Donna Tartt Wrote These Gay Guys So Well Because She Did Participatory Field Research Asa Gay Man

Over the Garden Wall 10th Anniversary stop motion short by creator Patrick McHale and Aardman Animations

also a poem from the new, unreleased collection. very possibly my own all-time favourite.

What would it take?

On the day of the shooting, Rebecca had driven up to DC to give an interview for the Post.

Ms. Nelson, your recent march in Charlotte has been criticized by politicians on both sides of the isle; some saying the “defund the police” movement is a brash reaction to singular human errors.

Yes… I’ve seen. Those criticizing it are largely establishment neoliberals, who have a financial interest in upholding the prison industrial complex. I encourage anyone who is concerned about ‘brashness’ to read what our platform really is.

[…]

Your stepbrother––republican senator David Nelson of North Carolina––is among the detractors. I can imagine your family gatherings are tense, if you don’t mind me asking? It’s uncommon for a progressive activist to be of the same ilk as a GOP member. Since our father passed away [the former congressman John Nelson] …we honestly haven’t had reason to see each other. My mom and I were never really part of the club, if you know what I mean. In fact, I haven’t spoken to him since he voted against legalizing gay marriage. For obvious reasons [laughing].

I see [smiling]. How has parenthood been treating you?

…Lizzy and I love our children very much. They’re who I’m fighting for. Having adopted them, I feel an extra responsibility to get it right––I’m not sure if that makes sense. But they’re my two little angels, Liam and Ella; I couldn’t have asked for better kids.

The reporter resumed her questions about police reform for a few minutes, until Rebecca was interrupted by a phone call from Lizzy. She politely excused herself from the table. As she walked towards the window listening to her wife’s voice, the publicity-smile died on her face. Confusion and fear took its place. Hand-over-mouth, she said, “Do they know what school?” The interview was never published.

…

Both dead.

Rebecca had refused to believe it…until she identified the bodies, that is. She doesn’t remember much from those first weeks. Her memory of them is a soup of shock and nausea: Lizzy wailing at Lego blocks, rotting care-packages, crying for so long that breathing became a chore. She couldn’t stop imagining their final moments––the confusion, the running, the fear-freezing…how they wouldn’t have understood what was happening, or why holes had been ripped through their soft little bodies, or why they were draining down into darkness––why she wasn’t there to protect them. Her life felt corrupted at the seams with evil. They didn’t leave the house for two weeks after the funeral. She was locked in a gas chamber of puerile horror; surrounded by unceasing absence. Any child-sized object was enough to poison her for hours with inky grief. They had released a public statement; she knew this would be a story. She hated every message of condolences that she received––each one was more evidence that the event had truly happened; each one pushing her further from the hope that things could go back. Most of all, she hated the letter from her stepbrother. She was blind to his words of sympathy, his “thoughts and prayers.” She obsessed over their past arguments on his policy: fighting gun-control bills on the floor, advocating for the very weapon her children’s shooter used; millions in campaign donations from the NRA. She didn’t invite him to the funeral. He called her on the day, but he couldn’t get a word in––she screamed at him about his liability until he hung up.

It was only after Rebecca had torn herself away from that sticky domestic agony, that she began to appreciate the moral power she now had over him. Endowed with a new purpose in life, she felt obligated to make something good come out of this; to make him pay for his professional sins. Had political leverage ever come in the form of guilt before? Unlikely, she thought, for such a shameless lot.

…

Four weeks passed. She waited outside his DC townhouse, squeezing and relaxing her strong fists. Her heart pounded. Bitter memories crushed in around her, accompanying the oppressive humidity. This city, this house––she knew nothing of them besides illegitimacy and exclusion. She remembered a teenage David referring to her as “daddy’s little bastard girl” at Christmas one year. David got dropped off by a black SUV, grinning at his iPhone as he walked. When he reached her at the door, his face looked agitated, as if at a loiterer; but upon recognizing her it became surprised, then guarded—on the defensive. “You’ve been hard to reach,” she said, pleased to have caught him out. She’d been calling him constantly in the past week, which he had started screening upon realizing that she wasn’t looking to him for comfort. He looked flustered, his mouth opened and closed. “…yes, I’ve been busy…very busy. Rebecca, I wish I could’ve seen you earlier… I’m so sorr––” “I read your letter already. No need to be redundant,” she said. A loaded silence passed, he looked at her blankly. She gestured to his house, “Fancy a drink? Old times sake.” Hesitation, ambivalence—could he really be afraid of her? She was elated to see him conflicted like this; for once she had the upper hand. Composing himself, he smiled. “I’d like that. I’ve missed you, Becky,” reaching out with a comforting touch. She played along, smiling sadly like the doe he saw her as. Hot blood rushed through her neck, she felt dangerous.

Once settled inside, she gestured to his phone and said, “not spoiling any evening plans, am I? I saw Christine is out of town.” His mouth smiled, his eyes didn’t. “…We’re having a rough patch, as you know.” His glare was steady––a warning. “And you? How’s your… y’all holding up?” “Ah, you know,” she shrugged. In reality, the marriage was quickly following their children to the grave. Too much damage had been done. But she wouldn’t dare tell him; for fear of sharing some bastardized solidarity. Icy minutes passed, and she hated him more with each one; he seemed inconvenienced by her presence, looking forward to resuming his unbothered life. She could feel evil radiating from everything––polished leather, antique tables, animal hides. His wealth made her sick, she felt her children’s death in every atom of his home. Her nerves were frayed, her vision was hot and red––she couldn’t wait any longer. He was facing the bar, pouring out a bourbon. “So, wanna talk about how you’re an accomplice to my children’s murder?” He stopped pouring. Her pulse quickened more. Finally, he turned around, and she was taken aback by the menace on his face–– “What did you just say?” “He used an AR-15 David. As I’m sure you know.” He smiled at her, as if he we’re looking at a child or a mental patient. “This is so typical.” She imagined kicking his teeth in. “I invite you into my home? And y––” “Tell me, how much money does the NRA stuff up your ass every year? Enough to blind you from the news? Or do you just enjoy sucking daddy’s dick so much you don’t have time to notice?” He laughs in her face. “The kid would’ve just used a different gun Rebecca! Is that not clear to you?? You really think if I had voted to ban AR-15s he wouldn’t have just got one illegally? Grow up. Don’t come to me playing politics when you’re clearly too emotional to think.” “Fuck you,” she spat. She hated that his condescension could bite her––he had the voice of her father. Childish tears filled her eyes, and she turned away; she couldn’t let him see her cry. She steadied herself against a chair. A few minutes passed. He sipped his bourbon. “Listen, Becky. I’m sorry…I–– I can’t imagine what you’re going through. To lose those kids, just––” “Save it.” Her words were thick with tears. Those kids. She couldn’t help but laugh. He hadn’t bothered to call them by name, just like her dad––again. Too brown, too poor. We’ll humor her little girlfriend, we’ll let her help these poor kids; but we mustn’t be seen with them. it doesn’t serve the party values. Hate pooled in her stomach. She faced him. “Just think for a second. What if it had been Adam and Luke when they were in school? Would you have done something then?” A few moments passed. He scrunched his nose––he seemed to be genuinely contemplating. “Now––I don’t mean to be rude; I hate to say it. These things are tragedies… truly. But they don’t happen in private schools.” She stared at him, shocked. She couldn’t speak…was he serious? She felt crazy. Was that all it took for them to sleep? A degree or two of separation? She almost laughed––the path forward was so simple. It struck her like a shaft of divine light. “Did you know that Liam was shot four times?” she asked him. “He was found crawling towards his sister’s classroom.” The words were corrosive; insane. How could they be true? Nothing was real; the room convulsed in violent anguish. Her life was forfeit long ago. She excused herself to the bathroom. She walked calmly to the hallway closet, where David had once flaunted the self-defense shotgun (locked and loaded!). Funny, she thought––if it wasn’t there for her to use, she would’ve just left.

…

Living out her days on a slab of concrete, Rebecca Nelson felt that she had completed her life’s work. Before she was arrested, she had posted a picture of David’s dead body, with the caption: Dear congress, the killings will continue until you take our guns away. Many would call the bluff, she knew. The media would chew her up and spit her out: a mental case, a far-left anarchist, a villain. But others would see the power in those words, the explosive potential. The fuse was lit, the ice broken. More than anything she had said before, at any rally or interview, that sentence had a real chance of inspiring some change. She could see them now, sitting in dim rooms––between bumps of coke, fingers drumming on mahogany. Hard to believe, man. Unbelievable. You know he went to Harvard with my brother, yeah? Lovely guy. I always knew she was a psycho. Say…you don’t think there will be others, do you?

Nate

I will be honest guys, the Red portrait of king Charles is gorgeous asdfghjkl

it's a bad portrait. Like. Objectively. It does the opposite of what's intended. It looks like the painter is insulting him. If it was in a contemporary gallery with no context you would see it immediately as the ambivalent criticism of Charles's reign, how he fades into the overwhelming red background as a tiny little figure, small and insignificant, insufficient for the clothes he's wearing. It reminds my of Goya's portraits, how they were so 'realistic' that they ended up making these great figures look pathetic to the viewer. So these are our rulers?

the sheer novelty. the surprise and shock, the kinda cunt it's serving for no reason. I. I love it. It's an incredible portrait by Jonathan Yeo. By the sheer fact that Charles, the man, is impossible to portray as greater than man because he's just such a nothingburger of a dude. So a portrait made to make him look huge and interesting made him be swallowed in red brushstrokes. The butterfly, that reminded me immediately of " we will all laugh at guilded butterflies", draws more attention than him. It looks like an omen. It looks like a warning in all this red. Something is not right here.

This is the best royal portrait ever 10/10

Life is difficult, isn’t it, Charlie Brown? Yes, it is. But I’ve developed a new philosophy. I only dread one day at a time.

A Boy Named Charlie Brown (1969) // dir. Bill Melendez

a good dog stays in its place

"Mysterious Skin" Scott Heim // 1X08 Prague // Introduction "The Odyssey" Emily Wilson // S3? lol // Things I Can't Tell My Therapist "Conversations Over Sanguinaccio Dolce" I.B. Vyache // What Can You Do? Ruth Stone // // 4X10 With Open Eyes // Where to begin? Sue Zhao

something from childhood

succession 4x03/cause of death: fox news by tony hoagland