Me_irl

Me @ Theo “I hate gay people so much it’s unreal” Decker:

🌸✨🌸//15022020

examining pippa & her relationship with theo through her end of book letter, part 1: pippa's feelings

disclaimer: do not expect this to be polished it's very stream-of-consciousness and though i did edit it i'm too lazy to go back and format it nicely. i'll try and have part 2 up within the week--this one is more focused on pippa's feelings for theo and part 2 is more about theo's feelings for pippa and how they change throughout the book. if you have any thoughts about this feel free to message me!! i'm always down to talk about tgf

if i ever wrote an essay about pippa’s characterization and her feelings for theo i would have a lot to say about her letter to him at the end of the book. because at first i was like huh??? she loves him??? and i had a few possible rationalizations for this which were: 1. no she doesn’t she just pities him 2. no she doesn’t (she loves me) 3. she does but in a friend way 4. she actually does and i did not like option 4 at all because what??? after all that?? she has to deal with this awkward clumsy obsessive guy who is frankly a terrible black-hole mess of a person for years and she loves him?? why?? after theo spends the whole book telling us she hates him only for him to be wrong at the last minute?? it was unfathomable to me. at first it seemed like the realization of richard’s fantasies of camilla in the secret history—the idealized dream girl actually loves the average guy who’s never done anything to deserve her back!!! it bothered me so much. i mean there were absolutely no signposts! in fact he tells us multiple times that she might even be repulsed by him!! maybe it seems dumb that i didn’t realize until i thought about it but it took me a while to realize that that’s the point!!! the more i thought about it the more i realized that it’s not a dream come true at all, and what it really is changes everything (which is interesting considering the relatively little time the book spends on it but more on that later). first, while pippa is kind of a camilla-like character on the surface (by “on the surface” i mean the way we/theo see her), we’re shown proof that she actually has a life, that she’s a real person—theo just doesn’t see her that way because the lens he views her through is warped by trauma (rather than camilla, who’s portrayed through the male gaze). and that’s why rather than being a ridiculous and unrealistic happy ending or proof that pippa’s character really is as shallow as the knowledge theo has of her, her letter is a callout of both him and the reader. it’s the first real glimpse we have into her true feelings surrounding her trauma and once we have it it seems painfully obvious—she has theo’s exact same trauma; it makes sense that she would have complicated feelings around him too. it must be devastating for her to go back to new york which is already hard for her and see theo and have him practically throwing himself at her at every opportunity and she has to be the responsible one. but theo never even considers that. that’s why her letter is as much his dream come true as it is a reality check—a slap in the face reminding him that he doesn’t really know her, and not even just in terms of recognizing her feelings! after reading the letter, it takes theo a few moments to get what she means about them dragging each other down: “I realized…with considerable astonishment, what she was getting at.” he puts together pieces (which were pretty obvious to me in spite of being told by theo, who doesn’t even notice them) that he’s never recognized as belonging to the same puzzle, even knowing her medical history, the schools she attended, physical signs he passes off as “adorable” quirks. even having her literal exact same trauma! seeing her infrequently doesn’t justify this--this is because of theo’s perpetual inward focus. it does make sense that there are some things he wouldn’t know about her; throughout the book pippa tries to distance herself from theo and keep their relationship purely platonic, because she’s much more rational than him and she deals with her feelings in a different and probably healthier way (but gosh what an good friend! she comes to his engagement party and talks with his weird greasy russian friend and still maintains a friendly relationship with theo despite the obstacles he throws in her path and she never lets on how hard it must be for her. i love pippa). she does her best to move on, something theo just can’t do. but at the same time--her offhand comments & little touches, which theo only takes in in the context of his reactions to them, might mean something

completely different told by a more reliable, less self-centered narrator. so her letter is also another of the many things that show just how unreliable theo is, despite at first seeming flimsy and improbable. theo’s characterization and plot arc necessitates that we can’t know for sure, but it’s clear at least that pippa’s feelings for theo are as complex as his for her--she’s just better at hiding them, and she understands and accepts that because of their nature, she and theo can’t be together.

and i think she’s right--it’s not something irrational holding her back. the impossibility of their relationship is made very clear in the book because of the ways they’re juxtaposed with each other, particularly in terms of how they deal with their trauma. this is an especially pertinent point because it’s at the heart of every interaction they have with each other. the longest conversation they have, and the only really meaningful one mentioned in the book except for “the rich passionate talk” they had during “her visit the previous summer”, is entirely about the explosion and its effects in one area or another. it begins with pippa telling theo about how she can’t watch live music because of it, and ends with theo talking about how he ended up at hobie’s (611-618). and though it’s the thing that unifies them, it’s also the thing that divides them--theo longed to get back to new york when he was in vegas, while pippa can hardly stand to be there. he’s built his After life around the barbours, figures from Before, while pippa has made hers by moving to another continent. and by the end of the book it seems like she had the right of it--traveling around the world, away from home, is the closest theo has gotten to maybe reaching some kind of peace.

who gave oscar wilde permission to write stuff like “death must be so beautiful. to lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. to have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. to forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace. you can help me. you can open for me the portals of death’s house, for love is always with you, and love is stronger than death is” with such ease? to touch my soul so casually? like who gave him all that talent and can i have some

this is probably his wardrobe

Boris: *putting on his gayest shoes* Time to crash Potter’s engagement party!

you usually never remembered your dreams; you had bursts of them each time you moved to a new place, as if your brain is shaken loose.it was your only constant. for you it’s always been about the residue they left behind rather than their contents, a black charcoal color that stained your insides. they were less dreams and more like nightmares, except you never woke up, never got the catharsis of a scream or a sharp inhale. you knew better than to make a noise in the house where your father slept.

you were in vegas when you got your only recurring dream. it was strange not only because you remembered it but because it was hard to classify. it wasn’t a nightmare yet it wasn’t a dream, either; every night you welcomed it as if you didn’t know how it ended. you were always on the surface of sleep, tiptoeing the line between consciousness and deep slumber. it was a room with only your bed and a window. the day was blank, always. not even a cloud in the sky, like you and the room were the only thing that existed. somehow you were empty of all of your unhappiness and felt warm and rested. safe. 

until a violent noise woke you up, coming from the window. your eyes opened in confusion, you rose sleepily and stayed there, staring at your silhouette on the wall across until your thoughts caught up with you and you looked towards the window at the commotion. 

it was a bird. you never knew what type but you knew it was the same one. your bones cracked and adjusted as you moved towards the window to open it,  the latch creaked as you unlocked it and flinch at the noise. the bird sputtered into the room with stuttered movements, its cries soft. you stared at it, transfixed. it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. until you realized it was bleeding. how long had it been banging against the glass? oh god, you realized. you didn’t know. you panicked. your hands shook as you tried to decide what to do. a minute passed, two, until you got the courage to scoop it up in your hands. you were scared to crush it, for your hands had never known softness, had never felt a tenderness like this. the weight of love towards another living thing. but you were always too late; as soon as you finished that thought, its heart came to a steady stop. you held it up to your chest, as if your heart could have passed on just a little bit of its life. but it never revived. and you were left in the room, the only other life you had ever known extinguished. a single tear fell from your cheek. then, you woke up. and it began again. 

the nightmare dream stopped when you got to know the only other neighbor in the sea of identical houses. you didn’t notice, you were so happy and desperate for companionship. completely enraptured in this boy’s orbit. 

he experienced nightmares, like you, except he got the luxury of catharsis. his cry reminded you of another sound, and that’s when you remembered. the bird. instinctively you wrapped your hands around him, holding him. touching him like no one else had ever touched you. with care. you felt his heartbeat quicken against your chest for a second, and then his breathing slowed to the rhythm of sleep once again.

except there was something about his heartbeat, like the fluttering of wings. you fell asleep with a slight smile on your face. because it hadn’t been too late after all. the bird lived! you felt like you had finally given it its salvation, something that you’d never have. i must do everything i can to keep this bird alive, you thought, right before you fell asleep. 

you held his outgrown hair back when he vomited (if you were lucky enough to make it to the toilet). you dragged him off the road when he’d lay in the middle of it, praying for a car to come. but like all of his prayers, it went unanswered. when he’d open his eyes, for a split second they would transform into headlights. and your heart, you swore, stopped in that same second. you held him as he thrashed, in a frenzy to find the adequate punishment for himself. you held him until he stopped, as he realized for the millionth time that there was no punishment that would satisfy him, even death. 

years later, this boy, in his drunken haze, showed you a painting. you blinked, startled. it’s the same one from your dreams. the goldfinch, the boy calls it, with blind admiration, as if he were talking about a god. without thinking you took it from him. like you knew he would leave you. a bird had to fly away sometime, didn’t it? you repeated this to yourself but it brought little comfort. 

it would be the only thing you’d have left of him. you’d spend hours cradling it, the same way you cradled the boy. when he left, you felt like you had failed. you were supposed to keep him safe! who knows where he is! but you never let that train of thought go further than that, you didn’t dare to. it would derail, crash and burn within seconds. you’d keep the painting safe. it was the only thing you could do. 

but you couldn’t do even that in the end. the bird, it felt like the only holy thing in your life. the only thing you’d cherished. it’s the painting, you say to yourself. it’s the painting i’m talking about. you could lie to everyone but yourself. but like anything good in your life, it either left or you found a reason to give it up. good wasn’t a word meant for you. you’d spent your life building your own definition, one better suited for you. and for him, too.  

even though you didn’t dare to think of his name, you felt the smoldering of his anger,  he had probably found the civics book in place of the painting. and this is what kept you from coming back to him. every time your thoughts wandered too close to him, you burned. any longer and you would be engulfed in him. you wouldn’t know where you started and he began. 

so you decided to stay in the periphery of his life, instead. looked up at his bedroom window under the streetlight. sat in the car and stared at the antique shop where he worked, that before he used to talk about it like it was a myth, a fantastical place in a story. you thought it would hurt too much, but you were bursting with relief. knowing he was on the other side was better than thinking about him; in your mind he would always be uncertain. in your mind, he would always take the form of a corpse. but you found comfort in the pulse within the shop. 

you spent hours there, preparing something to say in case he saw you, in case you heard his footsteps, each like a bomb ticking down, coming towards the car. it was the only thing you’d ever rehearsed. 

when he finally saw you, in the bar weeks later, all of those lines you’d rehearsed dissolve on your tongue. suddenly you’re an actor, a puppet. looking at him in the eyes was like staring straight into the spotlight. in that moment you thought only one thing. a name. theo. an inhale after years underwater. and then, he talked; and the heat of the anger you expected is not scorching but warm as a caress. you leaned into it. and that’s when you heard it. the violent fluttering of wings inside his ribcage. desperate to escape and fly into your hands. i took conversational russian in college, he said to you. a confession. because of you. it made me think of you. and it felt so real you could almost see it; his chest opening, blooming like a flower, exuding a beam of light, light identical to the one in your dreams. and the goldfinch coming to rest in your hands. for a second, you’re so mesmerized you forgot that you’d betrayed him. you’d do anything to keep it safely in your hands, to keep it from flying away. and with a jolt you realized; it didn’t want to fly away, and it never would again. 

wilson reacting to things by looking straight into the camera like he’s on the office moments

nothing hurts more than how, in the parking lot, the Forehead Touch™ scene (boris comes into focus with this very sexy face on looking at theo like he’s a whole ass snack which he is! but that’s another story), they bump their foreheads together with such yearn!!!! almost like they’ve waited over a decade to do that 👀, and then they’re leaning against each other for an outrageous amount of time. boris’ face relaxes like Yes, this is It, i’ve missed you so Much!! and you can see theo’s jaw clenching, as if he wants to, but can’t let himself to, and then boris underSTANDS and leans away and THEN YOU CAN HEAR MY HEART SHATTER ON THE PAVEMENT OF THAT GODFORSAKEN PARKING LOT INTO A MILLION PIECES BUT FUCK!!!!! THAT MOMENT MEANS THE FUCKING WORLD TO ME!!!!!!! i just wanted you all to know that.