#i will not be a sane person when i see his groovy

[merakiui]

i like to think azul purposely puts himself in terrible situations so that it's an excuse for darling to come to his aid.

he doesn't eat enough so he's on the verge of passing out during a lecture so that you'll take notice of his pale, sickly features and offer to walk him to the infirmary. and he's just so hungry and tired so it's fine if he leans on you for support, wrapping an arm around your waist under the guise of needing your help so he won't flop over.

he falls off his broom in flight class (though he's still relatively close to the ground) so that you'll be the first one to fret over him, asking if he's okay, if he's hurt anywhere, if you should call for coach vargas.

he puts on such a convincing act when he yawns and scrubs the faux exhaustion from his eyes in hopes that you'll tell him to rest (and you always do because you care oh-so-much for your friends and he knows you have a tendency to play caretaker for the ones you care about).

if he's really so far-gone into his obsession, he'll neglect to take his transformation potion so that you're the first one to come barging into mostro lounge to ask if he's okay.

he's even thought about breaking his glasses so that you'll have to be his eyes for the day, dictating what's written on the board for him or even sharing a notebook together. oh, the things he does for the sake of love...

azul calculates these little imperfections and they're only for your sake. if you aren't around, he's completely fine. normal, actually. but if you're within earshot or you happen to be looking his way, suddenly he's sickly, exhausted, gloomy, a clumsy mess. azul hates to look anything less than perfect, but then he also likes to be cared for by you a little too much. he likes to worry you so that you'll always stay by his side, so that you'll continue to check in, so that he can take more and more of your kindness and goodwill until there's no more left for you to dish out to anyone else. and he's making progress, too! you offered to keep him company when he insisted on staying late at the lounge to finish paperwork. there are indeed rewards to these risks. it just takes time. fortunately, he can exercise patience.

azul is by no means weak. he knows what image he's cultivating for you. he knows exactly what he's doing when he tells you he'll be indisposed for a few days because of mer biology (and he phrases it in a way where you just have to know more because he refuses to tell you enough information), and if you're truly curious you're more than welcome to visit while he's indisposed. :)

he knows how to cast his lines, wait for a bite, and then reel in. he knows what he's doing when he puts himself in vulnerable, often flustering situations just so he can keep your eyes fixated on him at all times. and unfortunately you don't know octo-mers mate for life. azul conveniently left that little detail out when you agreed to help him when biological imperative (and a particularly potent aphrodisiac) comes calling. he'll affix himself to you like the worst parasite, and if you spend enough time with him you might just find yourself reflecting the same maddening codependency he has for you.

oh, the things he does for love. you're lucky he loves you so much, otherwise he'd never forgive you for the effect you have on him. but if putting himself down—if orchestrating manufactured vulnerability—is what it takes to have you all to himself he'll gladly play the part of the clumsy octopus.

#meraki mumbles #yandere twst #i am back on my azul agenda again orz #i wanted to write oviposition thoughts for azuzu but somehow i strayed from the concept ^^;;;; #this is what no tsum azul groovy does to you T_T i am filling the void with azul brain rot #AAAAAA I NEED TO SEE HIM WHERE IS HE?!??!?! OTL I JUST KNOW HIS GROOVY WILL INVOLVE THE LEECH TWINS TOO AAAAAAAA #i will not be a sane person when i see his groovy #in fact i will be insane :D #(i wonder if tsum octavinelle have mer forms hehe <3)

[blacklodgemusictx]

A Nuclear Approach Pt 2: The Album

by Liz Berry

“Words are all used up, they are hard to say, they have all been wasted…

… on the shampoo commercials and the ads and the flavorings.

Hollow, beautiful words.

How can you love a floor wax?

How can you love a diaper?

How can I use the same word about you that is used about a stuffing?”

That quote is from the Steve Martin movie, “Roxanne.”  The supreme irony is Roxanne itself is a retelling of Cyrano De Bergerac.  Nothing new under the sun.

I think of this quote when I think about critiquing things.  I’ve done movie reviews before, but only when I truly feel the call to sway.  When it comes to music, the only way I can think if it is: it’s not my place.  People already get paid to tell other people what to think about music: that it’s great, groovy, it’s got a good beat, it’s easy to dance to.  Why in the world would my opinion matter?

Because it’s art.  And art needs to be experienced.  Without the lens through which an audience views art, songs are closed-room therapy, diary entries only the writer will read.

A Nuclear… approach.

Step one: wear head phones.  This album is mixed a certain way and if you listen to it without headphones, you lose out on some of what the listening experience was meant to entail.  Just a friendly suggestion. 

Track One:  Hazy Morning Glow

This song is already a memory in my head.

I try to document what I can when in Salim's vicinity. He doesn't do song intros so much as tell stories or drop clues. If I put my camera down between songs, I try to grab the clues as they go by.

If it's a song like the ubiquitous "1978," for example, I know that the world won't suffer if there's one more copy missing in the digital world.

It was the last show on the February 2020 tour - 02/09/20 at the Black Cat in Washington, DC.

I was already in a low mood knowing our adventure was coming to an end. It was a delight when Salim threw out some Marty Willson-Piper clues and we were treated to this gem.

Track Two: Loved by You

(digital art by me)

Look for: the clean, almost Joshua-tree era, ringing notes of the guitar and the lyric that gave rise to the title of Salim's 2018 album, Somewhere South of Sane.

This song is earnest.  A plea.  I want to be loved by you.  I need something and maybe you don’t notice.  Maybe it feels like you don’t care even if you care a lot.  Even if the daily grind is only a grind because you are trying to prove how much you care.  But words are words and actions are actions.  YOU is the emphasis.  Not the collective “you,” not “I want to be loved by you… mysterious person I haven’t met yet.”  It’s the pick me, choose me, love me scene from Grey’s Anatomy.  In my head, I see someone lost behind a newspaper and the other person has to rip it away – I’ve been here the whole time.  It doesn’t matter if it ends badly.  Love me and – no matter what – we get to be glad it happened.  No wondering “what if.”

Track Three: Under Attack

(Procreate art by me)

Look for:  the syncopated nature of the chorus – “Ticker tape of useless thoughts…”  

I have written before about the “emergency – break glass” nature of songs in my life – and as I have strung these Salim Nourallah-inspired narratives together over the course of several years, I am left wondering if I’m accidentally putting together his biography or my own—this song fits in to that category.

Keep this song to fight off the negative inner monologue that most of use deal with on a daily basis:

If the average human can manage 60,000 thoughts a day and 80% are negative, we can use all the help we can get.

There has to be a moment in the writing of certain songs where the writer pushes back from his physical and/or emotional “desk” with a satisfied grin and says, “damn, I’m good.”  This song contains one of those moment: Misery keeps you company/always feeds you loving lies …

Absolute perfection.

Negative self-talk may be lies, but at the end of the day, we are the only ones inhabiting the space between our ears.  It’s hard not to listen.

Track Four: I Don’t Know

This is another up-beat number with weighty content.

The optimism possibly of youth/newness… then confusion.  Things are a certain way… and then they aren’t.  I am here.  I am with you.  I am doing this thing or that.  Remove one piece and the rest start to wobble, topple, fall.

It’s easy to pack the days of your life with so much activity, you can’t or won’t question if you are where (or with whom) you are supposed to be.  Work all day, come home, eat dinner, play with the kids, walk the dog, fall in to bed so exhausted, you don’t have the time or inclination to question if you are where you are supposed to be.  I’m content… but am I happy? 

I don’t know if the future holds is what I want/And that can be a pretty scary thought

Love… and fear.  Could there be anything more native to the human condition?

Track Five: You are Beautiful

This is another song to keep in your emergency kit.

Unlike Under Attack, this song is slower and more wistful but the same themes of negative thoughts and beliefs are woven throughout.  Again – we are the only one truly inhabiting ourselves and therefore we are our greatest barrier to just seeing ourselves and where we are; sometimes the greatest liar is our own nature. 

We make what we visualize/come to be, come to life

Suicide took a dear friend of mine this year.  I can’t help, but think of him when I hear this song.

Sometimes the lens we gaze through is permanently darkened and the light never comes. 

And we stay lost. 

Still, the message I take away from this song is hope.  “You are beautiful… and perfect in every way.”

Track Six: The Sound of Suffering

Pair with Let’s Be Miserable Together (from Salim’s 2020 EP of the same name), sometimes it’s more fun to hang out on your cross than to climb down and live life; to take advantages of good things that might come your way… if you weren’t busy with fingers plugged firmly in ears going “lalala.” 

Through the sound of your suffering/Can you hear anything else?

Track Seven: I Can’t Take Another Heartbreak

(video by me from 10/19/19 Sons of Herman Hall gig)

Another deeply catchy tune that yanks the rug out from under you. 

I actually guessed this would be a single (Salim assures me only two of the tracks on the album have that distinction and this was not one of them – color me surprised.)

We all deal with daily heartbreak.  To be alive in the 21st century is to be slowly and methodically crushed mentally, physically, emotionally.   Daily life and all it contains will break your heart.  I’m dealing with everything I can right now and you want to throw happiness in to the mix? There’s no time for that, I’m going to be late for work.

Your partner stands at the home threshold watching you run off.  Their heart in a brown paper bag, held out like a sack lunch you forget, “Come back…?”

I can’t right now.  No time.

Gut punch line of this track: I love you/You love me/So how come neither one of us is happy?

Track Eight: Avalanche

(Procreate art by myself)

Listen for: the visceral, unsettling Twin Peaks-style bassline.

This song hurts.  The pain will be different to each listener because, again, we are viewing Salim’s art through the lens of our own experience, but this song is easily the rawest track on the album.  And unlike the other tracks, with pain as an undercurrent to a snappy beat, there is nothing here to protect us.  The doubt, the fear, the what ifs in the other songs all culminate in this deadly lyric:  our love don’t stand a chance.

I think a lot of you will understand when I describe this song in terms of cold:  how you can occupy space with someone and feel the ice coming off of them in waves.  You have to move out of the way, change rooms, go somewhere else or your fingers and toes might start to blacken.  A regard you used to be able to bask in; turn your face up to and drink in like flower drinking in the rays of the sun, turns deadly and soon there will be nothing left.  No safe place to go.

I read the beginnings of a book or an article or something a long time ago (probably recommended by any of a number of therapists I’ve had), equating relationships to a series of choices to either turn toward or turn away from your person even if the turning toward is to just mention something mundane, “Hey, did you see that thing I saw?” “Huh. Yea, weird.”

The turning away in this song is complete.  Lovers are now enemies.  Ears are deaf.  All the chances used up.  Salim’s whispery delivery evokes fear of final collapse and consumption.  If I say this any louder, if I ask you to see me one last time, the snow and debris will come rumbling down…

Too late.

Track Nine: Invisible Man

(pictured lifted from Salim's Facebook and reimagined by myself using Procreate)

I'm an invisible man/You don't notice me/I'm like a potted plant...Losing self-respect just as fast as I can

Familiarity breeds contempt. Unlimited access will get you taken for granted so fast your green, leafy head will spin.

A week ago... a month ago... a year ago - name your time frame, the inevitable progression of a relationship will go from the happy, drunk-dazed, rapid heartbeat flush of infatuation (aka The Fun Part) to conquest won. Come here, do this, watch this show I know you hate, do this thing I know you hate, hold my purse, stand there. Wait for me to come back.

The trying stops. The danger begins.

Track Ten: Let Go

This song was familiar to me and -upon the first few listenings I couldn't place why as some of the lyrics are edited from their original form. Finally, it was pinpointed - a version has been up on Salim's YouTube channel for years now and in the past, I've put his channel up and let it play just to keep me company while I did other things.

(This is a political cartoon from the Houston Chronicle that I altered for my own purposes)

This song puts me in mind of the quote about monkeys in rooms writing Shakespeare. I wonder how much of the human experience is practically identical and yet we all suffer shoulder-to-shoulder in silence.

Let go/You've gotta let go/Surrender to the things you can't control

I've had a similar idea in mind evolved from years in therapy: control what is in your power to control.

For better or worse, the musical journey is over.

Make whatever sense of it you wish, the material presented here is from a time past in the writer's life. Decisions were already made, hurts felt, love lost and found and lost again in whatever order makes sense to you as the listener. Like a Little Lending Library or one of those penny dishes at the gas station: take what you need from this song/album/life and move on.

Let go.

***

Look for this album: May 2023.

Salim's Bandcamp

Part One of this article

#salimnourallah #anuclearwinter #dallas #tx #indie music #producer #happiness #surrender #letgo #Youtube #avalanche #singer #songwriter #loved by you #hazy morning glow #under attack #i don't know #you are beautiful #the sound of suffering #i can't take another heartbreak #artist #art #artwork #procreate #digital art #concert #live music #photography #invisible man #review

[readingat3amisnormal]

The heat was stifling, rough sand streaking across the dunes. Whirlwinds whorled in the distance, roving across the alien landscape. Against the mayhem of the pre-dawn desert, a man stood still and silent.

His hair, shaggy and unkempt from the long trek, billowed in the dry desert wind, as did his bell-bottom trousers and chic white jacket. Absently, his fingers began snapping. He whispered subconsciously, “a-dooba-doobie…”

As the sun finally broke the horizon, Elvis Presley was cowed into silence.

He stood at the peak of a sand dune, staring out at the gaping maw of the Sahara. Endless dunes, stretching as far as the eyes could see. This was it- the real deal.

The edge of his mouth curled into his characteristic smirk.

“Come now, Nenet!” he called gleefully. “We’re almost there!”

Nenet, a sprightly, athletic young woman who did not currently look it, crested the dune and collapsed onto the sand. She’d been guiding tourists across the Sahara for the better part of five years, and none had been quite as… ambitious as this strange, strange man.

Rather than go to any of the usual tourist destinations, he was insistent on travelling off the beaten path- and dragging her with him. She made sure that they were never more than half a day’s walk away from civilization at any time, though that was becoming increasingly difficult as they progressed further into the desert.

“What’s the plan for today?” she panted, placing her hands on her knees under the weight of their luggage.

“Well, sweetheart, we’re almost at where I wanna be!” he glanced down at the compass clutched in his hand. “That-a-ways!”

His white cowbody boots jived along the sand, a fine sheen of sweat clinging to him like so many overenthusiastic fans. The dust had been quite annoying the first couple of days, but he was used to it by now.

And hey, it was better than what he’d left behind.

He’d loved it once- the fame, the fortune, the drama. But lately… the magic had faded. He’d lost his drive.

Until one fateful day…

He strummed lazily on his guitar, staring off into the distance. His thumb caught on the D string with a painful twang that echoed all around the bustling city square. It was out of tune, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

So many people, going about their day. Some of them looked up at him, most didn’t. They’d grown used to him by now. He disliked it.

“Mr Presley, act your age and get down from there!”

He glanced down at the balding city official that was calling to him, and in a moment of fear touched the top of his head.

“Oh thank goodness…” he removed his fingers from his luscious curls, then went back to strumming. “You ain’t nuthin’ but a…”

“Mr Presley, you will get down from that lion this instant!” the official stamped his foot to punctuate his point.

Elvis groaned miserably. “Awwww…”

As the official tapped his foot against the ground, Elvis dropped down from the lion. The guitar was rudely snatched away, and he was instructed to go wait in the library until his lawyers arrived.

Ah, shoot.

He grooved miserably through the gilded doors and into the lobby, sincerely disappointed that this so-called ‘grand institution’ couldn’t even afford a concierge.

“Stupid government workers…” he muttered under his breath. Like clockwork, a receptionist raised a finger to their lips.

He growled in frustration and stomped over to one of the desks. Books of various shapes, sizes and colours were strewn across it, but one drew his eye- a gilded tome, with a strange cat-person doing a pose on the front.

He reached for it before he caught himself- he wasn’t some nerd! He was a rock ‘n roll cool kid! The only reason he was even in the library was to wait until the city official left the lion statue unsupervised.

Resolute, he turned his nose up and looked away.

Although…

With trepidation, as though he were defusing a bomb, he flipped the book open with one finger. It opened to a page with intricate illustrations and an unfairly fascinating title- The Search for Tutankhamun’s Tomb.

Well, one book couldn’t hurt. He reasoned.

Four hours later, with the sun going down and his next show in fifteen minutes, he stood before one of the receptionists with the book in hand.

“Now I ain’t got no bread on me right this second, miss.” He shuffled nervously. “Spent it all on some candy from this store a couple blocks down…”

“That’s alright, dearie!” She croaked, hand trembling as she accepted the book. “Why, you don’t need to pay for books at the library! You just need a library card, and I can get that for you just now! What’d you say your name was, young man?”

He jumped through all the hoops gracefully, accepted the card, the book, and a little golden star he’d gotten for being a good boy, and headed off with a smile on his face and nary a care in the world.

From there, it had been a simple matter of devouring every book on Egypt and Egyptology he could get his hands on. He’d gotten a new personal idol- Gertrude Bell- a new purpose- find Tutankhamun’s Tomb (or any tomb, for that matter)- and a new drive. He’d kept the white coat and bell-bottomed trousers, although he’d swapped out the guitar for a khaki hat.

Nothing would stop him now. Not even his dwindling finances, though the riches he would definitely find would help him along.

His experience in the field had been entirely academic until he’d bit the bullet, travelled out to Cairo, and hired Nenet to act as his guide and translator. She’d kept him sane when hunch after hunch had proven to be incorrect and had gotten them out of some sticky situations.

Now, three weeks into what was shaping up to be the greatest adventure of his lifetime, they were so close he could taste it.

“Mr. Elvis,” Nenet said, straining under the weight of their pack. “It is of course unwise to lick the walls of an ancient ruin.”

Elvis pulled away from the wall, smacking his lips. “Well, it isn’t bone, that’s for sure.”

“It’s sandstone, Mr. Elvis. I could’ve told you that.”

“Ah, but I’ve now learned it, Nenet! Groovy!”

Despite the weight on her shoulders, Nenet shrugged. “Whatever.”

After a couple more taste tests they ended up in a cul-de-sac of sorts. Walls rose around them, and stairs led down to an intimidating looking door.

With some trepidation, Nenet followed Elvis down the stairs. He stared at the door for a good half-minute, then snapped his fingers.

“I will have no locked cupboards in my life!” he proclaimed. “Gertrude Bell, unsourced.”

Nenet leaned against the wall to take some of the weight off her back. Unbeknownst to her, the pressure of her shoulder against one of the tiles caused a centuries-old mechanism to spring into action. Gears grinded, pulleys pulled, and the end result of this mechanical medley was that the door opened just as Elvis touched the tip of his tongue to it.

He paused, staring into the darkness. The air was cool but dusty, and smelled vaguely of death.

He turned back to Nenet with a smug smile on his face. “C’mon, snake, let’s rattle!”

And with that, he pranced joyfully into the underworld.

~

Nifty…

Elvis tapped a specialised tool against the hieroglyphics on the wall. They were mostly your standard fare- “death awaits those cretins who enter”, “do not desecrate this hallowed ground, wretched mortal”, “remember to feed the cats, honey, I know you always forget XO”- but this one was different.

“Don’t… dead… open… inside.” He read off. “Hmmm…”

He considered it, ignoring Nenet’s grunts as she tried to pull their bags through a narrow doorway.

“So,” he reasoned, “don’t die, and open whatever’s inside this door? Perfect!”

He pushed the door open and ran through, close to giggling with delight. Oh, this was so much fun! He really was an explorer!

“It's so nice to be a spoke in the wheel, one that helps to turn, not one that hinders!” he called out to Nenet. “Gertrude Bell, From the Mountains to the Sea!”

As his voice faded into the distance, Nenet finished pulling their bags through. If only the oaf hadn’t insisted on bringing a to-scale sundial!

With a frustrated groan, she turned to the doors, which were slowly swinging closed behind Elvis.

“Don’t open, dead inside.” She read.

She blinked.

“Hal-kuh. Mr. Elvis! Mr. Elvis, it’s dangerous!”

Damnit, the oaf was annoying but she couldn’t leave him to die! With a deep breath, she steeled herself, grabbed something from his pack, and ran after him.

~

The thing to realise about Elvis Presley’s Egyptology phase is that it was entirely inevitable. A life of screaming fans is really, really not all it’s hyped up to be.

When he’d started out performing, he could hardly bear it. Over the years, it had taken a toll- created a… sort of psychological switch in his head. 

So how would he react if, as he walked down a dusty passageway in the hopes of finding something exciting at the end, he heard Nenet screaming from behind him?

To put it simply, Elvis had a Pavlovian reaction.

To put it simpler, he was back in showman mode.

“Ooooh, sounds like somebody’s excited!” he boogied, sashaying his hips as he made his way towards the sound.

Nenet screamed again, louder this time.

“Somebody’s real excited, hoo boy! Hot diggity-dog, I can’t wait to see what’s causin’ this!”

Elvis swaggered around the corner, ready to put on a show for his fans, and happened upon a small nook with a sarcophagus propped up against the wall. It was shaking about, reminiscent of a fan that couldn’t keep still from excitement.

“Well, what do we have here!” he called out enthusiastically, unlatching the door of the sarcophagus and coming face to face with a mummy.

He really wasn’t equipped to deal with this sort of thing. Neither was the mummy, come to think of it. Point is- when faced with these extenuating circumstances, Elvis did the only thing he could think to do.

“Are ya a fan?” he asked.

The mummy screamed the scream of a thousand crows.

Elvis screamed with it.

Behind him, Nenet screamed once more. This time, Elvis recognised it for what it was- a battle cry- and moved out of the way.

She brought an ElvisTM Baseball Bat down upon the mummy’s head with so much force that it disintegrated into kindling. “Ah, shitty American products!”

Nenet dumped what was left of the bat onto the mummy, slammed the sarcophagus lid shut, grabbed Elvis by the wrist, and pulled him down the hallway.

“Hey!” he protested. “I brought that bat along for emotional support!”

“Doesn’t matter now, does it?” she responded, pausing at an intersection before pulling him roughly to the left. “We need to get out of here now- that thing won’t stop until it’s killed us both. I got the drop on it once- I doubt I’ll be that lucky again.”

“But-” before he could argue further, the screeching started again. The hallway felt like it stretched forever, and Elvis’ pulse quickened.

Nenet cast a panicked glance behind her. “It’s not slowing down. We’ll need to hold it off. When I get us back to our pack, take out that big sundial and throw it in its path, yes?”

Elvis, already out of breath, blinked.

“Now!” she flung him around a corner, and he found himself back in front of the door with the strange hieroglyphics.

After a second’s hesitation (and another scream from the mummy), his brain kicked in.

He scrambled to the pack, pulled the sundial out, and dragged it into the corridor. The mummy was about halfway down, running towards them at an alarming speed. Before it could scream, Elvis tossed the sundial like an Olympic Disk thrower.

It took both the mummy’s legs out, then shattered against the floor. Elvis winced- it had been pretty expensive. But then again, at least it had saved their lives.

The mummy got to its knees, screamed, and began crawling forwards.

“Ah.” Nenet’s face was unnaturally pale. “We’ll have to run again, Mr Elvis.”

Without waiting for confirmation, she turned. “And leave your pack behind!”

The mummy, moving considerably slower now, screamed once more. Elvis’ instincts kicked in again, but for once in his life he caught himself. He was an Egyptologist, for goodness sake! He needed to act like it!

He thought back to all the books on Egyptian explorers he’d read. All the mummies he’d seen in those new-fangled Universal Pictures. He recognised the scream, recognised the pain.

What would Gertrude Bell do? He wondered.

There is nothing more difficult to measure than the value of visible emotion, she’d say to him- as she had on page 42 of From the Mountains to the Sea.

As Nenet poked her head out from the doorway with the intention of demanding he hurry up, he moved towards the mummy.

“MR ELVIS- actually you know what, I tried.” Nenet shrugged, and made to leave.

“All these years…” Elvis realised, dropping to his knees and beckoning the mummy closer. “Trapped down here, all alone.”

The mummy hissed, holding its desiccated hands up to its eyes.

Nenet, who was ready to make a break for it any second now, watched in horror as her client ran a finger tenderly along the mummy’s jaw. “It’s alright.” he soothed.

With an awful, keening screech, the mummy threw itself into Elvis’ arms and did a decent approximation of a sob.

“There, there.” Elvis stroked the mummy’s head, rocking it back and forth. “We’re here for you now, aren’t we, Nenet?”

Nenet’s eyes widened as she realised what Elvis wanted her to do. “W-with all due respect, sir-”

“Group hug!” he growled merrily, reaching into the doorway and pulling her into an embrace alongside the mummy. After a moment’s hesitation, she patted the ancient creature on its head. “It’s… alright?” she asked.

It latched an arm around her and wept loudly.

~

They emerged from the tomb a trio- Nenet, carrying some assorted riches and other sundry, Elvis, and the mummy, being carried bridal style by the intrepid Egyptologist.

“I’m gonna take you back to the US of A!” Elvis promised the mummy. “And I’ll take ya to a baseball game and show ya that baseball bats ain’t all that bad! And you can tell me more about your culture and all! Don’t that sound fun?”

The mummy purred in approval. Nenet, who still hadn’t gotten over her client bonding with an eldritch horror from an ancient tomb, shaded her eyes against the setting sun. She had to admit, the ruby-encrusted bracelets really complemented her complexion.

“We will have to make camp tonight,” she said, “and by tomorrow I will get us to the nearest town. From there you can rent a jeep to get back to Cairo, Mr. Elvis. And company.”

Elvis nodded. “Miss Nenet, it’s been a pleasure working with ya so far. What’d ya say I take you on in a more… official capacity?”

Nenet wrinkled her nose. “Are you planning on adopting me?”

“Nah, I meant hire you as my guide for all future archaeological expeditions and the like!”

“Hmmm…” she considered it. “What’s your offer?”

He listed off a number. It had lots of zeroes.

“Done.”

The mummy stared out at the sunset… the first sunset it had seen in centuries. And for the first time in centuries… it felt at peace.

“To wake in that desert dawn was like waking in the heart of an opal. ... See the desert on a fine morning and die - if you can.” Elvis whispered reverentially, following the mummy’s gaze. “Gertrude Bell, The Desert and the Snow.”

Both Nenet and the mummy nodded. They stood there awhile, watching the sun dip below the horizon and inky shadows spread like water.

“Ya know…” Elvis mentioned. “I feel a song coming on.”

“Mr. Elvis, no.” Nenet deadpanned.

“Mr. Elvis, yes! Wiiiiise, meeeen, saaaaaaaaaaay… only fooooools…”

#elvis presley #elvis #Elvis Presley In: The Search for Tutankhamun’s Tomb #egyptology #writing #i was at most three seconds away from bursting into laughter the entire time i was reading this aloud #egypt #mummy

[amourphousblob]

my faves - January 2019

everyone but you - the young veins

they just re-released take a vacation, and as someone who really loves the young veins that makes me VERY EXCITED because they haven’t put out much in recent years and it'll be interesting to see if they have a comeback. as for this song, it was always a standout on the album for me. I don’t know what about it but oh my it made me emotional. it was so simple and something about the lyrics felt so dreamy and hopeless at the same time, like clinging onto the last bit of dreaminess to keep you sane because you miss someone so much.

she - dodie

unrequited lesbian crush ANTHEM, we stan dodie. this song has such a sweet, pure, and innocent tone that I think is so nice and fits so well with the subject matter. as a person who likes girls and used to identify as one this song is very near and dear to me, it really hits home.

Nancy drew - sløtface

I went through a major rock/punk phase a few years back, but I actually only recently found out about sløtface. they sound like if Paramore hadn't gone pop mixed with some of pierce the veil’s more melodic tracks and oh my goody goody goodness I'm obsessed. with this song in particular, its fairly chill for a pop punk until they hit that chorus, and the first time I heard this hook I  automatically was hit by a mixture of “ HELL FUCKIN YEAH “ and hardcore nostalgia and this is just such  a good song

góda tungl ( good moon ) - samaris

so this one is a bit of a change from the others. it’s Icelandic, and what I find really interesting about it is that it’s traditional Icelandic poetry from many years ago, just sung with a very minimalistic drone-ish beat ( kinda like eluvium or startle the heavens just faster and with words ??? ). it’s so unique and I just love it so much. just ,,,, go listen to all of the samaris self titled album its so worth 40 minutes of your time.

belly of the beat - grimes

I wasn’t 100% sold on this song at first but it’s quickly become one of my favorites. I love how weirdly dark it gets at “ every body dies we cut out their eyes and dace like angels do “ and how soulful she sounds at “ in the belly of the beat “ and it just overall has this amazing dreamy quality that puts me in a trance the whole time im listening

a pearl - Mitski

at the beginning of the song everything is so stripped and then she hits “ I fell in love with a WARRRR” and everything grows so much and turns into this big semi jazzy semi rock Mitski fiasco and honestly im living for it

sincerity is scary - the 1975

when this album first came out I died inside and it was all I listened to for a solid 2 weeks. this song is just ,,,, so rich and well done and the GODDAMN HIHATS I doubt many non music geek people would notice this but the hi-hats are flipping between two patterns and its damn near impossible to count. every time I hear the song im automatically sucked in the the 1975′s weird mix of pop, gospel, and Matty Healy’s weirdness

Work Song - Hozier

this song sounds so meaningful and rich, and as someone who lives in a constant state of existential crisis the fact it’s about dying in peace really strikes a chord. the video for this song is so beautiful and fits so well. this song really isnt high energy and there’s very little buildup to the chorus, but even so everything that is there feels so purposeful that it becomes even more powerful.

woman - Harry styles

this song was my favorite song ( until it was dethroned by my queen Maggie rogers ) and honestly I just love it so much. the opening piano gliss travels from one ear to another and then everything comes crashing down and then on top of that harry is just singin and having a grand ol time and then we get to the first verse and everything strips down and then the BASSLINE comes in and I die inside because I love it so much.

the knife - Maggie rogers

oh my god where do I start. the BASSLINE in the begging, Maggie really out here doing THAT. it so groovy and if you don’t at least bob your head when you hear that you’re a fucking robot and I dont trust you. whenever I hear this chorus its impossible for me to stand still, like its physically painful. it builds with the distorted voice bit and then the bass drops out for most of it and tis just Maggie with these incredibly intricate inner voices that manage to carry it and keep it full without a real bass and OH MY GOSH I just love this song so much.

#mitski #hozier #dodie #the young veins #slotface #the 1975 #grimes #smaris #harry styles #Maggie rogers #Zoe.txt

[tudorscharlot]

Suspiria (Luca Guadagnino, 2018)

SPOILER ALERT: THIS TEXT IS COMPLETELY FULL OF SPOILERS I saw Suspiria in the theater for the third time yesterday and I have so many thoughts about this fascinating, layered, amazing masterpiece of a film. I woke up wordy today, so I'm just gonna write about Suspiria until I drop!

By emphasizing so strongly the larger-world contexts of Germany during World War II and the present-day political unrest of 1977 in his Suspiria, Luca Guadagnino effectively morally neutralizes the concept of witches. While in Argento's Suspiria the witches are presented as primarily evil or at least very dark and sinister and without context in their motives, the witches in Guadagnino's Suspiria are far more nuanced and have been placed into the real world. Witches in this Suspiria are not inherently good or bad. They are just individual people who each have their own motives and their own relationship with power within the frame of their group.

That the Markos Dance company was a bastion for women against the evils and indignities of the Third Reich during WWII and that its matrons remain keenly aware of the importance of women having financial independence in the present day is an effective way of showing that these women and their organization are at a basic, fundamental level fully on the side of women in the face of societal oppression. And not just in spirit or theory, but in very pragmatic, concrete terms.

The idea of a witch is super-pragmatic. What is a witch? A witch is a woman who's been pushed to the margins by a patriarchal society and is forced to find her own way to stay alive, safe, and thriving. She must be pragmatic, because she's got no mainstream/institutional support and in fact is often operating in direct opposition to social norms. There's no room for idealism in such a situation. It's clear that the function and spirit of the dance academy is to empower and protect its women in the face of serious danger and in the most immediate, efficient way. The conflict that has arisen at the time of this film is in regards to just how they should act in order to preserve their organization and maintain their purpose moving forward.

So why are Markos and her followers willing to torture and sacrifice the girls that they are supposed to be protecting?

One of my favorite things that Bob Dylan ever said is "To live outside the law, you must be honest". And I think that basically a good witch is a woman living outside the law honestly. Helena Marko has been corrupted by power and greed and she is not honest. She and her followers have lost sight of their higher purpose and values and have become willing to sacrifice the girls in order to prolong her life and her power. It's heartbreaking that Patricia, Olga, and Sara all suffer and choose to die. And it's because of the kind of pragmatism that corrupt power uses to justify inhumanity. It is a cost that those in power are willing to have others pay in order to remain in power. It's vanity!

I think it's very groovy that the Markos Dance Company - which is using questionable means with questionable motives to achieve idealized goals - is set in parallel to the Baader-Meinhof Gang - which is also using questionable means with questionable motives to achieve an idealized goal. The Baader-Meinhof Gang are considered a left-wing terrorist group. I say FUCK THAT! It doesn't matter which "wing" you're on in theory - if you are using terrorist, totalitarian, authoritarian, or otherwise murderous-asshole means to achieve your political goals, you can no longer claim to be progressive or anywhere near the liberal end of the spectrum. Terrorism is right-wing action, period. Similarly, if you're murdering some of the girls you're dedicated to protecting in order to keep being able to protect them, you're no longer in the business of protecting girls. Your purpose has become a fiction. Helena Markos is an incredible, grotesque manifestation of greed.

Susie Bannion, on the other wing, is honest and good. Throughout her life and the film, she follows her instincts and goes where she feels she belongs. She is open, unafraid, and not driven by ego or a desire for control. And in the end, she becomes a conduit for justice and mercy. 

Madame Blanc is honest and, like Susie, willing to accept that there are things happening that are larger than her personal desires or will. She just wants things to be right and pure. It is troubling to me that she goes along with the cruel treatment of the girls that were being groomed before Susie arrived. But it is consistent with her recognition that the will of the collective (the will of the people) is greater than that of one individual. It's a democratic notion (which is idealistic and not pragmatic) that a democracy must be maintained even when it goes in a bad direction if there is hope that it can be steered back in a good direction. It's why you let Donald Trump be president instead of locking him in a hole somewhere and keeping Barack Obama in the White House until you figure out a sane way to move forward. 

So that's a bunch of political stuff about Suspiria. But what about the heart of the film?

The chemistry between Blanc and Susie gives me goosebumps. I don't know if it is me projecting my own worldview on the film, but I believe there is romantic love between them. Maybe there isn't. Their love might be that which is between powerful friends or people who are essential parts of something bigger than themselves. It might be the undifferentiated rush of emotion that happens when you meet someone you really connect with and haven't figured out what exactly the nature of the connection is. But that spark feels too hot to be something other than romantic love. The way they look at each other, the way they talk to each other, it's serious shit. Susie disarms Blanc on multiple occasions, and Blanc is clearly a woman who isn't ever disarmed. I am transported by the look on her face when she comes into the mirror room and sees Susie dancing the first time, when she says "it's difficult not to be curious about you," when she's about to caress the back of Susie's head and catches herself and makes the motion without actually touching her. These are some of the most romantic scenes I've ever seen in any movie. When Blanc comes into Susie's room after the Volk performance, the way they talk to each other, and when Susie says "because you love me," just...holy shit. And when they are staring at each other from opposite ends of the table in the restaurant while everyone else is talking and singing...swoon. That scene, to me, is the climactic moment of the film.

I don't think this IS a love story anymore than I think it IS a horror film, but the beautifully non-verbal portrayal here of two people who feel an all-consuming attraction to one another is the stuff of the absolute greatest human art. 

And my gosh is this a non-verbal film! There is an incredible amounts of information and emotion conveyed so deeply by the eyes and faces of its entirely brilliant cast. I know it is a hallmark of horror/supernatural films to have characters who communicate telepathically and who are able to perceive things happening elsewhere or in the future. But this is something else entirely. Every time two of these women are looking at each other and not saying anything, every time someone's mind is clearly perceiving something somewhere else, it's just exquisite and electrifying.

Susie says she wants to be the hands of the dance company. What are the hands? Hands are what the heart and mind use to touch and move things in the world. Hands are laid on people to heal them. Hands make tools and cast spells and make real that which the mind conceives. They are a bridge between the spirit world and the physical world. It is good to be good with your hands.

After three viewings, I still don't know why the scene in the ritual room after Death arrives is filmed in that jumpy, fuzzy way. I didn't like it the first time I saw it, but it doesn't bother me anymore. And whatever is happening and whyever it's happening, I love that this movie becomes deep red here for a few minutes. Like Susie says, it's beautiful.

I also still don't know why the last thing we see before the credits roll is a zoom (so much like the last zoom in The Shining) up to Anke and Josef's initials carved into the wall. Even though I love it! And I still don't know what Susie is doing in the post-credits scene. I'd love to think that we are watching her use her hands to heal Blanc's injured neck, but her face doesn't quite look like that's what she's doing. Maybe it will become more clear when I see it again. 

This is, without a doubt and without any other beloved film coming anywhere near it, my favorite film of 2018. 

#suspiria #luca guadagnino #dakota johnson #tilda swinton

[creepypasta-fandom-is-trash]

Lingo

Okay, so this is a fic based on  a wonderful conversation I had with @asktehslenderbros , they gave me some wonderful HCs to work with and I honestly had a great tme developing the idea with them. Please go check out their blog bc they’re pretty dope. 

Flickering firelight dances across the floor, the warm rays illuminate the large ornate carpet in the center of the room. The soft scent of bourbon and birchwood lingers on the surface of the dark coffee table in the sitting area of the room. Two large chairs are angled toward the fireplace, the smell of books wafts from the old fabric of the armchairs. A large, clearly tired creature sits in one chair, his expressionless head facing the fire as he lets his mind slip from this reality. Slender is known to be an incredibly stressed-out being, his mind always racing with ideas and possibilities that a typical human could not fathom. Behind the Slenderman sits his desk, a large thing that takes its location across the room facing the fireplace. Large windows behind the desk and chair reveal the starry night sky. 

Tiredly, Slender drags his gaze across the walls and bookshelves in the room. His office was always such a restful place, yet here he finds himself tenser than ever.  Thick tendrils curl and uncurl restlessly around the legs and back of Slender's chair as he struggles to keep calm.

There's just too much going on right now. 

What with the strange beasts lurking outside the mansion, clawing at the door, waiting..... waiting...

Glancing down to the large glass of liqueur in his long bony hand Slender silently and internally sighs. Stress remains built up in his chest like a coil of wires. Why can't he just do what he's supposed to do? Why can't he protect everyone? He can't even protect himself! The barely audible shuffling sounds across the room hardly faze Slender as he rises up from his chair, clenching his glass in one hand and his head in the other. 

Why can't I just do things right? Everyone will be safe then. I won't have to protect anybody from the Operator. I wont have to worry...

"Hey Richard." A deep voice interrupts Slender's wild and paranoid thoughts. Turning, Slender faces the darker side of the room and sees his guest. Well, part of his guest.  Eyeless Jack sits on his haunches, balancing precariously on a small stack of books on Slender's desk. A faint glimmer of candlelight illuminates the creature's mask as he tilts his head, regarding the Slenderman like a child looking at a cartoon. The Nightcrawler-esque pose doesn't concern Slender in the slightest as he slowly moves toward the doctor. 

"Jack," Slender greets, hiding the panic behind a monotone mask "What brings you here?" Eyeless chuckles quietly, shifting to fold his legs under him as he makes himself comfortable on Slender's paperwork. Naturally, EJ doesn't care about the state of the desk or what he may be sitting on.  Is it an important document? Birth certificates? Contracts? Eyeless Jack doesn't care. Slender finds himself briefly pondering the likeness between the eyeless demon and a large clumsy cat. 

"Me? Oh I just decided to drop by, I was in the vents, yknow..." Jack speaks while he examines one sharply-clawed hand like a prissy middle-aged soccer mom bragging about her 11-year-old honor roll student "... that and there may or may not be a large crack in the TV downstairs." The Slenderman sighs in response, waving away the fact that his panic had broken yet another appliance in the house. 

"I'll fix it later," Slender groans, walking back over to the fireplace and sitting down "Come, Doctor, join me. Feel free to get a drink while you're at it." Slender returns his contemplative gaze to the fire as the shadowy man moves forward. Eyeless shifts toward the empty glass and bottle of liqueur on the center of the coffee table. Instead of pouring himself a glass like a sane person, however, Eyeless merely picks up the large bottle and curls up on the second chair with it. Slender casts an exasperated look toward the awkwardly coiled creature next to him. 

"O...okay... Um..." Slender finds himself searching for a word to use that a young man like Eyeless may understand "Thats... cool? Um... my guy?" Eyeless, who previously was trying to gnaw the cork out of the bottle, snorts violently and begins laughing hysterically. Slender sighs, he was always trying to relate to the doctor, knowing full and well that the man is far younger than he is. But Slender finds himself falling short of 'cool' to the young man. Eyeless continues laughing, though Slender understands that it's not a mocking laughter. Letting his voice slip from the false deepness it usually holds, Slender continues. 

"What?" the faceless man chuckles "at least I'm trying." The ancient being's voice is shockingly average when he's not manipultating it. 

"I'm sorry, b-but it's just....heeehhehe.." Eyeless coughs loudly into one elbow, balancing the bottle between his legs while he laughs violently "It sounds so w-weird coming from you." 

"Well if you're so entertained," Slender chuckles, thinking of any and all 'hip lingo' he can usue "my dude, maybe you should take a chill pill" 

Eyeless chokes on his own spit, coughing and sputtering through his laughter. Slender smiles (sort of) and relaxes, his tendrils uncurling and waving in the air gently. Something about Jack always calms him down, and his laugh is... how they say... dorky?

Yes, that's the word. 

"You're such a dork." Slender states bluntly, searching for his next phrase "It's totally not hip, um, fam." Eyeless lets out a second graceless snort and struggles to get air into his lungs. 

"Richard. Please," Jack tosses his head back with another round of laughter, "I c-can't breathe! I-I need to-*cough* take my mask off..." Slender's 'smile' widens as the doctor pulls off the blue mask, something about the gesture has always been sacred to the monsters. Maybe it's because the monsters enjoy the privacy of their own identities. Eyeless tosses the mask onto the coffee table, taking a swig out of the bottle and relaxing. 

"Well thanks," Slender states sarcastically, placing his glass onto the coffee table and crossing his legs. 

"For what, my good sir?" Jack chuckles, folding his legs underneath him and putting on a faux posh accent. 

"For ruining the mood, it was totally....Um..." Slender thinks for a moment, Eyeless' smile vanishes completely as he jumps to the obvious conclusion.

"Richard, don't say it." Eyeless growls, lifting one hand like he's scolding a dog "Just don't, nobody wants to hear that."

"It was lit."

"What the fuck Richard??" Jack shouts, tossing his hands in the air in anguish. Slender finally lets out a loud laugh, the sound of his delighted chuckling filling the air as he watches the look of utter horror on Jack's face morph into disgust. Soon, that look of disgust turns into a large sharp-toothed grin.

"Fine, I'll just fight fire with fire." EJ grins, "You ninnyhammer. you white-livered wrinkler, how dare you bite your thumb at me??" Slender's laughter grows louder with each of EJ's old-timey insults.

"B-Bro, you're not being very, um, dank right now." Slender retorts, holding back his own laughter.

"You Fopdoodle! how dare you??" Eyeless growls, glaring mockingly at Slender. 

"swag. Radical. Groovy!" Slender laughs loudly, tossing his head back as his tendrils sway happily around him.

"What, you egg??? How dare you say that!" Eyeless mockingly growls, chuckling under his breath "fine, you asked for it. you...you whiffle-whaffle!"

The two grown adults burst out in loud, obnoxious laughter as they finish exchanging horrible insults and lingo. Roaring laughter shakes the ground and walls as the demon and the faceless creature let go of the ridiculous paranoia that had previously consumed them. The laughter dies into chuckling, which fades into soft giggles. Silence finally fills the room as the two relax in their chairs. 

"So..." Eyeless hums, taking a long drink from the bottle in his hand "Are you gonna go fix the TV?" 

"Fuck no." 

#Eyeless Jack #Slenderman

[weblistposting-blog]

New Post has been published on Weblistposting

New Post has been published on https://weblistposting.com/the-splendor-of-a-great-detective-story/

The splendor of a great detective story

If we take a look at the detective tale, there are fundamentally two formats to it: the British and the American.

The British faculty of detective tale became massively popularized by Agatha Christie—if not invented by using her together with her first novel, The Mysterious Affair at Patterns, posted in 1916. The hallmark of the British whodunit turned into that it become a “closed system” story. Commonly, there is a mansion, and there are 10 people living in it. One is murdered, and the murderer is one of the different nine.

there may be no opportunity of ingress or egress; it’s far without a doubt one of the residents who has dedicated the murder. A detective is referred to as in—except he’s already there as one of the residents—and he investigates.

The radical ends with the detective calling all of the residing residents for the final denouement—commonly within the mansion’s library—and giving a long speech, inspecting each suspect’s cause; Christie’s genius lay within the truth that almost every resident had a purpose for the murder. Then he appears on the suspects’ get admission to to the murder tool and the sufferer at the night of the homicide, and subsequently identifies the killer. The police, who’ve been ready reverentially outdoor the door, rush in and arrest the wrongdoer.

The typical American detective tale, which located its definitive shape a decade or so after Christie made her successful debut, is “open machine”. there’s no room locked from inner in which a frame is found, there may be no limited set of suspects. there may be no thriller approximately the reason of demise—a unprecedented poison, for example. All victims are either shot or stabbed to loss of life.

The detective starts with a specific crime—a homicide or a disappearance—and is drawn into a bigger plot, commonly encountering extra murders. He—like the reader—has no idea wherein he could be subsequent and who he will come across. He certainly follows the leads and travels anywhere they take him. The testimonies are open-ended until the entirety falls into vicinity within the climax.

Bullets fly, gangsters and organized crime may seem, the detective is regularly overwhelmed to inside an inch of his existence—in essence, stuff that would have horrified Christie.

In The USA, the detective tale was also an adventure tale, with the sleuth regularly going through threat and death. In England, no person ever tried to kill the detective.

The reason why the American detective story deviated from the norms of the British can possibly be attributed to the us of as Prohibition-era enjoy when gangster bootleggers ruled the roost, and there has been extensive corruption within the police pressure. there was nothing genteel about crime, and cynicism seemed to be—rightly or wrongly—the best sane attitude for the not unusual man to have.

it’s miles essential to be aware right here that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who we are able to simply seek advice from as the pioneer of the detective tale in the English language, remains above those classifications. The Sherlock Holmes tales are more or less equally divided among closed gadget and open gadget. Watson regularly includes a gun and every now and then has to apply it, something that would appear quite unseemly to Christie’s Hercule Poirot, and might be impossible for her other detective, the aged spinster Omit Marple.

Christie set her novels in various locations that were perfect surrogates for her mansion with 10 citizens—demise on the Nile on a cruise deliver on the Nile river, Evil Under the Sun in a summer time motel, dying inside the Clouds on an aeroplane.

of her most famous novels are After which There had been None and murder at the Orient Express. Both are wildly incredible memories, however regardless of that—or much more likely, due to that—they sell in big numbers even these days, and maintain to confound first-time readers.

Christie loved playing cat-and-mouse together with her readers, serving them red herrings at each possibility and joyfully main them up useless-give up lanes. In And then There have been None and homicide on the Orient Express, she is at her sadistic pleasant—she does not even ought to deceive readers, because the answers to the crimes are so outrageous that no reader, however alert and however shrewd, can ever guess them. these novels represent the top of closed-machine detective testimonies.

And then There were None is set on an island in which 10 human beings locate themselves as guests or recruits of a mysterious—and absent—proprietor, and one after the other, they begin getting murdered. It quickly dawns on absolutely everyone that certainly one of them is the killer. however who?

The activities of homicide at the Orient Specific take location in a single instruct of the legendary luxury train that plied among Istanbul and Paris. A wealthy American is murdered, the teach is stalled in a snowdrift, and none of the opposite passengers inside the teach seem to have a reason to kill him. Hercule Poirot takes place to traveling in the same educate, and solves the case, presenting the most improbable denouement in the records of mystery.

In 1945, the exceptional writer William Faulkner, then a screenplay writer in a Hollywood studio, turned into operating on a script for the inimitable American crime creator Raymond Chandler’s The Large Sleep, a unique that has numerous murders. In a few puzzlement, he known as up Chandler and requested, “but who killed the chauffeur?” Chandler stated that he couldn’t take into account, and that he would study The radical once more and get again. A few days later, he phoned Faulkner and admitted that even he had no concept who killed the chauffeur. So what is the factor here, if the writer himself can’t determine out what he had written? I’ve read The Huge Sleep several instances and that i need to additionally say that the chauffeur’s murder remains unexplained. But the point is that it has by no means decreased my leisure of studying the book. due to the fact it is literature. however we can come lower back to that later. the Yankee personal eye works in a corrupt world. He receives scant admire from policemen, lots of whom are thugs in uniform—in reality, they’re adverse to him. They seek advice from him derogatorily as a “shamus” or a “gumshoe”, and are happy to position him in a police lock-up at the slightest provocation. That is a scenario that a Holmes or a Poirot by no means had to face.

The detective is frequently employed via wealthy families, and via the cease of the story, the reader receives to realize what sordid foundations that wealth has been constructed on. In a Raymond Chandler novel (and i paraphrase from reminiscence), someone tells the hero Philip Marlowe: “That’s the dirty facet of the dollar.” Marlowe replies: “I didn’t recognize there was every other facet.”

As Chandler wrote in his conventional essay The Simple Art Of murder: “The realist in murder writes of a world in which gangsters can rule international locations and nearly rule cities, in which accommodations and apartment homes and celebrated eating places are owned by means of men who made their cash out of brothels, in which a display screen megastar can be the Fingerman for a mob, and the nice guy down the corridor is a boss of the numbers racket; a global in which a decide with a cellar complete of bootleg liquor can ship a person to jail for having a pint in his pocket, wherein the mayor of your city may also have condoned murder as an instrument of profitable, in which no guy can stroll down a darkish avenue in safety due to the fact law and order are things we talk approximately however chorus from training; a international wherein you may witness a maintain up in wide daylight and notice who did it, but you may fade fast lower back into the crowd instead of tell all people, due to the fact the hold-up guys can also have buddies with long weapons, or the police might not like your testimony, and anyways the shyster for the defense may be allowed to abuse and vilify you in open court docket, before a jury of decided on morons, without any But the maximum perfunctory interference from a political choose.

“It is not a very aromatic global, but it is the sector you stay in, and certain writers with tough minds and a groovy spirit of detachment can make very exciting and even fun styles out of it. It is not funny that a man have to be killed, however it’s miles sometimes humorous that he ought to be killed for so little, and that his demise should be the coin of what we call civilisation.”

The conventional British novel is set in a solid and typically honest environment in which every night, the gong is rung for dinner. Despite the fact that there could be a blunder or two many of the solid of characters, people know what the proper etiquette is. We not often meet any hardened criminals. To cite Chandler over again:

“Personally I like the English fashion better. It is not quite so brittle, and the humans customarily, just wear garments and drink liquids. there’s more feel of heritage, as if Cheesecake Manor in reality existed all round and no longer simply the element the digicam sees; there are greater long walks over the Downs and the characters don’t all try to behave as though that they had simply been tested through MGM. The English may not usually be the first-rate writers within the global, however they’re incomparably the satisfactory stupid writers.”

In truth, if one takes a step again, the manors in which many of Christie’s Poirot novels are set resemble P.G. Wodehouse’s Blandings Fortress. The only difference is that a number of the residents in Christie’s Fort are murderers, whilst in Blandings, the best concerns are whether or not the Empress of Blandings will win the Fat Pig contest this yr, and whether or not Sir Galahad Threepwood can be stopped from publishing his tell-all memoirs. it’s far extraordinarily thrilling that Chandler changed into educated in England, and he went to the identical school as Wodehouse did—Dulwich College. There cannot be two outstanding writers who’re extra unlike each other.

Chandler defined his best American detective hence:

“however down these suggest streets a man ought to pass who isn’t always himself suggest, who’s neither tarnished nor afraid. The detective in this sort of tale need to be any such guy. he’s the hero, he is the whole lot. He should be a entire man and a commonplace guy and but an unusual guy. He must be, to use a rather weathered word, a person of honor, by way of intuition, with the aid of inevitability, with out notion of it, and truly without pronouncing it. He need to be the first-class guy in his world and an amazing enough man for any global. I do now not care lots about his private life; he is neither a eunuch nor a satyr; I suppose he may seduce a duchess and I am quite certain he could now not destroy a virgin; if he is a man of honor in a single thing, he’s that in all things. he’s a relatively terrible guy, or he would no longer be a detective at all. he is a common guy or he could not go among commonplace people. He has a sense of character, or he would not know his job. he will take no man’s money dishonestly and no guy’s insolence with out a due and dispassionate revenge. he’s a lonely man and his satisfaction is that you will treat him as a proud man or be very sorry you ever noticed him. He talks as the man of his age talks, this is, with impolite wit, a active sense of the ugly, a disgust for sham, and a contempt for pettiness. The tale is his adventure in search of a hidden fact, and it’d be no adventure if it did not occur to a person fit for adventure. He has quite a number focus that startles you, but it belongs to him by means of right, because it belongs to the world he lives in.