call me when the sky is violet @nixonmckendrick - Tumblr Blog

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✧ basics;

Full Name: Nixon Rae McKendrick

Nickname/Preferred Name: Nix, Mack, Mickey

Age: twenty eight

Birthday: May 31, 1996

Zodiac: Gemini sun, Scorpio moon, Gemini rising

Gender & Pronouns: cis-female, she/her

Sexual Orientation: bisexual

Relationship Status: happily single

Residence: Sycamore Row, Willows Cottages; #16 Primrose Path

Occupation: unemployed

#wp.intro #( about. )

blotchedpaper

For a moment, Santiago said absolutely nothing. His glass sat in front of him, its surface peppered with kisses from the condensation, his fingers idly tracing patterns in the damp ring it left behind on the counter. Fifty. Young. About the age his parents passed. He could tell her it gets easier. That time dulls the edges, makes the weight of loss more bearable. But that would be a lie. Loss never really softens - it just settles in, makes itself at home in the quiet spaces of life, in the gaps between conversations, in songs you didn’t realise had memories stitched into them. It doesn’t get easier.

“Yeah,” he said at last, voice quieter than before, stripped of its earlier bite. “It does.” He didn’t specify what it was - the grief, the remembering, the way it all tangled together until you couldn't tell one from the other.

He reached for his drink, but instead of knocking it back like usual, he just held it, watching the amber swirl. Grief had a way of DISTORTING time, stretching some moments too thin and compressing others into something unrecognisable. Anniversaries - now they were the worst. The days meant to mark something - birth, love, celebration - twisting into an ache so deep it felt almost like death itself.

His lips parted slightly, then pressed into a firm line. “People say remembering’s a good thing.” He tilted the glass just enough to let the liquid lap lazily against the sides. “That it means they’re still here, in some way. But sometimes, I think it just makes it worse. Makes the loss feel fresh. Like it happened yesterday.”

Lifting his glass, he finally drank, the burn of the whiskey nothing compared to the pain he could only assume that the other felt. “You ever notice how it makes you remember the strangest things?” He set his glass down and tapped a finger once against the bar, contemplative. “Not the big moments. Not the things you’d think you’d hold onto. Just… little things.” The way his mother’s perfume lingered in the folds of her scarves. The sound of his father’s pen scratching against ledger paper late at night. The exact way their voices would lift when answering a phone call, the cadence slipping seamlessly between languages. The things that shouldn’t matter, somehow, mattered the most. “... What was your favourite thing about her?”

nixonmckendrick

Nixon watched him, objectively a stranger, absorb her words and make them part of him. The concept was already clearly part of him already, the way he stared into the glass and didn't drink. His outward composure, regardless of what was happening to him internally, was also objectively beautiful. It wasn't something she'd ever managed.

As evidenced by the way she was here, had unleashed her statement on him, and now stared. Her social skills, the ability to play it off, were clearly lingering on rock bottom.

"Those little details were my favorite things," she answered, smiling sweetly to recall. "She's been the closest person to me for most of my life, so it's thousands of days with little details. The way she always missed a link on her watch the first time and had to do redo it when she put it on, or used so much garlic when she made dinner the house smelled like it for days. The way there was always a hair tangled in the nosepiece on her glasses because she'd push her glasses onto her head like a headband."

She sighed and glanced over at him. "Sorry, it's... she's not dead yet. I'm losing her slowly instead and her birthday visit was kind of terrible."

She, the idiot who had ordered a complex cocktail, envied the whiskey he finished a little. All she could do was sigh and consider, not for the first time, how alone in the world she really was. "I think you're right, though, about remembering making everything feel fresh. Grief is tricky. Kind of a sucker punch."

#( conversations. )#( m; santiago )#( c; santiago )#grief tw #alzheimer's disease tw #parent illness tw #parent death tw

poppiesandpromises

She may be going to hell of course, but at least she isn't standing still.

e.e. cummings

#( quotes. )

willowpeaktarot

Nixon McKendrick - career - where should I apply for a job?

@nixonmckendrick

Milo smiled, immediately feeling at ease with this woman’s breezy energy. He was very sensitive to things like that, which was why he spent most of his time cooped up in his shop with his little black cat Felix.

He examined her palm as he thought over her question. The answer wasn’t coming to him quickly, but he had a good idea as to why that was.

She had healing hands, and an adventurous spirit. When the Vision came, he saw open fields at dawn, and no sign of an office building anywhere on the horizon.

“You may not like this answer, because it’s kind of not one,” Milo smirked. “But I don’t see you applying anywhere. You’re going to work for yourself. You’ll help people, but you’ll do it on your own terms.”

#( fortune. )

blotchedpaper

Santiago paused for a second to try and read her, long enough to get a sense but (hopefully) not long enough to make it obvious. His mouth moved with something between a smirk and a sigh. “I admit, silently suffering can have its perks, but it kind of sucks sometimes, don’t ya think?” He rolled his glass between his fingers before throwing back the rest of the liquor, sliding the now empty glass across the bar.

“My day was a mess.” He huffed, sharp and short, like he was over it. Nixon was going to be the poor soul trapped in his orbit today - like a black hole forcing some unlucky star to circle it. “Had a ton of meetings that could’ve been emails, and had people thinkin’ they know my job better than I do - standard bullshit.” A quick and quiet thanks slipped past his lips as the bartender topped up his drink, liquid meeting the rim in a lazy slosh.

He didn’t touch it right away. Instead, he shot her a side glance before reaching for the bowl of nuts sitting between them - a staple bar snack, really! The kind that had probably been poured from a massive bulk bag in the back, yet still piquant. “Your turn.”

nixonmckendrick

Nix chuckled her agreement, only glancing at him before returning a lot of attention back to her glass. She'd tried to replace one form of art for another, trade in her musicianship for some sort of artsmanship, but it hadn't worked out. As she appreciated the way the dim light bounced off the crystal pattern on the rocks glass, she knew she'd never be able to capture it.

"Silence isn't really my specialty," she admitted. "Sucks all the time." She finished her rye, keeping up with him as he did the same with his drink, but she definitely pulled a face. This was not her drink.

He went on to describe likely corporate troubles, if citing an email was conjured that detail, and she found herself wanting to relate but being mostly unable. She found a foothold, so to speak, in people thinkin' they know my job better than I do, because what had she been plagued with from time to time as a masseuse if not the particular client who was so exacting they were impossible to please? She shuddered. "I don't know much about meetings that should be email," she admitted. "But I know plenty about the second thing and I'm sincerely sorry. Will it improve tomorrow?"

After a moment's hesitation, she slid her empty glass across the bar, too. "Can we make that a Sazerac this time, please?" She asked the bartender, unable to face straight rye again, even if she knew her mom would tease her about it. Would have teased her about it. And she felt a little bad because the drink was a little more labor intensive than just, oh, pouring. But she'd make up for it. She sighed and tried to size him up. She still didn't have a handle on when or how to just dive in to this kind of disclosure. She decided to keep it simple. "Today would be -- is -- my mom's 50th birthday. Trying to decide if I'm grieving or just remembering. It all feels the same sometimes."

#parent illness tw #( conversations. )#( m; santiago )#( c; santiago )

narcobarbies

BRITTANY O'GRADY via instagram

#( face. )

who: nix & open ( @willowpeakstarters ) where: chicago river boat architecture tour when: tuesday afternoon

Logically, as more or less a native of Chicago, she knew it was borderline too cold for one of the architecture boat tours on the river. It was still a little bit of a volatile season and you never knew what you were going to get from one moment to the next.

Still, it had a way of clearing her thoughts. It was reassuring, the way the buildings stayed so similar, so familiar, and she liked it. Plus, the volunteers who gave the boat tours were usually pretty hilarious.

There weren't a lot of people on board, but enough, and she wasn't against talking to any of them, the motion of the boat and the breeze seeping through her sweater making her feel alive again. She decided to see if she could meet someone new.

"First time here?" she said to the person next to her, hoping if she kept it neutral it wouldn't disturb their peace and piss them off.

#wp.starter #( conversations. )

tedlassogif

TED LASSO (2020 - 2023) Season 3 | Episode 9

#( muse. )

blotchedpaper

𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻: the summit’s bar, some time before 4pm. 𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗻 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗿: capping at ( 𝟶/𝟹 )

The Summit's bar was quiet before happy hour - a few businessmen taking calls, weary travelers winding down beneath low brass fixtures. Santiago sat half-shadowed at the far end, a pour of bourbon turning amber in the low light. The glass soaked up the gold, swirling slowly as he marked the rim with a thumb - a mechanical gesture - absentmindedly. He was thinking, though he wished he wasn’t.

It had been a day of frayed patience and shallow victories. A dozen voices pressed for his time when he needed only silence - meetings that went beyond their value, contracts that seemed almost ready to collapse; it was the kind of day that settled DEEP in the bones - the kind he hadn’t felt in months. It wasn’t the work itself - he loved the chaos, created his empire with it - but like any job, there were days when the weight of it all felt like a vice jammed between his ribs.

He exhaled slowly, longingly. The ice in his glass was melting, watering down the bourbon bite. But he tilted it back anyway, let the burn carve through his throat and pool warm in his stomach. None of it mattered - not the bar, not the drink, not the city that pulsated outside the big glass windows. Hell, he could’ve been anywhere else in the world, and today would’ve felt the same.

Still, his dark, burnt hues shot up when someone came near. “Please tell me you had a worse day than mine. I need someone to suffer with me.”

nixonmckendrick

Generally, Nixon wasn't one to let herself wallow.

Plenty of not-amazing things had happened during her life. One more day added to the pile wasn't enough to send her spiraling. Today, though, she was allowing it because it was her mom's birthday and her mom couldn't remember her, so their celebration attempt hadn't gone particularly well. So she was marinating in rye, her mom's favorite, in a more upscale bar than usual. That was also her mom's style and the entire reason she was here. Beth had loved The Summit and its bar.

Maybe it wasn't wallowing. Maybe it was reminiscing? Up for debate, and she was only one drink in so there was also time for it.

As happy hour approached, filling in empty seats, she found herself less in the mood for a crowd or to socialize. She uncharacteristically retreated to the far end of the bar, where it was a little quieter save one guy who seemed just as lost in his... strong brown beverage... as much as she was.

Honestly, how did so many types of liquor look similar but taste completely different?

When he spoke, she looked over in surprise. "Well, I don't know how your day was, so I guess I can't say that and have it be honest," she admitted. "But it's definitely possible. Mine wasn't great. What's your poison: talk about it and increase the suffering, or suffer silently? "

#alcohol tw #alzheimers tw #( conversations. )#( m; santiago )#( c; santiago )

jamesselroy

Who: Open 0/4 ( @willowpeakstartersm) Where: Soundscape

Music was the very core of who James was, it had been his passion for as long as he could remember. A way to cope with everything he had been through in his childhood and now even in his adulthood he found himself using it for the same reason. If it wasn't behind his drum kit back in the day, James was sprawled out on the floor of his room, listening to old records, a collection he still had even to this day. So when he had been offered a job at Soundscape, James had jumped at the chance. Both because he didn't think anywhere would actually hire him and two, he got to surround himself with music once more.

With not much going on in the shop at the moment, he found himself perched on the back counter. His fingers drumming against it along to the Beatles song that was playing over the speakers, his favorite band of all time. Lost in the music at the present, it was only the jingle of the bell above the door that jerked his attention away. Reaching over to turn the music down some before he pushed off the back counter, walking over to the front, and slightly leaning against it. "Hey, welcome in. Anything I can help you with today?"

nixonmckendrick

It probably said something about her overall mental health that just walking into a record store was difficult, her heartbeat not racing but definitely faster than normal. She didn't quite feel the need to turn back yet, but she was on edge to be sure.

She wasn't exactly a fan of the Beatles, but she didn't hate it or cover her ears. The music being broadcast over the speakers filtered through the store and settled on top of her anxiety like smattering of dust, just adding to what was already there rather than creating the problem. She sort of tuned it out as she walked, fingertips tracing over the rows of records.

She had loved this place as a kid. But she couldn't remember the layout, didn't know if it had changed, and was the very definition of uncertainly browsing. She couldn't find the little one who had loved it, couldn't connect to anything as she walked. She was here for a purpose, but she needed to catch her breath and remember what it was.

The extremely familiar clerk approached and she couldn't help the smile that washed over her face. She couldn't make herself be too enthusiastic in a greeting, though, because even if his face was familiar, it was years since they had known one another. She was sure of at least that much. kk

"Hi. I was looking for 90s alt rock. Or just alt rock if it's not by decade."

#( conversations. )#( m; james )#( c; james )

“Don’t bend; don’t water it down; don’t try to make it logical; don’t edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.”

-Franz Kafka

#( quotes. )#( muse. )

#( headphones. )#Spotify

enchanthings

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#( credits. )

pirateskinned

theme 84 / preview - get the code on github

minimal theme with custom post size, font size & family and a highly customisable sidebar, including four versions for images, description and navigation with two custom links.

read my terms of use. please reblog if you plan on using!

#( credits. )

#( soundtrack. )#( headphones. )#Spotify

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