[stahling]

                            𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒃, 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 ?

𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐬 :  the most stable elements on the periodic table lie between them.   this  blog  is  a  study  on   𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 ,  as  created  by  author  thomas  harris  for  the  𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐁𝐀𝐋 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬  and  here interpreted  by  𝓪𝓶𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓪.  primarily  book-based but drawing inspiration from several sources — let  this  be  a  study  into  goodness  and  selfhood ;   in  purity  which  remains  through  hardship , forever stable. 

                    𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒔 𝒉𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒃𝒆.

⊱  𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒 :   pinterest  /  rules   /  dossier  /  wikipedia  /  sideblog

[stahling]

' will you be my valentine ? '

she tries to imagine   𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 ,  not as in empty , but as in ruthless.     in which stars open up as eyes or mouth , even where they might not be watched by god or devils or fools.     the red hollow of his mouth , haunting the back of her memory , the strangest red , the strangest mouth.

𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ,  & clarice starling answers the phone by the window , under estranged stars , between the half-moment of a dream and the instant it ends.    a light passes through the window , & the grace of the moon transforming her face , if dr. lecter could see her now , he’d see her small white teeth against her pink mouth , the tip of her pink tongue against her lip  in uncannily ingénue picture , & maybe he’d draw it.       she wonders if he’d hang it upon his wall. 

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐞 , 𝐨𝐝𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐜𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 ,     that haunts the tip of her fingers , lives at the edge of her tongue , the instinct of the body sensitized and intoxicated which is to say she likes it that he likes her , at the same time that it terrifies her — that , between an instant and another , when she had picked up her phone :     a shiver of the most ambiguous kind.

𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 , her voice matching the rain outside , as the futile light of her digital clock turns her face a darkening blue , modern aesthetics for long existing hauntings.      ❛  doctor ?  dr. lecter ... ?  aren’t we both a little too old for that ? aren’t you a little late too ? ❜ 

[stahling]

“will you be my valentine?” said half-jokingly from mulder, holding up one of the candy hearts he stole from the secretary’s desk.

𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 , 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐲 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 ,     in which not everything is either a boxing ring or a slaughterhouse , but it's just radiant normality , the ordinary within the ordinary.     two figures meet in tenderness in the ugly , colorless office of the bureau ,     & her fingers touch the fingers of agent fox mulder.     it is neither fire nor tempest , the world doesn't stop at the meeting of skin on skin , but it's good all the same ,     & it is easy enough to make her smile as she accepts the candy from him.   

❛  hmmm... maybe, do you have any coffee on you ?  ❜ 

[stahling]

Your writing will never leave me anything short of absolutely floored. The way you weave metaphor and how extensively you do so, how vividly. You have always been and will always be one of my greatest inspirations. I love you with all of my heart. ❤️

you'll always have a place in my heart. ♡ 

 you're so kind and this means a lot to me, thank you so much.

[stahling]

𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐨𝐬 ,     the snake which cannibalizes itself , the keep the dark hollow of her belly full.     a girl in a half-dark room with half of her self , a girl who swallows her own silence to spit it back at her shadow.     a girl sits first upon a bed , not hers , just a bed , then she closes her eyes , to make it more dark  , until darkness becomes a place.     darkness is the bruise that spreads from inside-out , darkness is all she needs to enter herself.     

psychologically , metaphorically , the descent of girl into underworld , the underside of the body  , the girl inside her body , or the mind , then the mind rattles its cage , until the door opens , swiftly , but silently , as cages often do :     & 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲.     if the light changes , the hallway is the pathway to an altar — but clarice will leave the lights off , & she will follow down the hallway with silence in her mouth , the words losing their taste , until she finds a door.     in the next room , she finds herself. 

this is no mirror , just a memory ,   or  @conticuit​ ,   the tender-stained clarice fresh out of academy.     but a girl is a girl is a woman , or something else , depends on the story , or on the time of the day — a body is a prelude to a wound.      this is the inbetween thing which is the realm of dreams.     the thing which is the body remains in bed  , but the mind is a constant haunting.     the mind steps into itself , &  is both the palace and the creature which inhabits it.  

❛  well, look at you all self-righteous... don't look at me like that. i didn’t do the killing and... and he was kind of an ass, wasn’t he ? we never liked him, mr. krendler , that is. never liked him.  ❜ 

[stahling]

happy valentine’s from me to you, beloveds 🖤

[stahling]

⊱ ⸻   goremade

the  window  to  the  aberration  could  be  the  eyes ,     but  there  was  more  to  be  said  about  the  way  the  monster  kept  his  mouth  than  in  the  unblinking  gaze:   he’d  ascertained  that  agent  starling  needed  no  introduction  to  his  maw  and  the  fine  teeth  inside  and  so  did  not  dignify her  response  with  the  smirk  that  threatened  to  surface.   

 ❝   whose  to  say,      indeed .   ❞     there  is  cause  for  curiosity  in  nearly  all  journey’s  that  clarice  chooses  to  traverse,   none  more  enthralling  than  her  presence  here,  now,  with  him.         for  what  purpose  could  a  creature  of  light  &  love  find  herself  in  the  underworld ?         clarice  commands  his  consideration  with  little  more  than  a  lift  of  her  chin,   the  slight  curl  of  flaming  hair  that  fits  perfectly  between  the  collar  of  her  blouse  and  her  neck;   how  he  wishes  he  was  that  strand  of  hair,   how  perfectly  hannibal  would  fit  in  between  the  spaces  of  her  clothes  and  body     .

she  exists  here,   locked  away  with  hannibal,  in  the  chamber  of  his  mind  palace’s  dungeon   -    beautiful  and  lively,   still  smelling  of  avon  hand  creme  and  the  burnt  coffee  smell  that  all  dead  things  smelled  of   .          ❝    you’d  like  that,    wouldn’t   you,  agent  starling ?      to  be  my  jailer  .     ❞    

somewhere,   in  the  back  of  doctor  lecter’s  mind,   bach  begins  to  play .

❝    i  wonder ,    sometimes   .     had  our  first  meeting  been  in  an  office,   a  coffee  shop,  would  you  have  recognized  me  ?           could  you  have  done  what  will  graham  couldn’t  &  saved  lives  ?         or  will  you  end  up  scarred  and  flayed  open,   too  broken  for  any  meaningful  connection,   doomed  to  walk  the  beaches  with  your  daddy’s  face  looking  at  you  in  the  mirror  ?     ❞    

𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬.     the corridor had been a vast , dark mouth opening to her.     & speaking of mouths ,  there stands his ,  satisfied at the same time it is not , still hungry , still craving , even before the first bite.      the horror of it had been alluring :     the impulse of walking into the bottom of the world , metaphorical katabasis , which is violent and erotic , clarice starling too opening her mouth— 

𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.     one single , timid lighting spot hangs upon them , with light that is barely light , white on white , which does little for shadows.     it suits them both.     light , she thinks , serves little purpose if it does not carry warmth.      & clarice says :      ❛  i hardly think you and i would be found in the same sort of establishments, doctor.  ❜   , which is not an answer , which doesn’t mean it is not true.      & silence , like light , lingers upon her lips. 

𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧.      chapter 6 of the book of daniel , & i was found blameless before him , even when cast into the pit.       the lion looks rather smugly at her , and clarice starling too inclines her head , in the manner she had seen him do.     she had been enough at churches , she knew fallen angels — the raw ruthlessness of their red stare upon her , the shadow , always the shadow , before the flame. the monstrosity of it works by contrast , the divine wound is tragically humane. 

 ❛  perhaps we would have been friends. perhaps you would have liked me better than now, doctor.  ❜ 

[stahling]

𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐛𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭 ; he had been prepared to crack whoever crawford sent him until they broke , & felt he’d been robbed of an honorable victory by being given someone so green and so doomed to failure. 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐧. ⊱ ⸻ private book-based clarice starling from the books by thomas harris. [ interpreted by amanda ]

[stahling]

⊱ ⸻   goremade​

𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐒     𝐈𝐒      𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐋𝐘  .            the  underworld  is  cold ,    but  the  darkness  is  minimal  with  the  lights  that  never  seem  go  out  .       it  washes  the  doctor’s  flesh  translucent  &  as  he  faces  the  little  lion  he  tips  his  head  back  and  looks  down  his  nose  at  her   .         clarice   starling  settles  under  his  gaze as  if  preening  her  feathers,    lifting  her  shoulder  and  shrugging  .             a  gesture  that  was  both  rude  and  juvenile  enough  to  be  charming  . 

behind  the  glass  wall ,     doctor  lecter  looms  in  the  very  center  of  the  glass  box.    he  cannot  smell  clarice  yet ,    but  he  tries,  lifts  his  nose ;    makes  eye  contact  with  the  girl,  wanting  her  to  know  that  he’s  trying   .  

❝   CLEVER  GIRL .   ❞

the  only  splash  of  color  is  the  sleepy  gaze  of  the  monster,   red  and  inviting.   inside  the  shape  of  his  reflection,    clarice  fits  perfectly  inside  hannibal’s  outline.     like  a  chalk  outline  of  an  already - gone  victim,      ❝    this  human  zoo  will  surely  make  animals  of  us  all,    agent  starling  .     who  is  to  say  i   .  .  .   won’t  come  for  you  the  moment  these  glass   walls  come  down ?      ❞     

𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐬 , 𝐲'𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰, 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐞 ?   they can smell your fear.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐲.     memory which juxtaposes , the meticulously crafted imagery of a fractured childhood.      there is daddy behind her , then his shotgun in her hands , the softness of a child's hands , star-shaped , against the dark cold barrel.     her finger against the trigger , her daddy's finger against hers and he says    ❝ clever girl  ❞    when she shots the quail , even when her eyes burn with tears.     this is the reminiscence of the first violence.     vestiges laced and bound and twisting into each other , the circular staircase of memory within memory :     she sees the superposition of bullet wounds , first upon the animal-quail , then on the animal-father.      clarice never went hunting again. 

& 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 , or death , or a man — the word changes but the shape is vaguely the same.      he will find little to smell.     the rare organ of her fear , the body part which would have trembled or shivered had it belonged to someone else , remains indifferent.     clarice starling looks at him in the eye , the oddest shade between darkness which is dark and that which is red.    ❛  who is to say when the glass breaks , doctor ?  ❜

there is a transient feeling at the base of her throat ,   openly hardening , which she refuses to swallow.  ❛ who knows ?  i might be the one they send after you.  ❜

[stahling]

❝  where would you go, if you might escape?  ❞ - Will Graham

⊱ 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 :     clarice starling creates her own haunting daily.     in most stories a woman is her own house ,     & both are haunted.      to wake up every morning touched by the backhand of fear , which then turns into anger , or a  the thing in between them , like a two-headed animal.       she feels both very lonely and very angry at it.     first she tastes the pale , bitter flavor of sarcasm , then she swallows it down.     ❛  where could people like us go ?  i'd keep seeing those girls here or in florida.  ❜

𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐨, 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐞 ? , will graham asked. 

this is the lukewarm color of her hair in the unnatural light of the bathroom ,  the tiles painted red , & the red hurts her eyes , like her eyes red the day before from sleepless nights , & god , she hated the tiles and the red and the bathroom.     she hates her hands so pale , bone-white against the sink , clutching at the cold of it.   this is clarice starling staring at him through the mirror ... her eyes looking for his , his eyes staring back through the glass... clarice gets the metaphor , she just has little patience for it.   she thinks she’s too much of a lutheran to enjoy it.     ❛  but i can do something useful here. i like it better than quietness— i don't know how to do that.  ❜

[stahling]

' a golden cage is still a cage . '

⊱ 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞.    strayed light expanding into the hallway , & from the hallway into the room , white after white , unwilling light , she thinks , that makes everything so artificially clean , minimalistic bright and suffocating , when this is a place for darkness.     white is a thing her insides remember ; the white on white walls of a hospital room , then the white body of her father on white sheets , then death.     this is clarice starling carrying her body like an arrow , even when she feels like an insect called by the small red light of his eyes , the human-colored , human-shaped sillhouete of a man inside a room within a room , looking at her and saying— ❛ 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐚 𝐜𝐚𝐠𝐞. ❜

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 , if there was , she'd have kept it in the dark , lonely cabinet of her heart , where she only looks at it from time to time , to remind her it is there.     but she closes her hand around the idea of a life in which she does not fear him , only feels— this.     whatever this is , whatever layer of redness in a room of whiteness could be , the horrifying , yet straightforward feeling that she likes the stimulus of his rhetoric.      she has stepped into a strange half-world :     still-butchered girl , & yet a woman in endless renewal , who looks at him with unblinking eyes when no other man will , and shrugs with the plainness that comes from honesty alone.       ❛ well, doctor, there’s only need for a cage if there’s something to put inside. ❜