗽, don't get me 𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙣.

[dreamscaptured]

# 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐃. a multi-muse blog dependent on bearcreekfm. written by argo.

TERESA CANTÚ . . . forty-one. she / her. owner & tattoo artist at permanent parlor. SULLIVAN REID . . . fifty. he / him. retired musician.

[fabray]

roberta colindrez on ig stories, april 20 2025.

[tvandfilm]

Past Lives (2023) dir. Celine Song

[dreamscaptured]

𝐖𝐇𝐎 : open to anyone ! ( 2 / 3 ) 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 : nighttime, half past ten. 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 : the curb outside neon rainbow.

she ought to just go home. least, that's what she tells herself, sitting perched on the curb outside the bar, head between her knees. not cause she's drunk, no. after one rum and coke? she wasn't even close. but, cause a couple of her ex's friends showed up at the bar after tess finished that single rum and coke. and, the last thing tess needed was her ex getting a report that tess was spotted sitting alone at the bar, looking sorry as shit for herself.

was she? feeling sorry for herself? fuck, probably. she spent a lot of time doing that these days. but that wasn't the point. the point was that her ex didn't need to know she was. so, tess slunk out the front door ( hopefully ) without being noticed, and made camp on the front stoop.

not like she should be surprised they'd show up there. not really. it's not like tess got their favorite bar in the divorce. just the shop, and what was left of her dignity. the thought makes her laugh. a dry, choked noise that catches in her throat. "fuck, man," she mumbles to herself, and looks up. finally looks up. she reaches into the front pocket of her shirt to fish out the half-finished packed of american spirits tucked there, flips open the lid, and pulls out the lucky, sliding it between her lips. figures, she could use all the luck she could get right now.

she reaches back into the pocket then, fingers scissoring around for the lighter. and then, remembers: she'd lent her lighter to one of her clients at the shop earlier today. they'd never returned it. tess groans, cigarette still dangling from her lips. then, returns the cigarettes to their rightful place in her pocket, and stands.

"hey, 'scuse me," she turns just in time to catch someone walking by. going into the bar, or just passing by, it doesn't matter to her. what matters is the unlit cigarette clenched between her front teeth. "sorry to bother you, friend. but, uh, you got a light, maybe?" she thinks, she sounds a bit pathetic. maybe it's just in her head, but she can practically hear the scrunch between her eyebrows, and the twinkle ( or lack there of ) in her eyes that just screams, have pity on me, please! she grimaces at the thought, then quickly fixes her face, doing her best not to offend.

[dreamscaptured]

𝐖𝐇𝐎 : open to anyone ! ( 3 / 3 ) 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 : late morning, early afternoon. 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 : saddle grove park, near the picnic tables.

absurd. that's the word, absurd. the one sullivan has spent the past ten minutes worrying the inside of his left cheek trying to remember. of course, he had no trouble remembering a handful of far more intricate sounding synonyms. ludicrous, for one. preposterous, for another. but none of the counterparts felt as authentic as 'absurd' did. none of them seemed to quite do justice to just how sullivan was feeling: paper coffee cup almost emptied of decaf drip in his right hand, neon orange plastic ball launcher in his left, and wrapped in the blanket of a beautiful summer's day. it all felt rather absurd.

because, well—this time last year, sullivan was still in california. still ruminating over a ladder of blank, spiral-bound blue lines. still trying to ignore the hot breath of his management down the back of his neck. and now here he stands, reloading a soggy, bright blue tennis ball into one of those hand-held ball launchers to toss for a dog—a border collie, an impulse decision—he hasn't even named yet.

"right then. ready, boy?" he draws his arm back, ready to launch the ball once more. but, the dog takes off prematurely, drawn away from the ball by the presence of . . . well, sullivan isn't exactly sure, what. at best, a squirrel? at worst, another person? "shit." he drops the launcher, and whistles, trying to call the dog back. to nobody's surprise ( not even his own ) the dog does not listen, and sullivan is forced to chase after. he scrambles for the leash he'd removed previously to allow for adequate fetch playing, a decision he was seriously beginning to regret.

the pursuit is short, and he finds the dog greeting a poor passer-by with a barrage of sniffs and licks and jumps. suddenly a heat that cannot be attributed to the summer sun spreads to his cheeks, and he goes red. beet, really. mortified. "christ almighty, apologies. a hundred apologies. a thousand, even." he approaches the stranger and gently guides the dog away by the collar, before attaching the leash once more.

sullivan keeps his eyes down, unable to meet the gaze of the stranger. "i hope he didn't hurt you? or startle you? he is . . . well, he's never done that before." technically the truth—sullivan had adopted the dog only a week ago, and the dog hadn't done such a thing during their short time together. "are you all right?"

[dreamscaptured]

look who goes there! is that SULLIVAN REID? i’ve seen them often around WILDFLOWER WAY, which may be because they are a "RETIRED" MUSICIAN. they’ve been in town for SIX MONTHS and i’ve known them to be CHARMING but also ALOOF. for some reason, ONCE IN A LIFETIME by TALKING HEADS reminds me of them, as well as THE SNAP OF A GUITAR STRING, CRUMPLED UP PIECES OF PAPER SURROUNDING AN OVERFLOWING TRASHCAN, HEADPHONES ON BUT PLAYING NO MUSIC, AND TRADING CIGARETTES FOR SPEARMINT GUM.

𝗕𝗔𝗦𝗜𝗖𝗦.

full name. sullivan cormac reid. nickname(s). sully ( familial nickname ) age. fifty birthday. june 5 birthplace. dublin, ireland gender. cis man pronouns. he / him sexuality. bisexual marital status. single, never married language(s). fluent in english, and spotty in irish gaelic occupation. musician, trying his hardest to let himself retire living arrangements. a nice home in wildflower way, with too much room for just one person.

𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗕𝗢𝗗𝗬.

hair color. a dark brownish-black, beginning to grey throughout eye color. dark brown height. five feet ten inches build. a lean, compact frame. a bit fitter than previously, as he has been spending more time at the gym than he had previously. dominant hand. right scars. none of any importance, and any worth mentioning he doesn't really remember the origin of. tattoos. only a couple, mostly on his appendages. all without any real meaning or thought put into them. for example, on his left forearm he has a tattoo of the first guitar he ever bought with his own money. and on his right forearm, a portrait of an owl, just because it looks cool. piercings. both earlobes. clothing style. casual, without intention. these days he prioritizes comfort over all else. naturally turns to things like henleys, short-sleeve band tees, jeans, and joggers. switches back and forth between a pair of black leather boots, and a pair of brown leather boots. very simplistic, and without any frills. scent. incense, vetiver, patchouli, fire smoke, and something almost sweet undercutting it all.

𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗢𝗨𝗟.

positive traits. charismatic, loquacious, down-to-earth, calm, soft-spoken. negative traits. aloof, passive, apathetic, sarcastic, moody. hobbies. playing the guitar, long walks in the morning, seeing movies in the theater, going along with a good bit, and cooking meals every other day entirely from scratch. phobias. small spaces, and large crowds. alcohol use. mostly sober, except for the occasional party or celebratory drink. drug use. strictly abstains these days. the past is a different story, however.

𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗬.

tw: mention of alcoholism, drug addiction, and death of a parent.

nine months ago, sullivan reid's life changed forever. for better or for worse? eh, the jury is still out on that one. but changed in many, undeniable ways. of course, to say one's life was irrevocably changed feels horribly dramatic. but that's because it was horribly dramatic. at least in sullivan's eyes. it was a terrible ordeal, the whole thing . . . then again, after thirty years of gigs and touring and recording albums, sullivan couldn't really be surprised when his doctor diagnosed him with vocal cord nodules. the stubborn kind, they'd said. the kind that'd require surgery.

sullivan knew what he was doing when he went in for the surgery. knew there was a possibility that after the vocal rest, after the healing, his voice would never be the same. and maybe, that is why he did it. for an excuse to step out and away from the stage, for a chance at a slow life. because, truthfully, sullivan can't even begin to fathom what a slow life might look like. and, god above, he wants to know.

all sullivan has ever known was, go, go, go. from a young age, sullivan reid was reared to succeed. his father, cillian, was a musician, too. and as the front man of a somewhat successful band in europe, he wanted more for ( read: from ) sullivan. wanted his son to succeed in ways he never had the chance. and by a stroke of luck, of a cruel trick of fate, sullivan seemed postured to do just so. the boy had perfect pitch, and a knack for string instruments, much to his father's delight, and his father did everything he could to foster his son's unique musical talent from a rather young age.

for much of his childhood, if sullivan wasn't in private lessons, school, or music class, he was attending one of his father's shows to get a glimpse of how it all worked. a "normal" childhood was never in the card's for sullivan, and any chance at one was washed away when his father moved the two man family from dublin, ireland to los angeles, california when sullivan was fifteen years old. he had a better chance there, his father said, to make it big. and sullivan, wanting to make his father proud, agreed.

sullivan was twenty when he signed his first record deal. whether it was his own talent, or a bit of schmoozing on behalf of his father that did it, he'll never know. but thanks to the right marketing, his unique sound, and his head start in the race, sullivan's first album did relatively well in the american markets, and even better in the european ones. and things just went up from there.

so far up that, the next twenty-five years were all a blur thanks to his best buds, sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll. he doesn't like to think about how many times he's been to rehab, or the fact that anybody who knows his music probably knows how many times better than he does. sobriety was a long battle, but somewhere around forty-five, whatever they did in rehab stuck. he ditched the drugs, ( mostly ) ditched the alcohol, and traded cigarettes for chewing gum. he chews a lot of gum, these days. a lot. some of his fans might say his music got better around then, some might say it got worse. he just thinks it sounded more real.

and, because fate always had a funny way of playing with sullivan's life, just when he started getting his act together, his father passed away. a heart attack, entirely out of left field. and for the first time in his life, loneliness caught up with sullivan in a way that was impossible to ignore. he'd never known his mother, had no siblings ( that he was aware of—musicians, you know ), never married, never had kids, lost contact with a majority of his friends when he stopped partying, and then the only constant in his life had left, too.

left alone with his thoughts, sullivan realized just how unhappy he was. so when his yearly check-up ended with a trip to the ent, and a diagnosis for vocal nodules, sullivan took it as a sign. a sign to stop, slow down, and breathe.

nine months ago, sullivan reid posted a statement to his social media accounts announcing his retirement, apologizing to the fans, and telling them that he loved them to bits. and then, so that he didn't have to see how the internet responded, he deleted any and all social media apps from his cellphone.

once he could speak again without sounding like a frog had caught in his throat, sullivan packed only the essentials, and went on a cross country road trip. decided that, when he found somewhere that made him smile, he'd stop and stay a while. that's how he ended up in bear creek, colorado of all places. it was quiet, and quaint, and nothing like he'd ever experienced before. so, he rented a house in wildflower way, and decided to stay.

retirement has been a . . . complicated ordeal, to say the least. old habits die hard, and even though sullivan hasn't tried to sing since the surgery, he still spends hours strumming his guitar, and eyes open mic sign ups like he did when he was eighteen, hungry, and starry-eyed. who knows—maybe his stint in bear creek will inspire a new kind of music from sullivan. or, maybe, it will give him a reason to stay.

[dreamscaptured]

look who goes there! is that TERESA CANTÚ? i’ve seen them often around EVERGREEN, which may be because they are the OWNER AND TATTOO ARTIST AT PERMANENT PARLOR. they’ve been in town for TWENTY-NINE YEARS and i’ve known them to be WITTY but also BLUNT. for some reason, LIFE GOES ON by THE SUNDAYS reminds me of them, as well as OLD VINYL RECORDS COLLECTING DUST, STEPPING OUTSIDE ON A COLD WINTER’S NIGHT FOR A CIGARETTE, UNCONTROLLABLE BELLY LAUGHTER, AND SCUFFED LEATHER BOOTS.

𝗕𝗔𝗦𝗜𝗖𝗦.

full name. teresa victoria cantú de leon nickname(s). tess ( commonly ) age. forty-one birthday. november 2 birthplace. austin, texas gender. cis woman pronouns. she / her sexuality. lesbian marital status. single, recently divorced language(s). fluent in english and spanish, trying to learn amercian sign language occupation. owner and tattoo artist at permanent parlor living arrangements. a lived in, well loved two bedroom two bath apartment in evergreen. the same apartment she has been living in for the past twenty some odd years.

𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗕𝗢𝗗𝗬.

hair color. black, but beginning to grey around the hairline eye color. dark brown height. five feet five inches build. a thin, lithe frame. unimposing in her strength, but obvious when she flexes. dominant hand. left scars. all accidental. a spot on her inner left wrist where she once caught a still-lit lighter, a small scar through her eyebrow where she took a bottle to the face, and a vertical line down her left index finger courtesy of an x-acto knife. tattoos. too many to count. mostly american traditional, but some ebb on the side of the new-wave artsy stuff. a good portion she gave to herself, and one can clearly track her artistic growth through the quality of those tattoos. piercings. both earlobes, twice. left helix. right daith. tongue, once upon a time. clothing style. casual, with intention. the kind of style you could only cultivate by spending too much time in a thrift shop. 90s punk meets eclectic homebody. refuses to commit to one metal, and always mixes silver and gold jewelry. scent. cardamom, nutmeg, pink pepper, cedar wood, amber, and a thin sheen of cigarette smoke overlaying it all.

𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗢𝗨𝗟.

positive traits. quick witted, attentive, honest, creative, mindful. negative traits. stubborn, blunt, overly independent, impulsive, argumentative. hobbies. live music, bar hopping, late night drives, yoga, rollerskating, and any medium of art she can get her hands on. phobias. heights and abandonment. alcohol use. socially, and typically on the weekends. drug use. smoked a lot of weed when she was younger, not so much these days.

𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗬.

teresa victoria cantú de leon is not having a midlife crisis. nah, plain and simple. no matter what her therapist, or friends, or family members, or regular barista at the coffee shop down the street might say, she is not having a mid-life crisis. because 'crisis' insinuates something much bigger than whatever it is that has got teresa down. 'crisis' insinuates a certain degree of self-reflection to accompany the doubt and anxiety and other sentimental bullshit that comes with reaching your forties. and the fact of the matter is, teresa is not reflecting on herself. not in the slightest. nope. when you catch her all spaced out with that far off look in her eye, she isn't thinking about her life. nah, she's thinking about . . . the weather. what to eat for dinner. the appointments she has tomorrow. not her life. not in the slightest.

but—you know, her life didn't really begin in bear creek, colorado. might seem that way, to some, considering how long she's lived there. but not really. teresa's life began in austin, texas in the 80s. back when it still felt like the live music capital of the world. when it was less 'tech start up' and more 'weird mom 'n pop'. she was a first generation american; her amá, papa, and older brother came to the united states just before she was born to settle down in austin. her papa had a good feeling about the city, about it's potential. and he was right, for a time. the city acted as teresa's concrete playground, reared her up to be independent, but open. molded her into a strange child, one her parents didn't entirely understand, but still loved, nonetheless.

when she really thinks about it, teresa has to attribute her discovery of her love of art to that city. the street art lining the walls of buildings and painting the sidewalks on her walks to and from school inspired something within her. silently, but boldly. and in elementary school, teresa's favorite ( and best ) subject was art. her parents weren't exactly thrilled by the prospect of having an artist for a daughter. they'd wanted something . . . more for her. but teresa was stubborn, even then, and chose to ignore the way their eyebrows would scrunch together when she would show them one of her school projects, or the way they'd sigh when she would ask to go to the art store.

but when teresa was twelve, they moved away from that weird little city. in some ways, it was for the best. meant that teresa wouldn't have to live through the tech boom and overpopulation of her hometown. in other ways, it felt like a severe uprooting. like someone had shaken her up inside, and left her alone to sort it all out. they moved to bear creek, colorado because papa got a job. a good one. one that meant they could buy a house, a second car, adopt a dog, too.

but teresa didn't fit in the same way in bear creek that she did in austin. it didn't help that she was just coming into her angsty teenaged years. she struggled to make friends, struggled to settle in, and found comfort only in the art classroom at her middle school. from the age of twelve to eighteen she mostly kept her head down, earbuds in, and hands busy painting, or sculpting, or building.

in a lot of ways, she was a late bloomer, and her life changed ( for the better, mind you ) when teresa went to college. well—went is a strong word. teresa didn't really go anywhere. she enrolled in the local community college so she could still live at home, and so that tuition costs wouldn't be astronomical. but still, the people she met there changed her life. introduced her to worlds she hadn't ever dreamed of. her parents still weren't thrilled that she was getting a degree in art, or that she had no clue what she was going to do with it. but she was happy, and after spending the past six years in a strange limbo, that was all they could ask for.

teresa discovered a lot about herself in college. the first being: she hated college. hated the institution. hated the structure, and the grades, and the inaccessibility of it all. each semester was a struggle to pass classes she wasn't interested in ( read: anything but her art classes ) and it quickly became a point of contention at home. the second being: she was gay. prior to some very . . . enlightening interactions with a friend of her's, teresa hadn't even realized you could be gay. which, in hindsight, hilarious. but in the moment, it felt like she herself had discovered sliced bread.

her family was much cooler with the whole being gay thing, than they were the dropping out of college thing. the latter took a week of the cold shoulder for them to come around to. and even then, the conversation began with—"you're choosing a life of poverty, mija. you're choosing a life of struggle." which teresa met with, "i'm also choosing a life of happiness." how could you argue with that?

amá and papa decided to give teresa what money they were going to use to pay for the rest of her college to fund whatever endeavor it was she wished to pursue. and, for one reason or another, teresa decided on tattooing. her apprenticeship lasted from her nineteenth birthday, to her twenty-first. and instead of going to work in somebody else's shop, she bought her own: permanent parlor. built that place up from the ground herself. refers to it as, her first child.

and, for a long time, that's what life was. owning a business, tattooing the good people of bear creek, going out on the weekends, rinse and repeat. that was, until she met her wife. well—ex-wife, now. they were in love, you know? like, a once in a lifetime kind of love. sparks fly and butterflies in your stomach and put a jacket down over a puddle for you kind of love. teresa doesn't know what went wrong, only that it did, and her wife—ex-wife—stepped out on her a year ago. and now, teresa's life feels like it's in a down spiral.

recently, teresa has been acting like she's twenty-one and invincible again. been acting like nothing is wrong, too. but anybody who knows good ole tess cantú can spot it from a mile away. and it's just a matter of time before her mind and body find their harmony once more, and her world falls out from beneath her.

which is, of course, to say: teresa victoria cantú de leon is definitely having a mid-life crisis. just . . . don't tell her as much, okay?