#regardless the symbolic potential is though the roof!

[thewhitefluffyhat]

It’s fun to theorize about what Gideon may or may not have lost to Harrow in becoming Kiriona, but I’m also interested in another question. What did Harrow gain?

Because here’s an idea: what if the part of Gideon that Harrow ate was Gideon’s extreme regeneration ability rather than anything to do with Gideon’s personality?

Like, we know that this better-than-Lyctor healing isn’t from Nona’s soul hitching a ride, because Harrow didn’t have it while it was just her and the Body (and because Gideon-in-Harrow at the end of HtN did have it - those regrowing thumbs! - before Nona fully possessed Harrow). So the ability must have come from Gideon. 

It’s also implied from the Avulsion trial that Gideon was able to heal things like fatal brain injuries while alive. The fact that Gideon’s body didn’t spontaneously start regrowing its missing pieces, even when reunited with her soul, suggests to me that either John interfered or Gideon no longer has that ability and it’s incorporated into Harrow now.

(Or it could just be that Gideon’s ability can’t cause a dead body to heal, only a living one… but John can clearly do both, so...)

Another possible supporting detail: Nona left Harrow’s body in an awful state. Her limbs falling off, her major organs failing. But once Harrow wakes up in her body again, she’s exhausted but perfectly able to speak and even stand without outside healing. Alecto describes her as starving and dehydrated, but not, like, about to come apart at the seams. So Harrow may still have this extreme healing ability, despite no longer being in possession of most of Gideon’s soul and not having gone far enough in the Lyctoral process to even change her eye color at the end of NtN. Very interesting.

But even more than the plausibility angle, what really draws me to this theory is the lovely symbolism. The part that Harrow ate from Gideon - the gift that Gideon bestowed on her that can never be taken back - is the gift of healing and regrowth.

After all, in the last moments before Harrow became a Lyctor, the most important thing on her mind was whether she had truly repaired her relationship with Gideon. And Gideon reassured Harrow, a second time, that yes, she forgave her.

I’d also posit that one read of Harrow’s arc in GtN is that Harrow’s life until she reconciled with Gideon was an entirely downward spiral of pain and trauma. And Gideon’s forgiveness was the first moment where Harrow was able to let go and move past that trauma in a positive way.

So Harrow integrating Gideon’s regeneration into her soul is that character development made literal, physical, and indelible. 

Gideon’s selflessness is what gave Harrow the ability to heal.

#the locked tomb #nona the ninth #gideon nav #harrowhark nonagesimus #kiriona gaia #ntn spoilers #tlt analysis #my tlt stuff #my ramblings #ALSO #this goes really well with the idea that AtN #will involve Harrow giving Gideon something of herself in return #what could it be? #regardless the symbolic potential is though the roof!

[displacedentities]

Callie's Key

Mod: A quick-fic I made for the Fiascrew! I wanted to write out a potential introduction to how Spooky's (@fedoraspooky) character Callie (plant character via @mak-to-the-future) across Destin's artifact, the Night Key :) Hopefully you like it!

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Old Mr. Prescott had had enough. Fed up with all the junk piling up in his garage, it was time to clean the place out. He wasn't a hoarder, but rather he collected a variety of paraphernalia over the years, as older folk do. Some of the junk might classify as antiques, but as far as he was concerned, that was just a fancy word for junk with a price tag. Maybe he could actually make some coin from all this nonsense in his house, and get some much-needed walking space while he was at it. There was, of course, that damn box to deal with.

Prescott had gotten into the habit of storing everything he wasn't sure how to sort, handle, or throw away into a single box, simply labeled 'WEIRD THINGS' in big capital letters. While the cardboard outside was benign, Prescott was certain at least a couple items that got tossed inside were cursed. He kept the box of 'WEIRD THINGS' shoved far into the corner of the garage under a tool bench for several years, until something he picked up made affairs surrounding the box significantly worse. Tools started to fly off the rack, rearrange themselves into cryptic symbols and messages on the work table. One instance, he even got the word 'STUCK' spelled out from wrenches and a tire iron. It was at that point, Old Mr. Prescott knew he was being haunted. Something else had arrived in his house, it threw things to get his attention or stole food from the fridge, and he had no idea how to drive it out. Professional exorcism did nothing - the wrenches were arranged to spell 'NO' a mere hour later. Setting up protective runes to drive out malevolent demons had no effect at all. The fridge was missing a jar of blackberry jam the next morning, found empty on the tool table. Old Mr. Prescott had moved the box away from the tool table and shoved it into a closet right after. But today was the day. He was going to be done with that cursed box, and whatever random object inside had brought this nuisance upon his house. With any luck, he might be able to sell it off with the rest of the junk. If not, Prescott resigned himself to throwing the entire box in the trash, and hopefully doing away with the poltergeist plague. He was getting too old to deal with this. --- Callie peeked out the window of the car as her mother drove through the residential neighborhood. Big eye blinking in the bright light of midday, she watched the trees full of autumn leaves zip by in a blur of color. It was so pretty! And it looked just like her hair! She was almost 6, soon to be a big girl, and she was quite proud of the vibrant yellow-orange petals starting to puff out from under the leaves on top of her head. Mom said it made her look quite fluffy, which made her think of her T.Rex stuffy, Munchy. Callie hugged Munchy tight, feet wiggling over the edge of the cushion. She was bouncing in her chair, excited. Her mom, a Dryad with hair made from sunflower petals and leaves, hummed to herself as she drove. She glanced over to Callie every now and then, smiling gently. "Thank you for being so patient, sweetheart," Mom says, reaching over with one hand to bump her daughter on the shoulder, before her hand returns to the wheel. "I know we've done a lot of errands today, but just one more, ok? We'll get ice cream afterwards- how does that sound?" "Ice cream!" Callie repeats, brightening at the thought. Ice cream?? Yes! Mom chuckles. "Mr. Prescott is having a garage sale for the first time in fifty years- there's sure to be some interesting finds in all that mess! The man hasn't cleaned house since we moved into the neighborhood before you were born. If you find something small that you like, I'll get it for you, ok?" "Yay!" Callie cheered, holding up Munchy in delight. A present, AND ice cream later? This was the best day out ever! The drive through the neighborhood was brief. The closer they got to the destination, Callie's mother squinted, making a sound similar to clicking her tongue. "Shoot, looks like we weren't the only ones with that idea," Mom mutters under her breath, looking left and right. Callie sits up, craning her neck to look outside at the houses. There were cars all over the place! Mom eventually finds a spot to park, a short distance from a house with wooden shingles and roof tiling. Gravel crunches under Callie's blue rubber sandals as she hops down from the car, turning to stare in wonder at the squat old house. It looked like a pop-up book whose contents had unfolded into the lawn and driveway. Furniture was strewn across the yellowing autumn grass, neatly arranged in a grid with walking space between every piece. Chairs, a

coffee table, a big old couch whose leather had softened from use. A squat Sphinx cat-man in a striped shirt, bowtie and overalls leaned on his cane while he spoke in a gruff voice to a woman. Callie didn't understand everything they were saying, but it was something about money, and the coffee table. Next to the furniture were foldout plastic tables covered in random things, some of which Callie had never seen before in her life. Kitchen utensils that could be from the Great Depression, glass dishware in pristine condition, hand-me-down clothing in less pristine condition. Oh! There was a toy table! Callie immediately scampered over to the toy table, hopping up and down to get a good look at the wares. The selection was charming, and had the warm feeling of well-loved antiques. A wooden pull-along train, a cloth teddy bear with button eyes, a cup with a ball on a string, and... some wooden cage-things with jingle bells in them? Callie shook one of them to see what noise it made, and the wrinkly cat-man looks up with ears perked for a moment, before shaking his head with a huff and returning to his conversation. Callie feels a hand on her shoulder, and smiles up at her Mom as she ruffles Callie's petal hair with the same hand. "I'll be talking to Mr. Prescott about some of the glass dishes," Mom says. "Don't go wandering off, and stay where I can see you. If you can be very careful and promise me you won't break any of Mr. Prescott's things, you can go ahead and explore, ok sweetie?" "Ok mom," Callie says, bouncing on her feet as Mom ruffles her hair one more time. "I'll be right over here," Mom says with a nod, keeping an eye on Callie while she walks over towards the cat-man, who had finished speaking with the other woman by this point. Free to explore, Callie's eye sparkles as she examines this wonderland of new things to investigate. It was like a playground, but small! Callie wastes no time hopping onto the big couch, quite pleased with how soft it felt. There was something just- fun!- about a couch being outside. It felt forbidden, like taking a cookie from the jar before dinner. From her elevated vantage point, Callie could see all the houses across the street, as well as some of Mr. Prescott's neighbors. One of them was mowing the lawn! Callie waved with enthusiasm. They stopped and stared at her, and Callie beamed a smile back. They kept staring, lawnmower stalled. Probably admiring her pretty orange petal hair! She was so proud of it. Callie stayed on the couch for another minute or two before she slid off, eager to look around. Mom said if she was nice and careful, she could have something small from all the things to play with here. She was going to be the best daughter ever. Callie explored through the kitchen things, first- while she was quite a mean chef with an Easy Bake oven, she wasn't quite tall enough to reach the counters yet in Mom's kitchen. A metal ladle was the first to be picked up, as she gently swung it around to feel the weight. Hm. Shiny, but heavy. Probably not fun to carry around for very long. She put it back down. Next was an ironically stained stainless steel pot. That went right over her head. Hmmm. No, it blocked her eye. Not a good helmet. Not much else in the kitchen section was interesting, aside from a few wooden spoons that were smooth to the touch. Callie could see her Mom side-eyeing her from the table where she was talking five feet away. Callie carefully returned the kitchen things to their proper places and moved on to the next table. It was covered in books! Callie got very excited, until she saw how thick they were. These would take forever to read! Maybe she could convince her mom to pick up some of the more colorful books for them to read together, but aside from making a fort or tiny city using the books as bricks, there wasn't much this table had to offer for a five-year-old. At least the books smelled nice. The old clothing didn't smell so nice. Callie poked her head into the hanging rack of old coats and shirts, feeling like a spy - until the scent of

mothballs made her sneeze, and she pulled her head back out with a squint of disgust. Ew. The clothes were all too big, anyway. And some had holes in them! She could have sworn she saw a small poof of moths flutter off one of the old frock coats. She liked bugs, but not in clothing. The thought of a moth crawling around her favorite yellow dress and nibbling at her pretty petal hair made her squirm. At long last, Callie let herself return to the piece de resistance- the toy table. She wanted to play-test everything here! Within reason, of course. Mom said to be careful. Carved wooden train cars, a deck of cards- even the creepy monkey with the pair of cymbals got some attention. Callie poked at it, afraid it would move, and was grateful when it remained inert. The eyes wigged her out. No thanks. The cards were arranged in patterns, and she didn't quite know how to play with them, but they fascinated her regardless- definitely not a first choice, though. Callie compared the old cloth teddy to Munchy, who she sat up next to it with a critical toddler eye. The teddy was a bit smaller than Munchy, and not quite as soft. Cute eyes, though! Callie picked up the wooden train cars, turning them over in thought. They felt sturdy, and were polished with wood lacquer. Soft and smooth, and really cool! It was a bit heavy, but that was fine. She was sorely tempted to pick one as her choice, but she had to know how they rolled. If they couldn't roll like a train, they wouldn't be fun. Putting all of the other toys back where they used to be, Callie set the toy train engine on the floor, and pushed it with her hand. The toy train made a delightful clatter of wooden parts, the wheels carrying it over the bumpy concrete of the driveway. It comes to a stop after a foot of travel. Callie smiles, clapping her free hand against Munchy, before scampering forward and taking the pull chord. It rolled so easily behind her, and she didn't have to worry about breaking it if she was in front. Callie giggles, running in delighted little circles with the train clacking along behind her- -until the train veers from a bump in the concrete, and clatters into the leg of a smaller foldout table. The bump wasn't strong, but it was enough to make the table rattle. Callie froze on the spot as several small trinkets and random objects fly off the table to the ground, fear spiking in her chest as she looks over towards her mom. Mom was still talking to the cat man about the set of chairs, but she did glance over with a raised eyebrow. Callie quickly waved back with a smile, trying to feign that everything was alright. Her mom looked curious for a moment, before the cat man drew her attention back to the conversation at hand. Callie immediately drops the train chord and kneels on the ground next to the small table, checking desperately to make sure everything that fell off was okay. The small table had been holding random trinkets and knickknacks, pieces of old jewelry, and a metal cup that thankfully stayed on the table- Callie was sure she would have been in trouble if Mom heard THAT hit the ground. The objects that fell from the table were all sorts of small things, ranging from expensive-looking jewelry to simple puzzle toys that looked more like key chains for a backpack zipper. Callie quickly picked up a necklace- which, thankfully, hadn't broken or chipped- featuring a large amber-colored stone, and stood up to replace it on the table. Necklaces hung from the weird bird perch-looking thing, right? There were other necklaces on it, so that was where it was going. She had to hop a few times to reach it, but she managed to loop the necklace back on the display. Next was a wooden block puzzle- it was so simple that she solved it in her efforts to put it back together, before setting it on the tabletop. Some rings, sparkly rocks, more key chains- Callie knelt down to continue cleaning the mess, panic still bringing a light sweat to the back of her neck. Among the mess was a small bag of marbles, and she'd accidentally knocked one of them across

the asphalt of the driveway. Scampering over, the youngster picks up the shooter marble- and pauses. Sitting on the sunlit path, sparkling in the light, was a small key. Blue-black of the deepest reaches of space, shaped so strangely, it lay half-under a stray tablecloth from where it had clattered to the ground. Callie couldn't make out a lot of details, but even from here, the light that hit the object was seemingly absorbed by its depths, casting almost no shadow. Yet, the sunlight caused a small scattering of stars to sparkle on the asphalt. ...Callie crawls forward, leaning under the table and lifting the cloth with one hand to pick it up. She slides back out to hold the key in the sunlight, fascinated. The key was very odd in shape. The teeth were thick and blocky, with an angled shape she hadn't seen on her toy keyring. The head of the key was weird, too- three holes arranged in a semicircle, and the top was swirled. Like ice cream, or a cinnamon bun! This key was so pretty! But- what was it a key for? Well, whatever it was for, it sure was pretty! Why would the cat-man be selling a key? Didn't you need keys to lock and unlock stuff? If he was getting rid of it, he must not need it anymore. ...a gentle breeze tugged at Callie's sleeve. She- felt something at her shoulder. Callie turns around, curious and confused- but there's nothing there. Huh. That was strange. But- she couldn't shake the feeling that someone was here. She wasn't scared, though. It was a warm presence. A gentle one. She couldn't explain how, but she knew. Whoever or wherever they were, they were nice! "Callie?" her mother called. Callie jumped to attention, startled out of her small reverie by the crashing reality that she still had a mess to clean up. She scrambles to pick up the remaining items and shove them back onto the table, no longer caring for organization- -but the ground is clean. Huh? Did she pick it all up already? Callie could have sworn there were still scattered items on the driveway. But the ground was clear. Even the wooden train car, which she'd crashed into the table leg, was back in its place on the toy table. How-? "Callie!" Mom says, and Callie spins around with a wide eye. "Honey, are you alright over here? I thought I heard something fall over." "Oh- I'm ok, mom!" Callie says quickly, putting on a smile. Inside, she's still confused. Did she clean up the mess that fast? "Okay," Mom says, looking around with a critical eye. Seeing nothing amiss, she appears satisfied. "Have you settled on something to take home, sweetie?" Callie takes a breath to answer that she wanted the train car- then stops. She squints, thinking. She looks down at the key in her hands, turning it over in the sunlight. It sparkled and was warm to the touch. It felt good to hold, smooth and polished. She couldn't explain why, but it felt like holding Munchy- soft and comforting, somehow. "I like this!" Callie said, making up her mind as she holds up the starry key with a smile. "Oh my," her mom says with a smile, looking at the sparkling key her daughter presented. "It's so lovely! Are you sure you want this, and not one of the toys?" "Mmmm," Callie hums in thought, eye narrowed. She did really like that train car, but... she makes a big smile. "No, I want this! It's pretty! Feels soft, like Munchy!" Mom chuckles, patting Callie on the head as she hefts her stuffed T. Rex and hugs it tight. "If you're sure, pumpkin. Let's take it over to Mr. Prescott, and we'll see if we can buy it." Callie's mom gently takes her hand, and starts to lead the tiny flower puff away from the display tables back towards the lawn. Callie clutches her pretty new key to her front, beaming. It wasn't a toy train, but it was so pretty! She'd definitely add it to her keyring, filled with toy keys and old spares her mother let her play 'house' with. Her shadow warped on the ground behind her skipping steps, forming into a curious silhouette. Flowing almost like water, the shape is thin, and retains a vague semblance of a person. Three eyes, like cutouts

in a piece of paper, followed Callie with a gentle curiosity from the head that flowed like gel in a lava lamp. The warm presence remained at Callie's back, as the child pranced at her mom's side to buy her pretty new trinket. --- Callie's mom finally finished talking to Mr. Prescott. The sphinx cat-man didn't blink an eye at the item of Callie's choosing, asking only for a handful of dollars in exchange. He shook paw with her mother's ebony black hand, and the two turned towards the arrangement of chairs set out for display. Callie watched as her mother passed the cat-man several more large green bills, and he gestured with his cane towards the chairs with a gruff nod. Looking relieved, Callie's mother walked over to her daughter and knelt to eye level. "We're just about done, sweetie," Mom said, smiling as she ruffled Callie's petal hair, earning a giggle. "Mr. Prescott's just going to help me load up the chairs, and we can get going for that ice cream, ok?" "Ok, mommy," Callie agreed, smiling. "Thank you for being so patient, baby girl," her mother sighed, quite tired, but managing. "This is the last errand, I promise. Hang tight, I'll be right over here- and don't go anywhere!" Callie nods, sitting down on the grass with a happy hum as she plays with some clovers popping out of the lawn. Her mother walked back over to where she'd parked the car. With the help of the old cat-man, who was surprisingly limber for his age, Callie's mother got ahold of some straps and began the process of lifting the dining room chairs from the grass one by one. Callie smiled and waved every time they got close, getting smiles from her mom and amused half-chuckles from the cat-man. She busied herself with plucking the little clover blossoms, arranging them into little intertwined bracelets. She even got ambitious and started making a flower crown- it smelled really nice! Struggled to hold its shape, though, with how short and flimsy the clover stems were. Maybe the bees would like it? Callie liked bees, so fuzzy and clumsy. At least Munchy liked it! She put her first tiny flower crown on the T. Rex's head. Callie's mother and Prescott finished moving the chairs to the car, and started lifting them to be secured down on the car roof with the straps. Right then, Callie feels a rough grip latch onto her arm. Startled, Callie yelps as she's pulled up to standing, her eye snapping wide open as she looks up in shock and surprise. The hand on her arm belonged to the neighbor she'd spotted from the couch, the one who was mowing their lawn not long ago. They were holding her arm very tight! It hurt! She squirmed and tried to push the fingers off of her, but she was a small child and this was an adult. They were much stronger. "Hey kiddo," they say, smirking with alcohol on their breath. "Your mom's busy, so she told me to watch you for a bit. It's ok, I'm not going to hurt you." Alarm bells were firing off in Callie's mind, as she stared up at this total stranger in fear. Her mom told her all the time, don't talk to strangers! This stranger was way too close for comfort, and hurting her! "L-let go!" Callie pleads, trying to sound brave like a big girl, but it only came out in a squeak. "You're weird!" "I'm weird? You've got a flower for a head," they say, less amused, and frowning now. "There's a lot weirder things than me in this world, kid. How about we take a break from the sun in my house? It's right across the street, you saw it from your little seat on the couch earlier. We can even pet my dog- how does that sound? Your mom said it was ok." Callie looks desperately over to her mother, trying to confirm in some way if this was true, but her mother was still busy loading the chairs on the truck. She was on the other side, and couldn't see what was going on unless she peered through the car windows. The neighbor yanks on Callie's arm, causing her to yelp again as she's tugged off the grass and away from Munchy. "Come on, kid- let's go, it'll be quick," the neighbor insists. "No!" Callie says, trying to raise her voice as

she tugs back, straining with all her might to pull away. "Let go!" Somebody help! Please! wcrACK The hand releases, and Callie plops down onto the grass in surprise. From her shadow on the ground, a long snakelike limb had sprung into reality, and whipped the neighbor across the face with incredible force. "aUGH- WHAT THE FU-GKKGHK-" Before the neighbor can finish, the tendril swiftly wraps around their neck, tightening. It coils, lifting the stranger a foot off the ground. They struggle and squirm, held aloft and clawing at the cable of night-sky patterned darkness at their throat. Five seconds pass, and the tendril lifts them higher, before slamming their face down into the dirt. The neighbor coughs and groans, protesting the treatment as they're lifted yet again. From behind Callie, her shadow bubbles up, gaining size and definition as it materializes into a figure of its own. Movements fluid like water, the stick-thin limb around the stranger's throat is connected to an equally thin shoulder on a being whose body reflects a sky full of stars. A window to the universe in the vague shape of a person. On the presumed head is a set of golden eyes, narrowed in anger as they focus on the stranger. They tower over Callie, hovering protectively as they step forward, blocking Callie from the neighbor's sight. Callie stares, wide-eyed. This thing was so big, so strange! She didn't feel afraid- why wasn't she afraid? Were they- saving her? "Never touch her again," they warn, voice like a hissing bell. "You will get no mercy." This time, the neighbor doesn't get much chance to choke on their words. The being reels back that limb, and with a snap of elastic tension, whips the unfortunate schmuck across the lawn. They collide with a table, crumpling over one side as the contents are thrown akimbo with a loud crash. That immediately gets the attention of Mr. Prescott and Callie's mother, who stop dead before racing over to the commotion. Prescott leaps with nimble steps to yell at the neighbor, while Callie's mother runs right over to her daughter. She passes the thin void-person without even a glance. "Sweetie!" she frets, kneeling down to look over her daughter in worry. "What happened? Are you ok?" "M-mom," Callie stammers, still spooked and staring at the big starry thing right next to them. "The- they- they helped me. The star-man- saved me." "The who?" Callie's mother repeats, confused, looking around. Her eye slides right over the star-man nearby, not a hint of recognition. "Honey, who saved you? From what?" Callie's rapid heartbeat stars to slow in her chest as the fear is gradually replaced by confusion. She frowns and points over her mother's shoulder. "The star-man! They saved me," she explains, uncertain how else to explain it. She doesn't know how, but... somehow, they saved her. "They stopped the bad man. He hurt my arm..." Callie's mother wastes no time looking at both her arms. As she does so, the star-thing slides closer. Callie watches with owl-eye as the being gets very close, and extends a tendril-arm towards her. Having seen what those snake arms can do, she flinches back, and the arm stops. "Honey, I can't see where it hurts if you don't hold still," her mother says, taking the flinch as a response to her checking. Callie is still staring right at the void creature. She- can't read their face very well, if that is a face. The golden eyes blink, and they speak again. It's oddly comforting. "I will not hurt you. I promise. Will you let me help?" Were they asking her? Callie hesitates. She wasn't supposed to listen to strangers. She just dealt with a scary stranger. But this one carried that same softness, that feeling of safety. She couldn't explain how, but she knew they meant it. She could feel it in her bones. In any case, her mom was here now- if they tried anything, mom would knock them silly. Uncertain, but feeling more confident, Callie nods once. The being extends the arm again, and ever so carefully taps Callie on the arm with the pointy limb. They leave it gently overtop

the area where the bruise was forming from the neighbor's harsh grip. Warmth emanates from the contact, and within moments, the bruise that had begun to bloom faded away, leaving only the healthy charcoal-colored flesh. They remove the starry limb shortly after, Callie staring in amazement. Callie's mother is perplexed, looking at the same arm. "That's... hm. I could have sworn you were bruised... Callie, sweetie, are you alright?" she asks, concerned. Callie flexes the arm, and is amazed to find the arm is totally fine. It didn't hurt at all! That was so cool! She looks up with a smile to thank the starry stranger- -only to see empty sidewalk. Callie looks left and right. Where did they go? They were just here... "Callie?" Oh- right, her mom! "I'm ok," Callie says, meaning it this time. "Arm feels fine, now. Starry man fixed it!" "Alright," Callie's mother says, sighing once with a closed eye. "Well, as long as you're not hurt or anything, sweetheart. You tell me if anything feels wrong, ok?" "Ok, mommy," Callie says, glancing over to where the neighbor was getting reprimanded by the cat-man. The reprimands progressed into the neighbor getting menaced with the cane, cowed away from the cat-man's yowling. "Can- can we go, now?" "Yes, sweetie, of course. Let's go get that ice cream." Callie's mother takes hold of her daughter's hand, scooping up Munchy to tuck into her daughter's arms, and the two start walking out to the car. Callie glances over her shoulder, looking all over for the starry man, but not seeing them anywhere. That was a shame... she really wanted to thank them! As she clambers up onto the car seat, a star-speckled shadow follows at her back, vigilant and close. ~~~

The End

Mod: Thanks for reading!

#quickfic #writing #Fiasco #The Fiascrew #fedoraspooky #mak-to-the-future

[hedwig96]

MHA Dadmight AU Fic.

Hey everyone! I made this dadmight AU awhile back, and I’ve slowly been ruminating on it even though I’m no writer. Let me know what you think! (also please stay safe and healthy during this crazy f**king time)

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“If you wanna be a hero that badly, there’s a quick way to do it. Believe that you’ll be born with a quirk in your next life and take a last chance dive off the roof!”

I can’t believe that he said that. He wasn’t serious, was he? How could Kacchan? Just because I want to be a hero? Even though I’m…

“I’m sorry, but your son is…”

“I’m so sorry Izuku!”

“Shut up you useless…”

Quirkless.  I’m quirkless. And I understand that heroes have always had quirks. But that doesn’t mean…it doesn’t...doesn’t mean that I can’t. Anyone can be a hero, regardless of talent. They just need the heart…right? Well, a certain person probably needs to stop, but I’m already upset about today – the burns and words alone are making this a bad day. I’m so upset that I just…can’t focus. I don’t know where I am. A sewer? What…what is that noise? Squelching? Wha – and something is IN MY MOUTH. WHAT IS HAPPENING. I CAN’T BREATHE. I CAN’T BREATHE. I CAN’T...

“Don’t worry citizen, for I am here!”…and it stops. I can finally breathe. Wait…that frame, and that battle cry, can it really be..?

“Oh…d-All Might. You’re here. Thanks for saving me.”

“Izuku! Hello so – I mean, random citizen that I saved. What are you doing down here in this dreadful sewer?” What am I doing here, what is he doing here?

“…what are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in Tokyo?” I’m trying to keep any annoyance out of my voice. But the question is more out of genuine curiosity.

“Well…I just decided to come on by…” Ok. That’s starting to sound like an excuse.

“So that means that you didn’t tell her at all. Ok, so you’re just doing that thing where you do hero work ‘in secret’…”

“No, that’s not it…” Panic starts to invade his voice. He’s sweating a little bit. He looks tired.

“So are you actually coming by –"

“Why don’t we talk where people won’t here us random citizen about things that I have no idea about!”

“What – no! What are you doING!!!”

He grabbed and there we go – launched up to a rooftop. Thanks All Might. I was not ready for that – had to grab his freaking pants so I would flail around. Again, thanks for that. But we stuck the landing. He let go of me after landing, and the only thing I could do was just back off. When I lifted my head to look at him, I was immediately met with steam spreading all over the rooftop. Oh great – he’s been working too much. Again. She won’t be happy about that.

When the steam cleared, there wasn’t a towering blond, but a sickly skeleton of a man. If any normal person were here, they’d be shocked to see the Symbol of Peace coughing up blood and looking like he could wilt any second. But again, not me.

“You haven’t been taking care of yourself, dad. You know mom won’t be happy to hear about this –”

“Yes, my boy, I know…”  

“You know that you shouldn’t be working when you’re coughing up blood. Does your doctor know about this? Wait, you probably haven’t seen your doctor in a while –” I’m starting to mumble – hand on my chin. Should I really be lecturing my own father about taking care of himself?

“Now son, just give me a second, I can explain –”

“Regardless, that still doesn’t explain why you’re here. Are you visiting this time? You know, mom appreciates it when you –” Why is he here? I’m going through my brain thinking about the potential reasons.

“Izuku my boy, just let me speak!” Silence. Hands fall to my side. Eyes widen. Dad doesn’t normally yell.

“Izuku, my boy. I’m sorry. Are you ok? It looked like that villain was suffocating you.” His tone leaks worry. He walks over and reaches out for my shoulder. His grip is bony, a little hard, yet slightly comforting.

“No, dad, I’m fine.” I look down at my feet and feel my cheeks warming - shame. I don’t like it when mom and dad worry, and they both already do that too much because of me. I hate that so much.

“And what were you doing in that sewer? Is this sewer on the way home, and does your mother know you went this way?” His voice progressively gets a little louder and filled with more worry and confusion. I mean if you saw your son for the first time in months in a sewer being suffocated by a slime villain, you probably would be confused and worried too.

“No dad, it’s not normally on my way home. Just had a bad day. But I’m fine. What were you doing down there dad?” He looks a little flabbergasted.

“W-what was I doing? Stopping a villain!” He’s sweating a little bit and runs his hand through his hair.

“I know that – I was there. But…why were you down there? And again, what are you doing in Musutafu?” He’s…dodging the question. This isn’t going to end well. I can’t help it – I’m starting to get a little angry.

“Well, you know that I was stopping a villain…and just patrolling.” He’s not even looking at me anymore. I’m getting angrier now – was he just planning on coming here, stopping a villain, and leaving? “But, since I’m here, I can surprise your mother! I guess the surprise for you is already ruined…”

“Dad, you weren’t planning on seeing us, were you? You know mom doesn’t like seeing you hurt because you overdid it. So there’s no way this was your plan all along.” He looks back at me in shock. Bullseye.

“…”

“Why do you do this? I…I understand that you want to keep us safe, and it’s better to stay away sometimes. But you don’t go out like you used to. You’re a literal skeleton now, dad. I don’t even know how you take care of yourself anymore! Mom and I are so worried about you! All the time!”

“My boy, I understand that. And you’re right – I wasn’t planning to stay. And I’m sorry. You two shouldn’t worry about me all the time. I can still do hero work –”

��T-that doesn’t MATTER DAD!” Both our eyes widen. Like him, and my mom, I don’t yell. I’m surprised I yelled. But it fits. I have to keep going. “Why are you trying to just excuse the fact that you can barely keep up with hero work!? Every time we see you, your health is so much worse! Do you know how much it hurts mom to see you like this?! Do you know how much it hurts her to not see you for MONTHS on end, then you come home with these excuses about working hard and needing to be a pillar for Japan?! I don’t care about that!!! Japan doesn’t need you dad – we do! Why can’t you just…retire? You’re not well, and we miss you – I miss you.” Woah. I need a breather after that. When I look at dad, he looks calm? Shocked? I can’t tell right now. I just that I’m angry. I think all the emotions from today and in general are just…piling up. But I can’t feel bad about it. He needed to hear this.

“Izuku. I’m sorry that I’m not there for you both more. I know that it you both are worried about me.” I can’t tell his emotions right now. He looks likes sad and..what is that second emotion? “And you’re too young to worry about me like that. And I need to do a better job at seeing you two more. That’s something I can do. What is that second emotion? “But you…you know that your mother and I have talked about this. You and I have talked about this. You know why I can’t stop – the world needs All Might. I can’t just leave the world without its Symbol of Peace, not when I can still –” It’s irritation. He’s irritated. I know. We’ve had this talk. But he’s just rejecting our concerns for his job.

That’s it. If I wasn’t holding in my anger before, it’s all out now. “But you BARELY CAN! LOOK AT YOURSELF DAD! You look so sick right now. You look like you could DIE at any second! The world doesn’t need the Symbol of Peace! Mom needs her husband! I NEED MY DAD!!!”

He’s just looking at me now. We’re both quiet. Neither of us is moving. He looks…angry? Like he’s trying to contain anger?

“Son. I’m sorry. But this is final. I’m sorry that this is the situation that we’re in. But you know that this is what I HAVE to do. I’ve accepted this. And so had your mom. We need you to as well. I know it’s hard to see me like this – believe me, I don’t necessarily like seeing this in the mirror every day. But we all have to make sacrifices for the world and the people around us. And I’m sorry that you have to.” I think he’s trying to calm down now. “But this is what heroes do, Izuku. I’m sorry. Now let’s go, your mom is probably waiting for you.”

“…I can’t accept this. I can’t. I can’t believe you’re just asking me to allow you to die. I can’t handle this right now. I have to go. I need to be alone.” And I turn around and…walk away. I’m walking away from dad. Holy crap. I just gave All Might – my dad – a piece of my mind. I don’t look back at him. I need to calm down.

Soon after this, Kacchan is attacked and taken hostage by that same slime villain. He must have gotten away at some point while dad and I were…talking. Oops. But…no hero is doing anything. What? Why? Even if I didn’t have a compatible quirk for this villain, I would still try. I think I’m just too much like dad. I can’t stand for this. So I jump in. And everything is so chaotic, I barely notice dad come in and save the day. And then…I get lectured about jumping in without a quirk. I can’t stand this day. I need it to end.

I purposely take the long way, in hopes of avoiding dad and getting as much of my anger out before going home. Mom doesn’t need to be overwhelmed both by dad being home and me being angry.

I just start walking – randomly picking streets and wandering to the best of my ability. I’m not really paying attention to my surroundings – bumping into people and barely avoiding poles and trees. I need a place without people – I just need a place to vent. Where am I even going? Is dad right? Should we all just accept this reality? Just accept him dying without doing anything about it? God I hate this. I wish I could TALK to people about this. I wish dad was on good terms with Sir Nighteye. I wonder if…no, I know this is probably what drove them apart. And dad needs to understand – if his actions drove Nighteye away, what about us? At least he SAW Nighteye almost every day. I don’t think I can take this…

…where am I? A park? What time is it? It’s dark out. I pull my phone out and see that it’s…well past dinner time. How did THAT happen? And I see the messages from mom and…dad.  I look around the park. Nobody seems to be here. Well, it’s pretty dark out now, so that makes sense. Good.  

“AGH!!!!!!!!!!!!” The scream goes on for a while.

“Why can’t he just…realize what All Might is doing to us? He makes us worry so much! UGHHHHHHHHHH!! He can’t ask me to basically choose between him and All Might! All Might is dying, and he’s been declining for years! He needs to see that HE’S dying, not just All Might. How can he not see that All Might isn’t as important to me as he is…”

“Oh, so All Might is dying?” Oh no. Oh craaaaap. “No need to be quiet. Keep going. How do you know this much about All Might?” Shit. I turn around – and see a guy with grey hair and a…hand on his face? Oh shit. This isn’t good.

“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No, you do. Not a lot of people would say that All Might is declining, yet alone dying. It almost sounds like you’re close to him – all that emotion and seriousness.” I’m sweating. There’s no way this is happening. Can I text dad or Tsukauchi? Would reaching for my phone trigger him to attack?

“…What’re you talking about? And…w-where did you come from?” Crap crap craaaaaaaaap. He’s looking straight at me. And I don’t know his quirk. And he doesn’t look too…friendly.

“Oh, was there someone else this late in this park shouting, ‘Oh no, look at what All Might is doing to us! We can’t choose between him and All Might! Both he and All Might are dying!!! Woe is me!’?” I’m nervous. I look around. Nobody else is here. Maybe that means I can escape. “See, you can’t even answer me kid. You know something…You know what? You’ll be an interesting side quest.” Side quest? What? “Come on Kurogiri.” Kurogiri…there’s someone else?!

A man suddenly appears from behind hand-guy. He’s much taller and…hard to see? He has these yellow, wispy eyes. And from what I can see, his head is almost a…cloud? Mist? It doesn’t matter. I didn’t even see him before now. I don’t think I’m getting out of this situation. Shit. I need to run – run and try to contact dad. I shouldn’t have run off! I should have just gone home! Shit shit shit!

“Yes, Tomura Shigaraki. Let’s go.” Go? Go where? RUN – I step back and try to run, but hand guy – Shigaraki – grabbed me with his hand. Tightly. And he’s lifted a finger?

“Don’t move, side quest. Or else I’ll have to put this finger down. And you’ll die.”  And there we go, down into the ground.

#my hero academia #mha #bnha #dadmight #all might #toshinori yagi #yagi toshinori #izuku midoriya #midoriya izuku #bnha izuku #bnha all might #shigaraki tomura #tomura shigaraki #mha izuku #deku #izuku #mha all might #bnha shigaraki #mha shigaraki #bnha fic #mha fic #fanfiction

[jazzhandsmcleg]

...here!

This is still a rough draft, technically, because I wanted to finish the whole thing before I put any of it online. However, a) I certainly don’t know when that will happen, and b) the prologue is old enough, and has already been read by enough people, that I figure it doesn’t much matter if I put it out there properly. I’ll save posting it on AO3 -- you know, formally -- for a later date, though.

The main character, unnamed here for what will become obvious reasons, is the brainchild of my excellent friend James, and so is the rough idea behind this "novelization." Journey, of course, belongs to thatgamecompany. If you’re not familiar with Journey, what are you doing! Go watch it! It’s gorgeous and touching and only an hour and a half long!

---------------

The inside of the tent was like a womb. The thick red cloth that formed its draping roof and walls simultaneously kept most of the sunlight out and transformed what little entered into a rich, deep glow. The fabric was densely woven enough to keep the wind, usually always welcome, out as well: the air was hot, so hot that it felt almost solid – or perhaps liquid. Shiningchild, seated with legs crossed in the center of the tent, leaned away from her work and took a deep breath, relishing the diminished ache in her back and the slight sensation of coolness triggered by her inhalation. Yes, more like a liquid.

Probably that had been done on purpose. This ritual was about beginnings, after all.

She hunched forward once more and adjusted the bundle of cloth that rested on her bare black legs, her ears stiff and alert with renewed focus. Only a few more stitches. And then –

She shook her head and concentrated. Push the gold thread in. Pull it back out. Make sure it aligned with the stitch before it, as it did with the stitch before that. Her robe had to be perfect; it would shame her family if it were anything but, and all of this was unconventional enough.

She chirped softly, no louder than breathing. She loved her family, and she wanted their pride, but there were more directions to travel than east and south.

And I want to visit them all.

Done.

She tied the thread in the birth knot, then wound the remaining thread into a bundle and tied it the same way. It hung just so on the side of her cloak, a little golden hint at future growth. Whether it came or not – and she hoped it would – the possibility was always there.

Now, for a few precious moments, Shiningchild had the opportunity to hurry, to burn some excited, nervous energy. She gathered her robe and hood in one arm and stood quickly, then pulled the fat rope that wound down from the roof of the birthing tent with her free hand. The long, slender white pennant on top of the tent would now be flapping stiffly in the breeze. The Named would be here soon.

Moving with barely contained eagerness, Shiningchild hurriedly juggled hood and robe as she shook the latter out and pulled it over her thin frame. Its familiar weight encircled her comfortingly – but was it just slightly heavier from the threads she had sewn onto the hem?

Anticipation rose within her like a tangible force, making her tremble. She took another deep breath, this one calming as well as cooling, and pulled on her hood with deliberately steady fingers. Then she folded her hands beneath her robe and sat facing the tent flaps, staring hard at the vertical line of light that shone between its closed halves.

Her attention was immediately rewarded. Not even a minute passed before three authoritative whistles sounded from just outside the tent. The calls were a challenge that demanded an immediate response; Shiningchild sat as straight as she could and gave it.

A pause. The line of light half-disappeared as someone stood directly before it, moving aside the rocks that weighed down the tent flaps. Then, finally, the fabric parted and three figures glided in: the Named of Shiningchild’s greater family.

Shiningchild chirped again, this time quietly, respectfully. The Named always warranted such regard: their scarves were long and full, each with the Fullest Circle trailing at the end. Between the three of them, they possessed several centuries of wisdom, knowledge, and experience, and they had led their greater family – and occasionally, with the help of other Named, even the whole Southern tribe – with strength and grace for much longer than Shiningchild had been alive.

Now, nodding wordlessly to acknowledge her greeting, they sat across from Shiningchild in a neat row, their scarves settling gently to the sands around them. The tent flaps jerked briefly as someone outside replaced the stones, but Shiningchild barely noticed. For a long, silent moment she and the Named gazed at each other, the air between them thick with potential. Then:

“Many, many thousands of years ago,” one of the Named began, his voice heavy with ritual. “There was the dark. And in the dark was the Mountain. And the light arose and shone from the Mountain, and as each beam spread across the earth it became a symbol. Before anyone was there to speak or read or be shaped by these symbols, they existed.”

“But they were not alone not for long,” continued another. “For as the light spread across the earth it left new things in its wake, things that came into being in the fertile spaces between dark and light: birds, and soft ground, and things to grow in it. And, finally, our Ancestors. Those before.”

“For a long time they thrived in what the Mountain had given them,” the third said. Her voice, as quiet and ritualistic as her fellows’ at first, slowly reached a crescendo as she spoke. “They learned to speak, and thus to create. They learned to use the gifts they had been granted. They grew, and grew wise. They let the Mountain guide them, name them, and raise them to new heights!”

A deep, ringing silence. Shiningchild held her breath, enraptured.

“Then – things changed,” the third of the Named finished, her voice soft once more.

The first speaker took up the story. “Much of the past is lost to us, but we know that the Ancestors are gone – destroyed. The earth was given over to sand and desert, and what remained of the Ancestors’ works began to wear away.”

Again, as one speaker finished, another began. “After many centuries, two new beams of light spread from the Mountain. Our people were born from one ray of light, and the people of the East from the other. Over the years we multiplied and spread through the desert. We learned symbols and speech, and to avoid the dangerous history of the Ancestors. Their mistakes, whatever they were, are not to be ours.”

“But some, with curiosity unquenched, soon began to find their way to the top of the Mountain,” finished the third. “Or to try, for only those who strayed from the paths of their journeys returned to pass their stories on to their people. To seek the Mountain, too, is death: because of our ancestry, its favor is denied to us. But we live on regardless.”

“And here is the now,” said the first.

“And here is the now,” agreed the second.

“And here is the now,” concluded the third.

Another pause. The third of the Named sighed, and shifted in her seat.

“Shiningchild,” she said, “I speak to you now not as First Glint of Water in the Heart of Midday Sands, not as one of the Named, but as a loving and concerned member of your family. Are you sure you wish to follow this custom? Even now, there is no shame on you, or on us, if you do not. There is no single path to wisdom, or to experience, or to the hallowed. And we cannot help you as much as we would wish: so many of the old ways have been forgotten through disuse, and I know you have been unable to find a companion, despite searching the entire southern tribe.”

Shiningchild bowed her head. “Elder cousin,” she said as humbly as she could, “I am sure.”

Another sigh. Then, the faint rustle of cloth as all three of the Named stood.

“Very well, then,” First Glint of Water in the Heart of Midday Sands said, formal once more. “Shiningchild, Shiningchild, Shiningchild. Kneel. Be born. Receive the beginning of your truename.”

Trembling, Shiningchild turned and shifted into a kneeling position, head bent to reveal the hem of her hood as the three Named gathered close behind her. She felt a series of light jerks as they sewed a blank piece of scarf to the bottom of her hood – for her coming of age – then another set of more distant tugs as they sewed another piece – for her decision to journey – to the bottom of the first.

“Rise.”

She rose, and had to laugh in wonder as a faint glow lit the tent: the appearance of the first symbols of her truename.

Strong hands turned her around, then reached up to cup her head, sending a shiver down her spine.

“Seeker,” said the Named in one voice.

“May you live long and grow rich in wisdom and understanding.”

“May you one day reach the Fullest Circle, as we have done.”

“May you always find what you seek,” finished First Glint of Water in the Heart of Midday Sands, and quickly, tenderly smoothed her thumb over Seeker’s forehead. “Now, come out! Begin your life! Begin your journey!”

One of the Named chimed a command, setting the embroidery on their robes and the symbols on their scarves to glowing. Outside the tent, other members of the clan hastened to pull back the flaps, letting in the fierce light of the sun. Seeker looked straight ahead and walked steadily through the threshold, out into the waiting crowd of her people. They parted before her just as the tent flaps had, leaving a broad path between them.

She looked up. Directly before her on the horizon stood the Mountain, shrouded in clouds at its base but with its summit bared to her sight. A line of light, visible despite the distance and the afternoon sun, shone from a cleft at its peak into the sky.

Behind her, she felt the Named emerge from the tent. “Seeker!” they cried in one voice, prompting a flurry of chirps and whistles from the rest of the greater family.

“Seeker!” they roared in reply, a rush of sound that filled her ears.

And: “Seeker!” she shouted back to them all with her joyful single voice, and shook her cloak in a motion she had practiced a thousand times before, and rose into the air to taste flight for the first time.

#sometimes I write things #Jazz notes #filler tag number one #filler tag number two #filler tag number three #Journey

[dickspagetti]

ok 2 things: put u down? ;) & asks 1-20

stop being so T H I R S T Y that was a M A S O C H I S T I C JOKE. Sick and suffering animals get PUT DOWN. ( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°)

Femme or butch? Futch. Prefer my jeans and my shorts, but I can rock a dress, heels and a mad smoky eye when I want to. (rip can’t manspread in a dress tho.)

Do you have a “type”? If so, describe it. Don’t really have a type, but they gotta be down with spontaneity, and gotta be an environmentalist/animal lover.

Plaid button-ups or leather jackets? Leather. All the way. Usually vegan leather. Plaid is kinda bogan, but still aight.

Describe your style. Depends on the season. Cold months, I rock the full metal style. Hot months, it’s between semi-metal and actual beach bum.

Describe your aesthetic. It’s a mix of minimalism, surrealism, boho and natural. Weird, I know.

Favorite article of clothing? A pleather jacket that I bought for $2 that is probably still covered in vodka.

Favorite pair of shoes? My beat up docs that are also eternally stained with booze. 

Current haircut? Fucking rat’s nest. I need a hair cut so bad but I refuse to lose all the length.

Any haircut goals for the future? Though I have been messing around with a possible side shave. idk don’t question my choices.

Describe the best date you’ve been on. “Dates” aren’t really my thing.

Describe the worst date you’ve been on. Refer to Q10

Single? Taken? Single as fuck and with too many emotional barriers to let anyone in. ┴┬┴┤( ͡° ͜ʖ├┬┴┬

If taken, talk about your girlfriend/wife! I’ll answer another question.

If single, what are you looking for in a potential girlfriend/wife? Sense of humour, a love of the natural world, and the ability to put up with my bullshit.

Describe your dream wedding. Never something I’ve ever actually had to think about because it’s never been something I’d planned on having happen. Probably somewhere in a national park with only immediate family. No religious symbolism. 

Do you want kids? Yeah, but they’re gonna be fur/feather/scale children

If you could live anywhere in the world, where would you live? I’m thinking Norway, or Bhutan. Thailand would be nice too.

Favorite lesbian movie? Come on. It’s only been out 3 days and I’ve watched The Carmilla Movie like 7 times. Just keeps getting better.

Favorite lesbian novel/story? Giving you a poem by Marilyn Hacker instead.

“Untitled”:

You did say, need me less and I’ll want you more.I’m still shell shocked at needing anyone,used to being used to it on my own.It won’t be me out on the tiles till four-thirty, while you’re in bed, willing the dooropen with your need. You wanted her then,more. Because you need to, I woke alonein what’s not yet our room, strewn, though, with yourguitar, shoes, notebook, socks, trousers enjambedwith mine. Half the world was sleeping it offin every other bed under my roof.I wish I had a roof over my bedto pull down on my head when I feel damnedby wanting you so much it looks like need.

20. Favorite lesbian song? Written by or about? Regardless. My Delirium, Ladyhawke. It’s fitting with issues I’ve had/am having with someone.

Bonus bc fuck 13

What is the most attractive quality a woman can have? Kind eyes/a smile that lights up her face.

[joescanlan-blog]

Back to Basics and Back Again: Dan Peterman

Originally uploaded to Joe Scanlan’s website.

It’s common knowledge that recycling has had a very limited effect on the imbalance between the production and consumption of natural resources. The idea that we can save the planet by managing our glass, newspapers and plastics in naïve, not only because those materials are a mere fraction of the problem but also because they have not been readily absorbed into primary manufacturing processes. In any case, the journey from the garbage bin and back again is only one of many orbits that materials go through after they cease to be bauxite, petroleum, or trees. Thus the real concern of the planet is not the dissipation of garbage but the management of materials in constant states of transformation, commodification, and motion—a fact that the recycling industry seems reluctant to admit.

As long as that is the case, Dan Peterman’s work will not be about recycling. True, over the last ten years he has worked extensively with aluminum cans, recycled plastics and flammable garbage, and if there is a flaw in his method it is his own blindness to how strictly coded these materials are for most people. To be fair, Peterman’s blindness is more accurately an extreme focus, a proximity and familiarity with waste materials that precludes the didacticism usually associated with recycling. For six years after graduate school Peterman worked as a bulk mover and sorter for a southside Chicago recycling company called The Resource Center, an experience that seems to have expanded his student interest in object making processes into a broader stream of material consciousness. Knee-deep in the flux of the city’s refuse, Peterman developed an ‘oceanic’ appreciation of its absurd scale, to use Robert Smithson’s term (via Freud) for the anxiety induced by any seemingly limitless or formless expanse.

Peterman’s projects thus far (and there are many) are the direct result of negotiating his relationship to this expanse. Sometimes he attempts to map or structure it; other times he takes samples, turning them into art. Peterman’s works do not function as conclusions of final objects but as a kind of freeze-frame of larger systems in constant motion, crude models for how materials and products have become as transient as information. They are rooted entirely in his material experience, but his sensitivity towards the life cycle of substances allows his artworks to question their less tangible traits: symbolic meanings, social functions and monetary values. While working towards a more congenerous definition of art, he resists the current distinctions between conventional, institutional, site-specific and public art, suggesting that these distinctions are created by the artwork’s reception. All his works are formulated as public propositions, but geared to different audiences and for different effects.

Chicago Compost Shelter (1988) marked a seminal development in Peterman’s conceptual sophistication and sense of humor. Winter being a particularly tough time for aluminum scavengers in Chicago, Peterman devised a temporary warming shelter at The Resource Center’s Seventy-First Street aluminum buy-back station. He began by constructing a wood canopy and door into the side of a defunct Volkswagen microbus; fashioned the interior with curtains, carpeting, blankets and a working radio; and then buried the entire vehicle in active compost, which gives off heat as a by-product of its chemical breakdown. (In addition to traditional recyclables, The Resource Center also composts a lot of the city of Chicago’s organic waste, much of which is horse manure generated by the division of mounted police.) The shelter maintained a 75-degree temperature throughout the winter, providing its audience with a reasonable place to warm up or spend the night.

The construction and intent of Compost Shelter grounded Peterman’s personal philosophy on his place in the wider scheme of things, as well as the extent to which he believed he could influence the status quo. Formally, the Compost Shelter was nearly identical to Robert Smithson’s Partially Buried Wood Shed (1970). But where Smithson’s seminal work was structured around the idea of making entropy visible (dirt was piled onto the roof of a woodshed until the center beam cracked, at which point the activity was stopped), Compost Shelter’s confluence of materials was constructive, even hospitable—bringing a dilapidated van, organic waste and natural forces together in such a way that their traits complemented, rather than contradicted, each other. For Peterman—and for a lot of us—Smithson’s willful futility and fatalism have become a matter of course. And yet Peterman proposes that realistically reducing the potential of human influence doesn’t necessarily mean a diminution of agency, nor a lessening of the belief that change is still possible.

These shifts in scale and effectiveness are most evident in Peterman’s idea of what constitutes a natural resource. For him, bricks of aluminum cans and planks of reprocessed milk cartons are no less raw materials than timber or coal. Peterman’s lack of distinction between consumer waste and natural resources shifts his concept of nature away from its classical definition towards “all the stuff that nobody else wants.” Basically, a natural resource becomes anything that is accessible or affordable, regardless of how much it has been pre-processed or post-consumed. Nature is no longer primordial, some pure place or thing to be protected, but a complex system of material weights and volumes to be stockpiled, traded, and used.

In 1993 Dan Peterman, Sonia Labouriau, Kirsten Mosher and Nancy Rubins were invited to do “outdoor” projects in the charred shell of the New York Kunsthalle, which had been devastated by fire just before its official opening. Peterman had already been experimenting with the sculptural possibilities of a plastic plank product made from milk jugs and marketed as an indestructible substitute for wood. Its primary uses have been outdoor furniture and walls for playgrounds, parks and golf courses. Amused by the irony of so many urban nature preserves deploying such a synthetic and brutally permanent material, Peterman purchased 3,600 lbs of it to construct a kind of petrochemical banquet table that was both a by-product of and a potential site for mass consumption. The table’s length also mimicked the material’s manufacturing process: discarded plastic is shredded, emulsified, compressed and then extruded faster than applications or markets can be found for it. In a limited way Peterman has done his bit by purchasing a personal allotment of recycled plastic planks from which he makes, and remakes, art. Invited to participate in a group show at John Gibson Gallery in New York this summer, Peterman shipped a portion of the Kunsthalle piece to the gallery, reconfiguring it into a patio with benches, the remainder staying at the Kunsthalle until another project beckons or some configuration of it is purchased as art. Meanwhile, the artist has a convenient stockpile of work, strategically maintaining a “presense” (or nuisance) in New York.

Peterman’s ongoing SO2Project began in the Aperto section of the 1993 Venice Biennale, where he exhibited six certificates through which anyone could grant him the power of attorney to purchase sulfur dioxide shares on their behalf. There were no takers, so Peterman purchased five shares at $250 each for himself at the most recent auction in April. He was the highest bidder, though his shares represent only 0.00005 percent of the total allotment sold. The top volume buyer was Allowance Holding Corporation, who purchased 90,000 shares at $150 apiece—89.3 percent of the allotment—which pretty much set the market price. Nonetheless, for $1,250 Dan Peterman purchased the right to place five tons of sulfur dioxide into roughly 30 cubic miles of the atmosphere.

Since then he has learned that the most effective way for coal-burning power plants to reduce SO2 emissions is to install ‘scrubbers’ in their chimneys, where limestone and water draw the most SO2 out of the coal smoke. The by-product of this process is gypsum, the main ingredient for manufacturing plasterboard and drywall. This incidental production of gypsum could end the mining of ‘natural’ gypsum, as corporations source the material from power companies instead of the hills of northern Minnesota. Drywall and electricity are important utilities for contemporary art galleries, and the versatility and economy of drywall technology played a major role in the proliferation of such archetypal spaces as white cubes, rehabbed industrial lofts, and corporate lobbies. Thus Peterman’s investment is not so much about making money on the futures market as it is about purchasing a volume of material that is obliquely linked to our experience of art, and then making these links more visible. Peterman’s SO2 allotment might be calculated into a commensurate amount of gypsum or lighting to be used in an installation; increased or decreased in terms of its monetary value as the market develops; or expanded exponentially in relation to its corollary atmospheric volume if allowable SO2 levels are reduced. Given the specific electric consumption or wall space of an art institution, Peterman might also enlist the institution itself in the SO2 market in order to transfer shares to their account, thereby indicating the scale of the institution’s waste production and consumption and its relation to culture and the environment—in other words, the marketplace.

It remains unclear whether the SO2 shares will be either a worthwhile investment or an effective control mechanism. It also remains unclear what the context of Peterman’s project is, what its audience or impact might be, or how any of his actions are being received—questions which he intends to frame more precisely in an installation at the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art in November. For now he prefers this ambiguity, this confusion of intention and potential. This, of course, is the nature of the “free” marketplace. As the variables now stand, the gradual reduction of SO2 emissions over the next ten years will lead to either a huge surplus of gypsum, the proliferation of other power sources (most likely nuclear), or the eventual obsoletion of the SO2 futures market. Most likely, however, is that enough interested money will get involved to reduce emission levels to a certain degree, but never so far as to jeopardize the interests of business. A permanent level of managed pollution would be the result, not exactly a utopian outcome.

Peterman has clearly signed onto a system outside of his control, yet his actions as an artist don’t demonstrate a literal faith in telling stories or seizing control. Rather they operate as metaphors for what’s individually possible in the new world of managed air space and material ownership. The SO2 Project is not about playing commodities broker, but about the fact that gambling with such huge volumes—and consequences—is even possible. Is it conceivable to go shopping and have that activity ‘produce’ as many resources as it consumes? The question posed by the modest, visually deadpan, Sulfur Dioxide certificates is, do you want that to be the case? Will you have a choice? Either way, Peterman’s offer to purchase individual pieces of sky on our behalf is one of the most disturbingly pragmatic and poetic gestures of our time.

First published in frieze (Sept./Oct., 1994): 36-9

Download Back to Basics and Back Again: Dan Peterman

#joescanlan #artist #author #publication #writing

[sorawcreative]

Black Designer Profile: Stephen Burrows

from Stephen Burrow’s website

Stephen Burrows Looks Back as Retrospective Bows

The designer did not seem to be the least bit wistful, frazzled or reflective about being surrounded by his past.

The following text is copied from WWD

By Rosemary Feitelberg

Stephen Burrows made sure that The Supremes’ “Up The Ladder to the Roof” will be piped into the retrospective of his work that bows Thursday night at the Museum of the City of New York.

Aside from it being a favorite song he liked to blast, it could double as an anthem for his career. Fittingly, the exhibition is called “Stephen Burrows: When Fashion Danced.” And dance he did, regardless if it was to Motown, rhythm and blues, New York sound or rock ’n’ roll. The music, like the up-until-dawn club scene he was once part of, has fueled his creativity as much as the buzz and street life he finds so stimulating about New York City.

This story first appeared in the March 20, 2013 issue of WWD. Subscribe Today.

As 25 helpers scrambled about on Tuesday afternoon pinning muslins, rolling on photographs like wallpaper and setting display text, Burrows did not seem to be the least bit wistful, frazzled or reflective about being surrounded by his past. (Never mind that he has spent the better part of the last six weeks helping to track down and select 50 pieces for the show.) Other flashbacks could be heard loud and clear in a documentary about the 1973 “Battle of Versailles” between French and American designers, of which Burrows was one. “It’s humbling to have so much attention. Usually something like this doesn’t happen until you pass,” he said. “Being successful is being happy in what you’re doing and being able to make money at something that you love to do. I can’t imagine anything that makes you happier than finding true love.”

Born in Newark to divorced parents, Burrows has always thought of himself as “bicoastal” in that he always traveled between his mother’s New Jersey home and his father’s Harlem one. After graduating from the Fashion Institute of Technology, his senior co-op job at the missy blouse company Weber Originals turned into a full-time one. “I was making $125 a week. That was a fortune back then,” he said.

By 1968, he had ventured out on his own thanks to private clients like the Brazilian artist Jim Valkus, Bobby Breslau and Roz Rubenstein. In 1970, his Fire Island friend Joel Schumacher — a Henri Bendel-er before he hit Hollywood — suggested he meet with the store’s then-president Geraldine Stutz and a 12-year alliance was formed. Hardworking as he was, Burrows ran with a fast crowd, including Pat Cleveland, Alva Chinn, Halston, Joe Eula and Elsa Peretti. After an after-dinner nap, Burrows would get up around 11 to hit the clubs with his friends — The Loft, Sanctuary and others. At 3 or 4 a.m., they would head home for a few hours sleep before going to work. Burrows said, “We didn’t really talk about fashion unless to tell someone we loved what they were wearing that they had made. It was mostly about dancing and the nightlife. Music was a big force.”

Alcohol and drugs were other forces too, though Burrows didn’t go into detail about those aspects of the period. “We were a product of the times. All that stuff was around, available and taken into account when needed,” he said.

Standing in the Target-sponsored Commune section of his retrospective, which plays up his disco-era rainbow-colored designs, Burrows said he is partial to the early days. The show opens with a colorful photo of Grace Jones snarling opposite a black-and-white one of a bespectacled Burrows wearing a Jell-O printed shirt. Eyeing an image of his first photo shoot in Central Park in 1970, Burrows said the Seventies were all about freedom of expression. That same year he became the first African-American designer to win a Coty Award. “It didn’t matter who you were with as long as you were happy,” he said. Gesturing towards framed sketches and vibrant knitwear, Burrows said, “I’ve always had a thing for phallic symbols. It’s kind of a signature.”

Others know him for joining Halston, Bill Blass, Oscar de la Renta and Anne Klein in the “Battle of Versailles,” the legendary fashion showdown with Yves Saint Laurent, Christian Dior, Hubert de Givenchy, Pierre Cardin and Emanuel Ungaro. “It was such a proud moment for American fashion,” Burrows said. “Of course, when we did it, we didn’t think about it that way.”

He recalled sitting beside Blass in first class as they flew to Paris for the show. “We didn’t know about the party the models were having in the back of the plane,” said Burrows. Nor did they know the figurative drawings Eula had spent hours sketching in New York would not fit to scale Versailles’ vaulted ceilings. “The Eiffel Tower he drew looked miniscule,” Burrows said. “The room dwarfed the scenery. We had to use a bare empty stage. The situation, we thought, was kind of hopeless. But it turned out to be such a knockout.”

Meeting Josephine Baker — “divine in a catsuit looking like she was naked” — and Saint Laurent were Versailles snapshots he will never forget. “Saint Laurent came up to me and said, ‘You make beautiful clothes,’” Burrows said. “He was sitting in the next booth at the event. The designers weren’t allowed to be with the clothes during the show.”

As for the current designer scene, Burrows rattled off Rick Owens, Lanvin and Jean Paul Gaultier as three favorites. Less enthusiastic about younger designers, he said, “I don’t understand what’s happening with fashion today. It looks very added-to, like everything in the kitchen sink. But that’s just me.”

Celebrity designers don’t hold his interest either. “They come up and just die. There are all these celebrity lines and in 200 days they’re gone. Meanwhile, someone else who does design can’t get going,” Burrows said. “The word ‘designer’ is so loosely used today. Of course, I don’t know what the cure for it is. It’s an animal in its own right.”

Asked about the lack of non-Caucasian models on many designer runways, Burrows said, “I find it peculiar, because part of their customers are not Caucasian. I don’t know that it will ever change. I always use and will always use all different girls.”

Minority designers also still struggle to get financing. “It’s particularly difficult for the minority designers. I don’t know why that is. I find it curious. It’s something that minorities will always be facing.”

At its most profitable in 2006, Burrows’ label was a $2 million business, but there have been fits and starts along the way. After running his own company from 1970 to 1982, he shuttered the doors and bowed out of the limelight. Caring for his cancer-stricken father and brother consumed most of his time, though he continued to create clothes for private clients and design costumes for the off-Broadway show “Momma I Want to Sing.” In 2001, Henri Bendel convinced him to come out of retirement and the following year he set up his own studio on 134th Street to relaunch his label. By 2008, he subletted space on West 37th Street — a few blocks from where his grandmothers first met as sample hands for Hattie Carnegie in the Twenties.

In August, Burrows had to deal with the blow of losing his business partner of 15 years, John Robert Miller, who died unexpectedly. Now he and the brand manager Mary Gleason are speaking with potential investors and hope to have new financing in place for a spring 2014 collection. Occasionally he designs for private clients “but not so much because I hate sewing,” Burrows said. “I’ve never had the patience for sewing. It’s terrible — I can’t sew a straight line.”

As for how he sees his role in the fashion world, he said, “The essence of Stephen Burrows — be happy when you’re in the clothes and have fun with what you’re wearing. I’m very simplistic about things like that. That’s just how I am.”

#African American Fashion #Fashion Designer #History of Fashion #Black History Month #Long Red #Black Fashion

[elizabethcariasa]

Homeowner's insurance is sort of tax deductible in some home office instances

Sorry, but no matter how much your cat "helps" in your home office, the feline will not qualify as an employee, whose costs are tax deductible. However, you might be able to write off a part of your personal residence's homeowner's policy. (Photo by Lisa Omarali via Flicker CC)

The hubby and I are still in self-quarantine, but while we've put the brakes on most of our regular activities, one part of our life is continuing as usual. Our house.

Every homeowner will tell you that in addition to being the complete kings and queens of your (for the most of us) symbolic castle, properly ruling that bastion can be costly.

There are repairs and maintenance and, if you have any dollars left over, improvements. There are in some cases community and/or homeowner association fees. And there's insurance.

Property protection costs: If you have a mortgage, your bank will require you to insure your home in case something terrible happens. Since your financial institution actually owns your home even though you're making monthly payments, it wants some guarantee that the structure isn't rendered worthless in case it's severely damaged or destroyed by a fire or tornado or some other disaster.

We got out annual homeowner's insurance policy renewal today and a new item on the document necessitated a call to the agent. For the first time, our policy noted the age of our roof. But the document's date was wrong. It didn't reflect that we got a new roof several years ago.

I'm no insurance agent, but I suspect having up-to-date data on our house will affect coverage, as well as possibly our premium.

That annual premium, thanks to the increasing property values in our area of Austin, has increased every year.

If your real estate circumstances are similar, or even if your policy's premiums have been flat, you know these policies can be expensive. And it's a cost that homeowners just have to suck up every year. While there still are some home-related costs that can be deducted on federal taxes, homeowner's insurance generally is not.

Working from home: But wait! There's a little more. As is so often the case with taxes, there's an Internal Revenue Code exception that could make at least a part of your policy tax deductible.

You can write off a portion of your home insurance premium when use part of your home for business. In this situation, the Internal Revenue Service will allow you to claim a portion of your overall residential policy premium as it relates to your work space.

The amount of the policy's cost that can be claimed is the percentage of your home used as your home office. For example, if 10 percent of your home is your office, then 10 percent of your home insurance premiums can be deducted.

If you use your garage or a free-standing structure on your property to do your work and it's covered by your homeowner policy, that area's square footage also qualifies as home-office expense deduction.

I use a spare bedroom as my home office. Every year when I get our homeowner's policy renewal, in addition to (1) griping about this year's higher cost and (2) checking it over for changes or additions, I also (3) make a copy and drop it into my office expenses file for tax filing next year.

Then when I go to fill out my Schedule C and the associated Form 8829, Expenses for Business Use of Your Home, I have that premium amount, along with my home's monthly utility bills that I also pro-rate as a home office expense, handy.

Added insurance also counts: Depending on your business, your insurance needs might need to be increased.

Your run-of-the-mill might not cover the value of business property you have. In fact, it might even exclude certain coverages.

So if you have a valuable home computer set-up you need to effectively do your job or you keep a lot of inventory in your home office, it's worth at least looking at getting a separate rider to your homeowner's policy or a separate commercial insurance policy altogether.

That special business policy is, of course, an allowable deduction for your home-run business.

Making sure your home office qualifies: Of course, your home office must meet Internal Revenue Service muster before you can claim even a portion of your homeowner's insurance policy or any other costs.

If you are the business owner, your home office must meet two requirements. Your home-based office must be:

Used regularly and exclusively for business. It doesn't have to be a separate room; a portion of room designated for work use only counts. But regardless of how large or small, the room or area cannot be used for personal tasks, too.

Used as your principal place of your business. This is possible even if you conduct business outside your home, for example, to meet with clients, as long as you use your home substantially and regularly to conduct business.

While, as I noted earlier, I use a spare room in my house as my office. But tax law doesn't demand you have such a defined, separate area for it to count as a home office. A section of a room that you and only you use to do work only can count, even if the room is used for other activities.

You can find more on home office deductions and other expenses in IRS Publication 587, Business Use of Your Home (Including Use by Daycare Providers).

Home offices under COVID-19 closures: With so many firms closing as a way to stem the spread of the coronavirus, thousands of folks have been working from home for weeks.

Does that mean they, too, can claim their temporary home-based workspace as a home office and get some tax break? Short answer, no.

Longer answer is that used to be a possibility until a few years ago.

The Tax Cuts and Jobs Act (TCJA) that became law in late 2017 did away with the itemized deduction where this might, maybe, possibly have been claimed here.

Prior to the TCJA, unreimbursed business expenses were potential miscellaneous deductions, including a home office as long as it was for the convenience of the employer, on Schedule A. That tax claim option was eliminated with the enactment of the Republican tax reform bill.

Questionable home worker claims: Also, even though I know my very tax-law abiding readers don't need reminding, don't try to push the deduction envelope because you are legitimately working from home.

When you do so as an employee of someone else — that is, you're getting paid by a company that will issue you a W-2 form — you cannot claim home office expenses on Schedule C. That's only for folks who are self-employed, including gig workers and side hustlers.

If you try to claim home office expenses that began in March 2020 when COVID-19 started accelerating and businesses started shutting down and then "closed" your home-based business later when your workplace re-opened (properly arranged for safe social/work distancing, I hope!) and you started go back there, expect the IRS to notice.

And that notice will be in the form of an official notice, otherwise known as a correspondence audit. The relatively small home office tax break you might get is not worth that kind of trouble.

You also might find these items of interest:

IRS offers an easier way to deduct your home office

Deducting business meals & other expenses on Schedule C

The eventual, and often unexpected, tax cost of home office depreciation

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[blue-opossum]

The Bird Semblance in Dream Content Management, chapter 1

        Afternoon of May 3, 2020. Sunday.

        Reading time (optimized): 4 min.

        The bird semblance in my dreams, as a result of my instinctual, liminal, or lucid management of vestibular cortex arousal, is estimated to have occurred at least 10,000 times in my dreaming history. The dynamics of this process determine the specifics of my waking transition, including whether it is a soft awakening (with little or no myoclonus) or inclusive of either positive or negative myoclonus. The myoclonic factor is not a result of a medical condition but occurs spontaneously as a result of my attempt to modulate the dream state and control the dynamics of my vestibular cortex. It is crucial to understand that this type of dream content is random compensation as a result of the physiological response of dreaming, which is neither symbolism in the conventional sense nor the result of waking-life status. I will share summaries of some of my favorite dreaming experiences in this book.

        Age 8. Lucid, sleeping on my back. Late-night dream. In the morning in my Cubitis home's backyard, I raise my fist to the cloudless blue sky and shout at several Florida buzzards that I am not afraid of them. One swoops down, and I run into our carport. Lower back myoclonus occurs, as I quickly sit down on a chair, as the beak jabs the small of my back as I attempt to crush the bird against the chair. (The bird now seems half of its original size.) The somatosensory response was so vivid, I could feel an imaginary lump under the small of my back for about three minutes after waking, and I thought I had rolled onto my cat, though there was nothing there. Eventually, the sensation of there being a lump faded.

        Important note: Even though I had no fear of Florida buzzards in waking life, and would often play in my backyard when I saw them circling over neighboring farms, I perceived them as potentially threatening in my childhood dreams.

        Age 15. Lucid. Late morning dream. I see a rare (fictitious) species of grouse grazing freely in the backyard of the Cubitis home, about seven birds (and although somewhat quail-like, they most resemble spruce grouse). They can control human beings and seem to possess human sentience. Warily watching them for a few minutes, I spontaneously fall to the ground onto my side onto one of them (lower back myoclonus simultaneously occurs), possibly crushing it. The other grouse look on, and I sense I may be "doomed" and seem to have a paralyzed body. (The emotion does not correlate with any waking-life experience. Additionally, physicality in the dream state is imagination, and this is not like my usual sleep paralysis, which is blissful and without any imagery.)

        I included the above dream here for comparison to the previous. In the first, I am deliberately trying to crush my pursuer. In this instance, the implication is that it is accidental, though it is ultimately the result of compensating for the same physiological process.

        Age 56. Lucid, sleeping lightly on my right side. In an unlit featureless room that ambiguously models where I am sleeping, I gaze at the blue sky through a closed sash window. A white-tailed kite (bird) is flying directly towards the window. The bird changes into a white kite (toy), but the window shatters inward with simultaneous lower back myoclonus before the kite strikes it. (This experience is atypical, as there is nothing behind me in my dream.)

        I included this dream here to show it is the same fundamental process (even after forty years) as my previous two dreams. However, in this instance, timing and dynamics are highly ambiguous, which sometimes happens when anticipating and attempting to modulate myoclonus in my highest level of lucidity.

        Age 10. Lucid. Late-night dream. I walk out onto the carport of the Cubitis house late at night, and the entire house seems to be high in the sky, inside a tornado (probably influence from "The Wizard of Oz"). There is a deep sense of peace regardless of debris blowing in the wind beyond the carport. Despite the probable associations with a Florida buzzard and the animated Woggle-Birds from "Jack and the Beanstalk" (1967), seen earlier that night, a bird that most resembles an African hawk-eagle flies to the edge of the carport adjacent to what would otherwise be the backyard. The bird is as tall as me and wears a crown. It has the essence of a guardian that will help me in any way I may need it. (I do not recall waking from this dream.)

        Age 10. Lucid. Late morning dream. I am flying high in the blue sky with a Florida buzzard flying on my left, though it ignores me. It swoops down into a hamlet with a sense of awe and as a potential threat. The mood changes to cheerfulness and hilarity after the bird suddenly becomes their king. People carry the human-sized bird that is now sitting in a palanquin, down the front steps of the DeSoto county courthouse as an orchestral version of "Pomp and Circumstance (Graduation Song)" plays moderately fast. There is a ticker-tape parade with people cheering, and I laugh myself awake with light abdominal myoclonus.

        Age 11. Liminal. Early-morning dream. While watching a lunar eclipse at night in the front yard of my Cubitis home, I see the moon transform into a giant crow. It soon becomes too fat to fly, and after soaring for a short time, it crashes through our roof into the walk-in closet (where I keep my school clothes) of the southwest bedroom after I teleport there. It is nearly as long as the closet's width and seems puzzled and now looks like a sketchy cartoon (possibly influenced by "Heckle and Jeckle").

        My above dream's outcome is the result of my dream state thoughts transitioning from the dream state narrative and the typical vestibular system correlation (and its anticipation and expectation) of falling associations to the emerging awareness that I needed to wake up to get ready for school.

#dream journal #meaning of dreams #birds in dreams

[oliviarthomasba2a]

Word sprint

Word sprints are an exercise to help get us into the mindset of just writing and not overthinking too much. By being asked to write whatever and as much as I can in a limited amount of time helps force you to just write - this means I have less time to wonder if anything works, sounds good or just over thinking in general. I found these to be a good task and fun to do, as well as very useful. I found myself writing stuff I may not necessarily have done so if I hadn’t had the added pressure and actually enjoyed having this weight off my shoulders and just having the freedom to write whatever comes to mind, regardless of how good or bad it may be.

Below are a couple unedited attempts at this using a couple of prompts. 

Hidden killer

She lay in wait, through the holes in the leaves. Silently and deadly still, not a sound to be heard. Her eyes fierce and bright focused on what was in front, a stare alone that could kill by the sheer strength of her conviction. Poised, her stance was ready to explode, however, the time was not right yet, so she’ll just wait. Her gaze never strayed away from the target.

 The door

At the end of the long drive was the entrance. The door was tall and towered above me. It was framed by two stone pillars either side, protecting the entrance, pressing in close.

The varnished wood was pristine and glossed, as though it had been freshly layered, while the step up to the door was covered be a matt with the word ‘welcome’ imprinted in the material. Oddly enough this was the opposite of how I felt.

As I reached for the silver handle located at an arm’s reach, I looked above and noticed the spyhole. I suddenly had the overwhelming feeling that someone was watching me from the other side. I paused and refrained from knocking. At the moment a chill gust tore through me and the rain began to thrash down at a moment’s notice; I had no choice.

I grabbed the handle, the sharp chill of the metal prickled my fingers, making me twitch and jerk slightly.

I liked the door prompt since it really got me thinking about their significance in sotry telling potential, but also their specific significance in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Looking at this website, I realised some interesting information about their power in the story.

Doors have a symbolic significance in the novella. In general doors have powerful symbolic potential in literature, drama, and film. Doors can be opened to grant access or opportunity to something or someone, but they can also be used protectively or secretively to keep something or someone out. 

In The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, doors represent good and evil, points of access and barriers, and symbols of character.

Dr. Jekyll's Door:

Dr. Jekyll's door can be thought of as both a point of access to and a representation of his character. Jekyll is a well-respected and successful doctor in London, and his front door reflects this. The novel's narrator tells us that the doctor's home is part of a ''square of ancient, handsome houses,'' and that its door ''w[ears] a great air of wealth and comfort.''

Beyond the door is ''a large, low-roofed, comfortable hall paved with flags, warmed... by a bright, open fire, and furnished with costly cabinets of oak.'' Mr. Utterson, Jekyll's attorney and friend, describes the hall behind the door as ''the pleasantest room in London.''

Like his door, Jekyll is a ''well-made, smooth-faced man of fifty, with something of a stylish cast'' and ''every mark of capacity and kindness.''

Jekyll's door is also both a point of access and a barrier to Utterson, and it's been controlled for twenty years by his servant, Poole. At the beginning and middle of the novel, Poole invites Utterson into the house to see Jekyll, but at times in between, Utterson is mysteriously denied admittance.

Mr. Hyde's Door

Mr. Hyde's door, too, can be read as a point of access to and representation of his character. It's a symbol of insidious intrigue: Utterson is first introduced to the door in conversation with his friend Mr. Enfield, who calls the building it belongs to ''Black Mail House.'' 

Unlike Jekyll's home, Hyde's is a ''sinister block of building thrust forward... on the street.'' It is ''two storeys high; show[s] no window, nothing but a door on the lower storey and a blind forehead of the discoloured wall on the upper.'' It shows ''the marks of prolonged and sordid negligence.'' Its door is ''blistered and disdained,'' a shelter for tramps and street urchins.

In contrast to Jekyll, Hyde, like his door, inspires revulsion in everyone he meets. He is ''pale and dwarfish'' and ''troglodytic''. He also gives a strange ''impression of deformity without any nameable malformation'' and has a ''displeasing smile.''

I realsied that I had tried to describe my door to be like the person I imagined was inside - describing it as cold and unwelcoming. This was something that was done in the novella - the doors begin used to represent the characters, who they are and what they’re like. 

#storyadaptation

[deviantkindergarten-blog]

The World's Best Deviant is a Kindergartener

What are we even talking about? A kindergarten in Japan has been designed to allow for the most effective engagement of its students: distinguishing features a long sprawling playground on the roof of the building, open air classrooms and trees built into the facility, make this school is every 5 year olds dream. There are no limits, the children can leave class as they please: ”He will come back eventually, because it's a circle, it comes back" and "he loves the tree so he is eating the tree” says Takaharu Tezuka, the architect who designed the school (Tezuka, 2014). He recounts the ideas that are behind this new Kindergarten. The idea is simple: this school, with all its new and interesting features was made so that the children could reap the full benefit of their kindergarten experience. What is a sociological perspective? To explore the ideology behind this man-made phenomenon, a sociological perspective will be employed. A sociological perspective is about “seeing the strange in the familiar” (Johnston et alt., 2017), meaning, dissecting and looking at things we take for granted as if we had never truly looked at them or thought about them with an unfamiliar eye. (Johnston et alt., 2017) While a sociological perspective is the basis through which we will be viewing things, to pin point ideas and to be able to study them thoroughly, we must use sociological tools within that spectrum to help us. A theoretical perspective, one of the many tools in a sociologist’s belt, can help us to uncover and dissect the ideals of norms and deviance in schooling. What is a theoretical perspective of sociology? A theoretical perspective can be seen as a "lens" through which we view ideas, institutions or sets of norms (Johnston et alt, 2017). These perspectives aid in focusing on which questions to ask when looking at different ideals, institutions or systems. While there are four theoretical perspectives (feminism, symbolic interactionism, functionalism and conflict theory), I will be choosing the conflict theory (although schooling could arguably be looked at through all four) in order to dissect the issues at hand. The conflict theory is one that allows us to ask the question: How does this idea or concept marginalize or privilege those who are affected by it? (Johnston et alt, 2017) And so, in regards to this school, the question is, “How does this kindergarten marginalize or privilege the students in attendance?" To dive in, we must first look at the norms of schooling of Western society and how they affect the students, and then look at how the deviant style of this kindergarten privileges or marginalizes the students. The aim of my research is to be able to answer the question: “How do the norms of schooling here in Canada help or hinder the marginalization of students, and how does Tezuka’s school challenge those norms?” Norms of schooling today: do they hurt or help our children? Schools, zeroing in on typical Canadian schooling, are ruled by sets of norms, meaning the “often informal, but widely known and accepted way of doing things within” our system (Johnston et alt, 2017), that rarely differ very much from one educational institution to the next. Whether you sit the students in a row type or U formation, or whether your board is chalk or white, we must all realize that the end game is the same: shut up and listen, and be as successful as possible. While most may think that success is an obvious and important goal, it is the definition of success in our culture that is problematic and not so much the word success itself. Success is defined as “the accomplishment of one’s goals” (Collins ED, 2017). While the definition of success is in no way directly related to power or monetary wealth, somehow success in our schooling system has become synonymous with getting good grades in subjects that will make you rich. Instead of having our goal be to succeed at learning, it has been made to “be successful in getting good grades”, which are two completely different things. This brings us to the capitalist norms of schooling in our culture. Capitalism is the ideology of “an economic and political system in which property, business, and industry are owned by private individuals and not by the state” (HarperCollins, post 1819) meaning that we must be endlessly successful in production and consumption, which doesn't leave much room for creativity. We put so much emphasis on being “successful” in classes that will make us smarter in richer fields that we no longer reward true learning, but rather ones desire to be the most productive possible, even if they hate the thing they are productive at. This ideology makes for generation upon generation of young adults who are willing to be stupid, if that means that they don't have to go to one more day of school in their life. Deviance today, norms of tomorrow? Deviance, although it has a negative connotation, is not always so, though may be viewed as such by a significant portion of our population. Let me explain: women or non-whites demanding voting rights was once seen as deviant, whereas now, in western countries, is seen as "normal". Acts of deviance, in reality, are just acts that go against the grain of our norms (Johnston et alt, 2017), regardless of the ideology behind said norm. As explained previously, the norms of schooling can be severely detrimental to many students, making this school very appealing in many ways. If we dig in a little bit, we can see that typical schooling is very ableist: it privileges “able” students and hinders the capabilities of students with certain disabilities, from ADHD to left handed people to children with dyslexia (Farinas, 2016, 1). I think that this type of school would make a significant change in the way children learn and would be immensely beneficial to those with hyper-activity. Imagine a child with ADHD, instead of disrupting the class because they are bored and cannot sit still, being able to get up and run around, get rid of some excess energy and then coming back when they are ready and willing to learn. It would not only help the bored kids, but everyone else in the class from being distracted. It’s a win-win. The deviance doesn’t stop there though: the rooftop playground, while some would say is dangerous, is actually extremely economical in resources such as space and material. This type of schooling also aids in brain development of children of this age, as they are encouraged to be independent, hence letting the kids be hurt so that they learn (Tezuka, 2014), and because outdoor play has been shown to be incredibly significant in brain development as this age (Adams et alt, 2016, 15). Overall, the amount of potential benefits that this school has to offer far outweigh the importance of norms we uphold in school systems. Perhaps from now on, these should be the new norms of schooling, if we want the best for our children. What Next? Now you may be asking yourself, as a concerned parent or just as a citizen of the world: How do I make sure that children don’t get turned into capitalist production robots? Well for one, you can look into schooling and make sure the teachers at potential schools are interested in what they’re doing and have your kids interests at heart. You can also push for efforts in different teaching styles like the recommendation that Dartmouth recently put out: http://www.umassd.edu/dss/resources/facultystaff/howtoteachandaccommodate/howtoaccommodatedifferentlearningstyles/ or support teachers like Joe Ruhl, a science teacher in the states who has one of the most interesting classrooms out there (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UCFg9bcW7Bk). The main thing we need though, is a push for an interest in successful learning, and not just successful rule following. I think that if we can help create a sense of curiosity and excitement within ourselves and in children, then we are doing our part.

[peanutdracolich]

Peanut Dracolich Watches Horror: The Descent

Going into the film I knew only vague things. Someone got covered with blood. It was probably underground. I’d heard things about it being compared to Saw because both were bloody horror movies and Saw came first. Roger Ebert gave it a thumbs up. Something about Dante imagery.

Of these things some were true. This film is full of gore. Do not watch the film if you don’t like gore. It is also a gruesome, brutal, and at times brutally effective horror film. It is capable of gripping at you tightly, the danger rush rising, and in some ways is the best horror film I’ve watched this month. I’d still rate it only 5th or so, but for a certain niche it is truly great. What it does it does well.

It is not merely a thing of blood, violence, and poor spelunking choices. There is a moral aspect to it, which is well played, and we see mankind’s need to hang on to each other when in danger or all hang separately.

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, as well as the play by play below.

The Good:

The Moral Dilemma: Don’t read this bit if you haven’t seen the movie Well if you’ve seen the movie you know the basic gist of it. Still it’s nice to see the choice between vengeance and forgiveness played out, and the fake out that goes with it is also nice. It sets up a wonderful end.

You can read again.

The Brutal Action: I am not adverse to gore and brutality. While I usually find it no substitute for other parts of horror, here it was done well and in a gruesome way that really worked really bloody well. The deaths were gory, but it wasn’t just here’s a gory death be scared, and the action, when they fought the crawlers (as the ending credits called them, I’d have called them the orloks or cave goblins) it was effective action that fit a horror film.

The Setting: This has to be mentioned as it was a large part of making the film work. The narrow, dark, and claustrophobic cave is a scary place and the darkness, trapped in the dark, was used to good effect. Still it feels sort of like saying Alien’s best feature was it was set on a space ship.

The Bad:

The Stupid: Guys it’s obviously not the right cave. Guys don’t crawl down a tunnel that narrow that readily. Sam don’t try climbing that what are you doing? Beth... There’s a lot of stupid moments in the film. While it works despite them and some (guys it’s obviously not the right cave) are acceptable as genre conventions of a sort (a horror movie about being at a place where people shouldn’t be is expected to use a bit of stupid for it) eventually they got a little grating.

The Crawlers: Their biology is egregiously dumb. They’re blind, but shown to be attracted to light. They see with echolocation, but seem to have worse hearing than humans. They sniff people, but can’t actually smell them. They are cave predators, but poorly armed humans kill them when outnumbered without good lighting. They are only scary due to their numbers and the cave itself; they’re less intimidating than Aliens xenomorphs, the setting fixes some of this, but they are not that scary in and of themselves. Bonus points, though, for making them look like Count Orlok bringing in that horror and potential homage.

The Fake Outs: There’s a lot of empty cat scare like fake outs in the first 30 minutes of the film. They don’t really add much to the horror and just sort of add time. While one has purpose in showing us one of Sarah’s hallucinations the others are pointless.

The Ugly:

The Blood Pool: While I could mention the bone-setting scene, because as much as I liked it it was gory really gory, the blood pool gets points for looking like chili and tomato sauce.

The Bats: Not quite 60s movie bad but bad, really quite bad.

The Play by Play (I suggest watching the film first though note lots of gore)

I know nothing about this film other than it's 'recent' (here apparently meaning newer than the 90s), something about people covered in blood, and critical reviews mention Dante symbolism. This is the extent of my knowledge.

I now know it starts with people the scariest of all acts, white water rafting. As I don't like water due to being 1/4 wicked witch on my godmother's side that might actually be something I'd not enjoy and seriously be scared doing.

Still this is only a quite prelude for a car crash wherein one woman is injured and a dude dies with copper tubes through him. Quick, sudden, brutal. No real horror because it's just a quick death in a random accident, but the woman wakes up in an abandoned hospital alone and confused. Lights begin to turn out towards her and we get some madness view, and she begins to run from the encroaching darkness calling her daughter's name.

Then we cut out of her mad take upon the world and see that it is a normal hospital and well lit. Still her husband and daughter are dead. I'm guessing she'll try and resurrect them or something (and also that her husband was cheating on her).

And we cut to 1 year later and the Appalachian mountains. The English do not like our country music. And the national park sign has been shot, who the frick did that. Still it's the Appalachians I'm familiar with them, they include some nice mountains, and some creepy ones.

Still it's 5 women alone in the woods. Or perhaps 6. Movie is thus far dark in a sort of sad, depressing way. This seems thematically fitting given the main woman's (I will have to learn their names) depression over the death of her husband and daughter. And even now she's have a nightmare about getting a pipe through the head. Shocking imagery but it creates a little surge of fear and then it's gone and the tension and build up reduced by the surge. It wastes the unease. I say it wastes it because it'd been doing a good job of building it actually, the depressing dark is a tension of its own. I mean I guess I could call them Protag, Asian, Dark, Doctor (in training), Older Sister, and Punk, but I need proper names, I don't like those. So we have Juno, Sarah, and I'll try. One is Rebecca. Juno puts the guide book back in the car, this is a mistake.

I think the film wants to find a waterfall scary? And then jump scare with crows. It's not poorly done. It gets a little jump, but it is more setting up what they were scavenging, a dead elk. It's also not quite a full jump scare, but it's pretty nice and fun.

They arrive at the mouth of the cave. I feel like if this is a common attraction there'd be more of a path leading to it. Like it doesn't look like there's been that many people as they kept talking about. Holly comes down too quick and almost hits someone because she's crazy punk girl.

One of them finds an indentation in the stone shaped just right to place your fingers in and it's either bloody or the color of blood. That's disturbing. We are then greeting with a sudden burst of bats as a fake out scare. It's better than Friday the Thirteenth Part 2's cat scare, but the bats look pretty bad, I had thought that by 2005 we could do bats more effectively. Still we have a group of women in a cave which is an effective setting for horror and since it's all women we won't have the guy who is designated to die through heroic sacrifice. I'd say something about how none of them are black so we don't have the black guy dies first, but... most of the horror movies I've watched has the black guy die sort of middling if it has one at all or else specifically are referencing the trope. Still natural instinct from media and the like is a man as the protector (see heroic sacrifice) so it makes you more prone to worry about their safety (regardless of the validity of it).

Grieving protagonist lady finds the next part of the journey. Or she thinks she does. It's a tiny hole that a guy probably couldn't get through and which they have to swim part of the way through. This seems like the wrong path. One of them even states as much. It's like a how not to go spelunking at the moment. They ought to take a look around for another path, but they aren't (it'd insult her after all) so they instead follow that path. One of them (Sarah, the grieving protag) gets stuck because she has a bag. She also has a total break down with elements of claustrophobia. And then a rock shifts almost crushing her, and the entire tunnel collapses.

Scene is sort of intense, but you know she's not going to die. They're all fine for now, but they lost the ropes and are caved in.

The truth comes out. They aren't in Boreham Caverns. They're in a new cave system that no one has explored before. The rest are justifiably pissed at Juno for lying to them (though they ought to have known something was up). Juno notes that she lost something in that crash too (she was banging Sarah's husband) and they move on.

They reach a place where one of them has to ninja warrior across a pit by hanging off the roof. Thankfully they're not all guys, cause guys are heavy and grip strength is not great for them. She finds a piton in the ceiling already, though, meaning they're not the first ones in this cave.

Juno, being a death seeker, goes the hard way, reclaiming the rope and along the way. She gives the excuse that they need everything they've got which is true enough, but she slips but survives slamming into the cliff face. She also points out the obvious: Whoever came this way before didn't make it out. It's most likely a dead end. Also they went through most likely 100+ years ago due to the age of the piton.

They find a cave painting of the mountain, and 2 caves. Of course this is an ancient cave painting. It gives hope, but... who knows if it's still true. There's also a hint of there being something else in there with them?

Oooh we see them use the old fire trick for getting out of a cave (you find an air flow). Then Holly runs off and falls down a hole in a rush for 'daylight'.She smashes her leg and bone is exposed. My stomach churning fascination with gore comes out wanting to see more, but her shin is broken and stabbed through her flesh. It's disgusting but effective. Thankfully one of them is a med student... who has to push the bone back in. I am not easily affected by 'gore' and the field operation is fun to watch, but if you're queasy about such things.

More signs that they're not alone, and we see the creature. It's humanoid, pale white, and agile. Of course Sarah is the one who saw it and she's prone to hallucinations so Juno doesn't believe it.

Sarah thinks it's a man. Med-student says doesn't matter they need out of there for Holly. No one points out that if it was a man who ran from them he might not be willing to help. And the daylight was 'phosphorous in the rock' but phosphorous doesn't glow constantly and they weren't shining a light on it when they saw it. This feels weird. Still they find hundreds of dead animals. Sarah, in the middle of the animal kill pit starts screaming out to people. And then Count Orlok is behind one of them and it runs, scrambling up onto the roof of the cave, but now they've all seen it and it's ot human.

My ankles itch. And Holly's throat is bitten out, by the crotchless cave vampire, who then runs off only to return when Juno tries to steal its kill. It starts fighting her like an animal over its kill, and Juno hits it with an ice axe, but it has friends. Or maybe I should be saying he. Ken doll as they are it's definitely got masculine secondary sexual characteristics.

Our second death is Juno, having just fought off two of them, killing the person who came up behind her without saying anything. It's pure reflex action, and the approach was horribly stupid (though actually I think her light broke, still voices), but that doesn't wholly ruin the scene. Still we have Juno on her own in the dark, and then we have Rebecca, Sarah, and I'm not sure if Rebecca is Med-Student or not.

Still eventually Sarah sleeps for we have a scene of her waking up in the midst of human skeletons this time (and a pipe of some sort? Maybe it's a can of nuclear waste?). Maybe she was knocked out since this is where they eat Holly. The scene is gruesome, bloody, and kind of scary. I want the cat off my lap so I can raise my leg. My other leg isn't raising either though.

Sarah almost barfs but holds back, and thankfully these creatures don't have the best darkness adapted senses as while it reacts to the sound, and starts sniffing her it doesn't seem able to tell she's there without a light on. Strange for cave dwellers. Juno's shouts scare it off.

Also oddly 'beeping watch that sounds unnatural as can be' attracts them, but human voices scare them... except then attract them. It's weird.

So having thought too much on the creatures' behavior and evolutionary adaptations (I like making up creatures so I think on these things) I'm a little pulled out of things. Doesn't help that the movie has entered a lull after a few payoffless scenes of danger. Still I can feel the vestiges of that fear.

One of the creatures swings down at Rebecca and she tells Sam (med-school girl) to run; protective big sis that she is. When Juno kills this one, Rebecca stops out of arms reach and starts panting in terror until Juno recognizes her, Juno also doesn't reflex lash out, but this is still smarter approach.

We're told that they're totally blind and have echolocation. That's why they've been attracted to light. They don't have pupils.

Still Juno has badassed her way into finding the markings of the prior spelunker(s), and saving Sam and Rebecca, but she refuses to leave without Sarah. Beth warns Sarah not to go near Juno, still surprisingly alive but in the feasting chamber. This is bad advice, but I can understand how. Beth also tells Sarah that her husband was cheating on her with Juno. Sarah has to mercy kill Beth.

And one foot up when a creature jumps on Sarah from behind. We see a female of the species. She looks like a hag from D&D. Sarah kills the female in a pool of chili and emerges covered in tomato sauce, grabbing her torch before a male comes and starts slobbering on her as she plays dead. The others hear Sarah's scream of conquest and...strangely the fear is gone. I don't know why but I shifted a leg for comfort and it's gone. Even when a whole mass appear to chase the three other than Sarah I don't feel it. When it becomes obvious Sam is going to die soon I become a bit scared again, because I liked med student, but she dies due to stupid and apparently just a complete break down so I care less. Gets Rebecca killed too. Good going.

Juno survives through sheer badassness once again. But reuniting with Sarah she claims to have seen Beth die which... Well Beth should have been dead with that wound, so it's a reasonable claim for Juno to believe, but given what Beth said she won't be believed or trusted now. Still Sarah and her meet up and some fear returns as the creatures arrive to... Seriously get pawned in their natural element. With lots of gore.

They find a lit area and Sarah reveals that she knows about the affair and Beth (wordlessly) and when she is certain that Juno knows it, certain that more are coming, she stabs Juno on the knee and leaves her to die at their hands. A moral damnation of our heroine. Even so she finds the exit, climbing up a hill of bones to emerge to the surface reborn. And I am torn. She killed someone who had sins, but none deserving that murder (Beth's death was the fault of her stupid) and yet she is the survivor. It is an interesting moral twist, and I cannot tell whether we're supposed to find her justified in the act of murder because of the affair or... Never mind it's another hallucination and a good scare scene. Kudos film, kudos. She had fallen and so the escape didn't make that much sense, but the film had had enough that didn't already. But no, she is simply lost in her madness, a final break deep within the Earth. Quite effective.

#peanutdracolich watches horror #The Descent (2005) #Lots of gore