champagne problems

i'm wearying to escape into that glorious world, and to always be there: not seeing it dimly through tears, and yearning for it through the walls of an aching heart. prudence lavoie. xxiix. the dancer.

[prudcnce]

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[theoptia]

C.G. Jung, from C.G. Jung Letters, Volume 2

Text ID: So it goes all the time: memories rise up and disappear again, as it suits them.

[shisasan]

Albert Camus, The Misunderstanding (1943)

[facinaoris]

Lessons on Expulsion, Erika L. Sanchez

[saltwatvr]

this poem lives rent free in my mind

[likewildhorses]

if you are a visitor in your house are you ever even home at all

[cithaerons]

nicole homer, underbelly

[lifeinpoetry]

No one tells me            why we capitalize God

but never ghost.            Never grieve.

— Kristin Chang, from “Televangelism,” published in The Adroit Journal

[prudcnce]

L. LITTLEDALE

a man slumped against the side of a blacksmith shop calls out for alms, and link watches people pass him by without a backward glance. there are many like him on this route—refugees and the unemployed, victims of disease and ill-fated happenstance. the east end isn’t kind to those without money and even less to those in need of aid; what you cannot carry, you have to throw away.

even if that means relieving yourself of the burden of someone else’s weight.

link himself isn’t explicitly poor. while he’s far away from living a life in lazy comfort, he’s still far more fortunate than some. and considering that he’s managed to do all right for himself, despite all the struggle and strife that’s been there, that should speak for his ability to endure.

however, that same perseverance isn’t exactly enough to see him through this kind of unexpected encounter, especially seeing how he continues to put his foot in his mouth. not that he intended for this chat to go south so soon so quickly but what can he say? with the exception of those he has known prior to his departure or the ones he met during his travels, link hasn’t felt the need to strike up conversation with a stranger in years at this point.

his attention is demanded by the woman in front of him once more and link, startled out of his thoughts, proceeds to gape at her and the pears in her hands just the slightest bit before side-eyeing the stall’s owner. “i don’t think the salesman would… approve?”

which is a polite way of saying he has no intention of paying for these fruits, nor does he wish to rope the woman into paying for them on his behalf. goodness, he clearly has lost all he once knew about social etiquette. link’s rather certain his father would be turning in his grave if he could see his youngest right now.

“but you could? explain to me what they taste like, i mean? since you’re clearly more knowledgeable than i.” he has to bite his own tongue for phrasing it the way he did; the sailor hopes it doesn’t come across as demeaning. if anything, the phrasing is clunky but he doesn’t come from a place of malicious intent.

“i’m—” terribly sorry, is what he wants to say, but he can only grimace through the words that follow next. “that wasn’t what—i mean, i didn’t—”

from the corners of his eyes, he spots the vendor grinning at the exchange. link’s ears color from the embarrassment of the situation. “apologies, miss, that came out all wrong.” please don’t take any offense.

     It felt to Prudence as though her new companion was littered with anxieties and trepidation. Perhaps she was wrong - she hoped she was wrong - but there was an almost skittish behaviour about him that was akin to a new born faun. It was sweet, in the way that watching small animals stretch their legs and fall could be sweet. She knew that she carried an air of propriety about her, despite her constant desire to rid herself of it. Proper posture, proper pronunciation, proper Prudence. It was ingrained in her like rings of an oak, and even if someone could expose it, they would never truly free her from the cage of her existence. She was not unique in wanting such a thing; everybody craved freedom in some way or another. Whether they vocalised it or not. 

     ❛❛I’ll pay for both.❜❜ It seemed such an obvious statement, that she questioned briefly whether he was joking about it. ❛❛The vendor won’t be upset. And if you took a small enough bite, hid yourself well, then you could hide it amongst the others of its kind.❜❜ Stealing was an additional word for it, but using such a word in this place was a call for attention. The spotlight would truly be upon them if she uttered such a word, and while she figured that he might not decide to partake in such a task, the idea of a new, fleeting, secret excited her a little. Of course, it would not be Prudence that would be at risk of persecution, so perhaps that was exactly why it excited her so. 

     The mouth of her companion had run away with him, Prudence figured, and she couldn’t help but bite her lip to suppress a smile. Had she not had the same fate, numerous times? Her foot, when not raised above her head, was often seated perfectly in her mouth, allowing her to make all sorts of social faux pas that her mother would shame. Of course, hers was entirely anxiety based, with a fair dollop of imposter syndrome at the helm, but such technicalities were unimportant. 

     ❛❛Well...❜❜ For a second, the dancer considered an act of emotional torture, but she was never going to be that person. It would cause her more emotional strain than him, most likely. ❛❛You’re fine. Please. I understand what you meant. And miss is far too formal when I practically accosted you for assistance. Prudence, or Prue. Either you prefer is fine with me.❜❜ 

[ofcorpses]

“You’ll be hungry forever if you stay here, trying to hide your secret mouth from all this light. Before you can cross the gate into that dark valley, you must look at yourself. You can think of other words for red: crimson, cherry, scarlet. But there’s no other name for blood, no name for a shame like this, its hiss of pain when you press your finger to it, the sweet stain it leaves on your fingertip. You just have to taste it.”

— Sara Eliza Johnson, from “Parable of the Unclean Spirit” (via firstfullmoon)

[luthienne]

Sally Rooney, Beautiful World, Where Are You

[Text ID: To think of childhood gave her a funny queasy feeling, because it had been real life once and now it was something else.]

[freshmoviequotes]

One Sings, the Other Doesn’t (1977)

[margot-terc]

learning to move around discomfort

[prudcnce]

E. SAWYER

LOCATION: One of Ravensmoor Manor’s bedrooms. STATUS: Open to everyone!

Permission to explore the manor had been both deeply amusing and entirely unnecessary. If Mr. Ashton is foolish enough to welcome an opportunistic thief into his palatial home, ripe with precious items to carry off into the night, then Edgar sees it as his (im)moral duty to do precisely that. 

The ball itself is of little consequence to him, worth nothing more than a fleeting look of disdain on his jaunt to where the real interest lies. He’s moved from room to room over the course of his evening, deftly rifling through possessions and trying to decide what would be easiest and in his best interest to steal. He’s made it to the second of seemingly endless bedrooms, snooping around without a shred of shame   (If the rich opt to be naive and overly-hospitable, then it’s the god-given right of the poor to leap upon the opportunity.)   A delicate hand mirror is lifted from its resting place on the dressing table, slivers of it catching the light as he turns it over in his grip. He’s contemplating the value, weighing up whether it’s worth taking, when the creak of someone in the doorway startles him. The mirror slips, hitting the leg of the dressing table on its plummet down and promptly smashing into pieces.  Despite the fact that the entire event has happened before both of their very eyes, he apparently still has the audacity to feign innocence.

“Can you believe the way some people treat their possessions?”  It’s punctuated with a delicate sigh, as if the mere thought is too upsetting to linger on.  “Heartbreaking, I dare say.”

     Any excitement that had surrounded the party had long dissipated. Dramatics between Prudence and her peers had forced her on a heavy disassociation from the environment. Escape was required, a place where she could hide from the prying eyes of those who had been in the corridor. She had not intended to have such an interaction; the goal of the evening was to enjoy herself and have an excuse to show her face with fellow Londoners, whilst not expected to hide her penchant for the intoxicated state she wished to maintain. 

     A bedroom, the upstairs, that would fair her best. There, no prying eyes would speculate gossip and drama, wonder how long she had been enjoying herself, as Ms. Fox had so delicately placed it. All that she needed was a short rest; a collection of thoughts, perhaps even a short break for her eyes and overstimulated head. Downstairs, they would not notice her absence, not notice that their Lady Macbeth had passed before the start of the second act. 

     Prudence stumbled down the overbearing hallway of the Ravensmoor manor, certain that she would likely get lost if when she decided to return. Then came the noise of shuffling, a noise that she was certain she had imagined (ghosts did go bump in the night, after all) but opted to investigate nonetheless. Her own eyes met her before his, and words of innocence tumbled from the perpetrator’s mouth. The dancer didn’t care; it was Edgar, after all. 

     Unable to contain herself, Prudence let out a snicker at the sight - therapy came in many forms. ❛❛Yes, I mean, who would dare to leave broken shards of mirror just lying around so carelessly?❜❜ She entered the room, unceremonious in her sprawl upon the bed, her eyes trained upon the decal of the chandelier above her head. ❛❛Why were you holding a mirror anyway? Trying to become Alice, lose yourself within a looking glass?❜❜

[margotdaily]

[goodbyetogravity-deactivated201]

[prudcnce]

Z. FOX​

An automatic apology leaves her lips as someone collides with her, followed by are you alright? in a smooth, easy cadence. All perfunctory remarks, all said to who should be a stranger—yet, upon second glance, she finds the woman standing in front of her distinctly familiar. “Prue,” she says, not without warmth, as she takes a step back. 

God, how long has it been? 

Then her gaze falls briefly to the floor, white powder scattered across the tiles. The concern flashes across her features before she can stop it.

How long has it been to become like this?

Zoya is no fool; she knows what this is. She knows what this means. She is not one to begrudge anyone their vices, either—what people do in secret is none of her concern. But she cannot turn a blind eye here when she knows Prudence is already on a slippery slope, falling further and further from her reach; in fact, Zoya can barely find her friend in the woman standing before her. 

When exactly they drifted apart, Zoya can’t be sure, but where she pushed, Prudence did not give, and so the meetings became less and less frequent, backstage conversations shorter and shorter. Zoya thought to give her time, and now that time is running out.  

She still knows Prudence, though. Enough to know that she would not want attention drawn to her with such a secret being spilled out onto the floor—the public would be so eager to sink their teeth into a scandal like this, to see her ruined. So she gently but firmly takes Prudence aside, moving them just further down the hallway and out of the view of others, the swirl of their gowns sending white powder scattering across the floor. “Enjoying yourself at the ball?” she asks once they’re facing each other once more. She is neither snide nor cutting, her voice calm and carefully neutral. “Or has it been going on for longer?”

     These secrets that she kept were unravelling before her eyes. This was not supposed to happen, and it certainly was not supposed to happen in front of Zoya of all people. While the pair were once thick as thieves, now they were two ships passing in the night, never to engage or dock at the same port. How was she to get out of this? What excuses could she tumble out, though in no state to give them. 

     Fuck, her brain screamed, knowing that the music to face would surely hit a crescendo. Could she run away? Avoid Zoya for the rest of her mortal days? Disappear into the crowd of the ball, delight beside masked figures and pretend as though nothing at all had happened. Should she scoop it back into the bottle; the floors should have been recently cleaned for their party anyway, she was sure. Prudence bent down, picking up the small blue vial and tucking it back in it’s place - perhaps Zoya didn’t see anything after all. 

     However the dream was short lived, before they were sequestered to a hall, a place out of public eyes but there was no doubt that the eyes had already feasted upon the event. There’s a tone ( or a lack of tone ) to Zoya’s words that somehow cut deeper than if she had screamed in Prudence’s face for her choice of toxin. 

     ❛❛I’m having a perfectly pleasant time.❜❜

     What was she to do? Confess that things were getting out of control, that she had no idea how to stop them, that the end of their communication had been the beginning of her demise. There was no way to say all of that now. This was neither the time, nor the place. 

     ❛❛If it matters at all to you, Zoya, that was simply crushed sugar. I put it in my wine to remove some of the bitterness. I don’t know what assumptions you may have made, but you can unassume them.❜❜