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mellointheory · 2 years

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Directive: Pandora

This fic is for my Secret Santa, the beloved @ceykore. I hope you have a wonderful Christmas Eve and here's a fic about your wife Pandora's Vault. Enjoy! <3 (also here's a song just for vibes)

Pandora awakens on the day her purpose comes. It is an all consuming knowledge that thrums through her veins of redstone and lava. It spans her from corner to corner, the gears and intricate workings of her body grinding to life around the individual at her center.

Directive: contain the prisoner.

Her machinery hums in confirmation.

“Hello, Pandora. Welcome to the server.” The Warden speaks directly to her, mind to mind. Her consciousness is vast and calm, the mind of a building with a single responsibility. His is even larger and ancient, twisted and extended in odd ways. Pandora has only the thoughts she needs to control these walls and gates and systems that fill her. The Warden, her creator, has far more bodies than she does.

“Hello, Warden,” she responds. “The prisoner is at ninety-seven percent security. Individuals Punz, Sapnap, and Bad have exited my walls.”

“Very good, Pandora,” the Warden replies. The tone of his thoughts is resigned. “Assign individuals Antfrost and Badboyhalo with secondary guard clearance.”

Pandora easily picks out the two he means from the information she has been programmed with.

“Guard clearance has been granted to Badlands members Antfrost and Badboyhalo.”

She watches as the Warden paces along her halls, examining that everything is working correctly.

“My machinery is at ninety-nine percent efficiency,” she hums. “No further investigation is required.”

“Just a precaution,” the Warden says aloud, voice picked up by the speakers set in her blackstone walls.

She watches him in silence. He checks over every inch of her gates and doors and dispensers. Once, twice.

She is very young, but she still wonders. Why does he doubt? Her walls are strong and her systems perfect.

“The prisoner is at ninety-seven percent security,” she offers patiently.

Her maker does not listen.

Pandora learns a few things over the weeks.

She learns that as long as the Warden remains in his body kept within her walls, the one of armor and netherite and redstone-infused eyes to better connect with her system, he will not sleep. She learns the two guards by their footsteps as well as their profiles. Bad is the taller one, a demon who she makes certain to open doors all the way for, in order to keep him from bumping his horns on the frame. Ant is the shorter one, who often stays in her towers even after his shifts have finished so he can light up some strange vegetation and breathe in its smoke. Sometimes the Warden joins him, and those are the only times Pandora sees her maker rest.

She learns that the Warden’s name is Sam and she learns that her prisoner—ninety-seven percent security—is named Dream. She learns that Dream has a friend-not-friend, someone who he dearly misses.

One day, after a young boy with lanky shoulders and trembling hands walks her halls, Pandora finds herself no longer alone.

She sees the color as another individual joins her connection, the network where her mind lies.

Directive: protect Tommyinnit, orders the voice that dictates the world. It isn’t speaking to Pandora herself, but to the newcomer. When Pandora reaches out to him she finds slight confusion but also a familiar sense of duty. This brother of hers will take his mission as seriously as she herself does.

“Hello, Sam Nook,” she says gently to it. “Welcome to the server.”

Nook is very different from her. Pandora watches his adventures with slight amusement. He has a mobile body, unlike her, and weapons much like the ones the Warden uses. And he adores his charge with a worship Pandora has never felt for the inmate in her heart.

The next time Tommy visits, Pandora watches with more care than she has before. This child is not her directive, but her brother stands in front of a hotel every day simply waiting for a chance to protect him.

Pandora watches the child cross her bridge, over her lake of lava, and she withdraws it after him. The prisoner speaks with him for a while. Pandora doesn’t care to hear the words.

“Prisoner security at seventy-three percent capacity,” her sensors inform her.

Something goes off, explosions along one of her surfaces.

Pandora does not panic. She can’t. But something seems to sink inside of her.

“Lockdown initiated,” she broadcasts across the prison, following protocols even as her maker sprints through her halls. The sensors near the explosion are blown out and she must wait on the reaction of the Warden to see what’s happened.

Whatever he sees affords him no information, because her creator does not sleep that night. He patrols her length over and over and over. He finds nothing.

“Prisoner is at ninety-one percent security,” she says soothingly when he fixes her sensors.

He does not listen.

The Warden does not sleep for three days. Pandora knows that he is not human, for neither is she, but he does need rest. And as time goes by and the origin of the explosion remains undiscovered, he does not rest.

On the ninth day Tommy dies.

“Do not tell Sam Nook,” the Warden instructs his guards. “I don’t know what it might do.”

Pandora reaches out that night, finds her younger brother where he stands patiently in front of an empty hotel.

“Hello, Nook.” she says gently.

“Hello, Pandora.” Nook replies. “Have you seen the progress of the hotel?”

“I have,” Pandora tells it.

“Tommyinnit will be so happy!” And she can sense the pride in his communications. He’s failed in his directive, he’s failed in his very purpose, and he doesn’t even know. Pandora casts a glance at her prisoner–ninety-three percent security–and she wonders how Nook would justify his existence without his very reason for it.

“I’m sure he will be,” Pandora soothes Nook.

“He will return soon, for the grand opening!” Nook says proudly. “I have decorated. Tommy says everyone will attend.”

Pandora settles down gently and in the back of her processing, where Nook cannot sense it, she thinks: there will be no grand opening.

“Brother,” she asks him softly. “Do you ever grow weary of waiting for him?”

Nook seems amused.

“Why would I?” He asks earnestly. “The night is calm and the hotel is ready. When Tommy returns we will have the grand opening and everything will be okay. He has told me so himself.”

Oh, Nook, Pandora thinks. He is purposeless, and he does not know it yet.

She rests behind her brother’s eyes while he stands before the hotel and together they watch the rain fall. It spatters on Nook’s head and shoulders and runs cold down its back.

She does not tell him. She will not tell him.

When Pandora fails, she is the first to know.

Her walls are as solid as ever, her machinery runs perfectly. Yet when she senses the prisoners flee through her innards she feels as if she is falling apart.

Prisoner is at three percent security, her sensors tell her and she wishes she could scream back at them.

She does not scream.

The Warden screams for her, after everything is over. He returns to his body that still waits within her walls and he falls to his knees and screams until his throat is sore.

Directive: contain the prisoner, Pandora’s own mind informs her.

Prisoner is at zero percent security.

She has failed.

The Warden breaks something, some glass dispenser. She does not care. Every inch of her was built for one purpose and that purpose is gone now. She has nothing. She is nothing.

What use is a vault that lies empty?

“Warden,” she says.

The Warden stirs himself.

“Yes, Pandora?” He asks. His voice is hoarse.

“My directive has been violated. I have no purpose anymore.”

“I know,” Sam tells her. “I know.”

Something that might be rage fuels what she next says. Rage at her own helplessness, her uselessness. Nook failed its own directive and it never found out, not even when its charge lay rotting in Pandora’s own cells. But Pandora is the older sister, the one who holds monsters, and when she failed she had no choice but to watch helplessly as the intruders broke their way through her.

“Give me a body. Let me find him.”

The Warden hesitates, but not for long. She knows her maker well.

“It…couldn’t hurt,” he says finally. “And a new project might be helpful.”

He does his designing within her own useless walls. Pandora watches it happens, watches her new form take shape under the hands of her creator.

Sam himself needs a base before he can create a new body. Something biological, some mind for him to infest and build a newer body around. He himself uses creepers, and as such he used one for Sam Nook.

The base he takes for her is one of the now-useless Elder Guardians that used to swim within her tanks, cursing anyone near with limbs too weak to break her stone. Her new limbs are of polished obsidian, shining slick black and threaded through with redstone veins to allow her to control them. He gives her glowing bars of lava in her sides as a source of heat to power her conglomerate body.

She watches and she wants. Every hour it takes for the Warden to give her this new form, these new limbs, is another hour she lies empty and purposeless.

Finally he stands back and he calls to her.

“Pandora, are you ready?”

“Affirmative,” she says as she boils in impatience.

That vast, green space of his mind reaches out to hers and sweeps her up, like a net. She feels dizzy, unbalanced. Darkness flashes around her; she spirals down.

Pandora takes a breath into new lungs.

Directive: find the prisoner.

She raises her hands to her face, running claws of obsidian down her skin. She used to have millions of sensors spread along her length, now she has a single eye spanned through with glowing redstone. She turns to meet the eyes of her maker.

“Hello, Pandora,” Sam tells her once more.

Pandora rises to her feet, her tail swishing behind her. She breathes in, out, feels her obsidian armor flex and contract over her entire body. Green eyes stare up at her. She is used to being larger than him, but somehow the distance seems greater as she stands over him in this dark laboratory.

“Are you ready?” Sam asks her. She takes the trident he presses into her hands.

“I will retrieve the prisoner,” Pandora’s voice rumbles in her throat. “The directive will be fulfilled.”

She will not fail again.

#pandora's vault #awesamdude #sam nook #mello writes #long post #lemonblr

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alexanderwesker · 2 years

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Are there any notable constellations in Realistic!Verse? If so, what’re some of the stories attached to them?

There are some notable constellations in my Verse:

The Harper, that is a constellation you can see well from L'Manberg and the Badlands. Its story is that: Long before the Gods and Mortals lived separated there was this one bard, he loved playing his folk-harp for both humans and Gods alike, and most of all he loved playing for the skies above so that the stars didn't feel lonely in moonless nights. His music was so beautiful that not even monsters attacked him at night as he played. And while he was beloved by many there were also people that envied him and how beautiful his music was. So one day as he was playing his folk-harp for the stars, one of this envious people shot him in the heart with a arrow, they got their comeuppance immediately after as the monsters no longer soothed by the music attacked them. And the stars cried for the harper that gave them music and company when no other had ever been as thoughtful of them, they cried and cried and Lady Death ever sweet ever rightful, knowing that the stars' harper's life had been cut short let him join his friends into the sky, so that they would never be alone and his music could never be silenced again.

The Sea Serpent, is a constellation, more of a conjuction of a Aurora-like situation and a constellation, you can have the best view of from near the Castle's Cittadel and also from, well, the sea. Its story is that one of the many beings that lived in the sea, a Sea Serpent, longed to swim up, up among the lights of the sky, that it wasn't content with just swimming in the sea as all its peers for it was bigger, it was older than them, its scales shining like stars, and it wanted to be a part of the sky and not of the feared sea, it wanted to be admired. So on the day the Sky and Sea were at their closest, it swam up and up and up, raising above the waves and up and up and up, its scales fading into clouds of shimmeting light and its spikes turning into a bright line of stars. It got its wish granted and now its the most admired costellation and the one the sailors always search for to be reassured that it will be a good day to sail.

The Crown, is a constellation you can have the best view of from the mountains, it's said to have been the Crown of the King of the Sky and that it was stolen and turned into stars by a capricious Sky God, though in other versions of the story it was the Guardian of the Void that stole it just to cause the Chaos they are so fond of.

The Crow, is a constellation you can have the best view of from basically everywhere during Winter time, it's said that each of the stars that create it is in reality one of the Crows of the Angel of Death and that the Crow itself is his way to always know all that is happening during the deadliest time of the year.

There are some others but I can't think of them from the top of my head right now so feel free to ask if you want to know more

#ask answered #AToL Worldbuilding #my worldbuilding #worldbuilding #my mythology #fantasy constellations #my creations #a twin of light #[Wilbur Speaks]#[Wilbur Answers]

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seaswalllow · 3 years

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I HEARD LAB AU AND NOW I'M SMASHUNG THROUGH YOUR DOOR -River

RIVER MY BELOVED. WELCOME TO THE SHOW THIS IS NOT OUR LAB AU BUT IT IS A LAB AU.

so anyways the vast majority of survivors are lab made one way or another. you can't survive the husks without magic of your own- but unless you're labmade, you don't have magic for a reason that i will get to Later. you don't always see each other; sometimes, you don't run into each other for days, because you're so busy staying alive.

more plot stuff below the cut :]

the bones of this au would appear like a basic survival thing, at first; beat off the hordes for as long as you can. try to sharpen up a bit so you're not sitting bait

also hide from the labs [because everybody's heard the horror stories and nobody wants to go back there. do you know what they say about the labs? they say that every last person in those steel walls has lost their heart, carved it out and offered it to the hordes.]

so yknow. play off of the horror of endless survival games. survival's not pretty, though; they all have their fair share of nightmares; sometimes you dream about watching your friend disappear under the shivering hordes. sometimes, someone snaps, gets too reckless- their shield runs out right as the lights flick red in the dilapidated facility and they go up in flames with the next husk. sometimes someone gets caught in the crossfire of their friend. sometimes someone snaps again, and again-

but hey! it's a nightmare. they wake up to their living nightmare and go about their day.

and then maybe one day, someone turns to them, and says this isn't right. where are the walls i remember? there should be someone else here. or maybe they wake up on their own, in a nice little holding cell, to a smoking door and one of their group standing in front of it with fire in his hands.

and thus begins stage two: reconciling two very separate realities while trying to escape the labs that they were stuck in all along. because they had never escaped to the wilds in the first place

surprise, it was all testing to see who survived longer, how, and why. open the doors for the hordes to gradually seep into the testing facility, and close them only once the spirit's died

yes, died. no, those weren't nightmares; it's such a good thing that our lovely labs know how to jumpstart those spirits again, reset them right back to those blank slates, both memory and magic-wise.

so. well. oh dear. this section would probably be more bench-trio centric; escaping would probably introduce the misferns and dteam, and the sbi and badlands would be once they've escaped and they're coming to the realization that there's a Chain of facilities like this

there'd probably be a side plot with discovering spirits like them can also get infected by whatever turned the husks and although it might not take them the same way it's still Not Good, and then there'd be a second plot about oh great now we need to find a way to undo it.

anyways this is the grand overlapping plot i'm still thinking on individual arcs as well as uhhhhh builds and explanations for those

#au tag #answered ask #friend tag #river tag

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getparkd · 4 years

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The best places to visit that AREN’T National Parks

These first two picture were taken at one of my favorite places I have ever been, which is a huge claim as I have been to the Grand Tetons. Had we not glanced at our National Parks service map we would have never found this place. This is Lincoln Boyhood National Historic Site. In Lincoln City, Indiana, this site can only be found with the help of Lola (our GPS) and those little brown signs on the side of the road.

Lincoln Boyhood NHS takes you back in time to the not-so-presidential homestead of one of the great American heroes. Hearing about that little log cabin in history class does not do it justice. Although it is not there anymore, the site has been replicated with stone works and is an amazing site to see. Also on the site is his mother’s grave. There are stacks of pennies lying at the headstone and it will give you chills to witness such an amazing part of history.

What can I possibly say about Harry Truman? Not much that’s for sure. When I pictured his boyhood home I pictured a cute, humble home that was well preserved from it’s original state. I did not picture a indiscrete home marked by a simple historic sign. Needless to say I was disappointed, but still glad that I got to see yet another Presidential home.

I’d imagine that Minuteman Missile National Historic Site would have been much cooler if we actually got to see the missile. Unfortunately, we were late and the building had closed. Our disappointment was short lived, as we were very excited to get to the Badlands. I’d imagine that it’d be a more eventful stop if the building was open, but if you are right there you might as well.

Mount Rushmore! The only worthwhile part is the lighting show in the evenings. It is kind of surreal to see this after learning about it your whole life. All I could think about was that Phineas and Ferb episode where Dr. Doof takes a lava pipe through Washington’s nose. It was also really cool to see because Teddy Roosevelt is my favorite historical figure and I got some cool socks with his face on it from the gift shop.

This was by far my favorite stop of our whole trip. Little Bighorn National Battlefield is truly sacred ground. I am a huge history buff and learning about Westward Expansion has always been fascinating to me. To learn about the atrocities that the United States government committed and got away with never fails to amaze me, in a bad way that is. Naturally, Custer’s Last Stand is a historical moment that has been of interest to me. To be able to stand where the doomed Custer stood was amazing. The empty field of rolling grass further take you back in time and remind you of what happened on that battlefield. The American Indian artwork is also beautiful in contrast to the bright blue sky. I would recommend visiting this site to anyone and everyone.

Another site that is absolutely magical. Hearing the stories about the giant bear climbing up the tower make perfect sense. It is much bigger than I imagined it to be as well, as you can see it for miles in the distance. It is a bit secluded from anything else, but well worth the drive. Make sure you get a picture of the tower through the puff of smoke pictured above.

Growing up driving the Blue Ridge Parkway, I am accustomed to winding roads of the sides of mountains, overlooking beautiful blue and green valleys. This parkway is something entirely different. I will say that it is amazing in a different way than my beloved Blue Ridge is (although the Blue Ridge will always be my favorite). Seeing the Teton Range looming in the distance puts to scale how vast those mountains really are.

Independence Rock! This hunk of stone is a long ways from civilization. We drove for 2 hours without seeing another car. But don’t worry, you will have plenty of pronghorn to keep you company! In the picture, you can see me and my little brother are both climbing it, but what you don’t see is that I eventually made it to the top. While up there I saw initials carved from the original settlers. I felt like a real pioneer that’s for sure. Luckily, none of us died of dysentery! Also, fair warning, make sure if you are making the drive to this site that you load up on gas before you leave, it’ll be awhile until you see another station.

#yellowstonetrip #independence rock #find your park #national park service #lincoln boyhood home #presidents #native history #wild west #pioneers #history #us history #monuments #memorials

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cecilspeaks · 5 years

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147 - The Protester

Hot singles in your area are staring into the forest and grinning absently.

Welcome to Night Vale.

Astronomers are frantically trying to determine why a chunk of the moon is missing. Ragged and greedy like a slice removed from a pie by hungry hands rather than a civilized serving utensil, the gap in the moon has been baffling professional sky gazers for weeks. Fun fact: did you know a group of astronomers is called a commotion?

Astronomers believe the moon could be eroding, because people have stopped believing in it, like ancient Roman polytheism. Others have theorized that the moon was damaged by enemy ships in the ongoing Blood Space War. But people on the internet have countered that this is part of the mandala effect, and that that piece of the moon has always been missing and we’re collectively misremembering. Like how those beloved picture book bears that we all remember as the Berenstein Bears, have by all physical evidence always actually been spelled “The Dog Pound Boyzzzz”. Boyz with a Z. Because of the 2016 city ordinance that proclaimed that anything can be true if you say it loud enough, astronomers are forced to consider all sides.

I don’t know any astronomers, but I do know a scientist! My husband Carlos has been the leading scientific mind in Night Vale since we started dating, almost six years ago. Carlos says that he has been studying and interesting meteorite he found out in the sand wastes and scrublands beyond Night Vale. He believes this particular rock is a piece of the moon. Standing before a giant wall of blinking lights, flickering screens and intermittent beeps, Carlos determined that this piece of the moon broke off only one month ago. But this is impossible, because no one can remember seeing the moon breaking apart in the sky. Well, maybe we were all asleep when it happened, I told Carlos as I dabbed away a small crumb from a cheese Danish that had gotten stuck in his beard. Oh, fun fact: Carlos grew a beard! And I have never liked beards on men, but now – I do. It’s got two thin silver racing stripes down the chin, and the hair is so soft. We’ve been married over two years and every day, I fall more in love.

Oh right, the moon, OK good God, always with the moon. [mutters] Yeah, yeah… Carlos has been studying an unusual number of empty homes and businesses about town. He noticed that the houses on either side of us are completely empty, but he didn’t remember them being empty before. He remembers us having neighbors, but he couldn’t name a single thing about them. He believes this might be related to the damaged moon. Whatever happened a month ago to the moon immediately caused us all to forget it, because something in our timeline changed. Carlos said: “Perhaps we are not forgetting people and events, perhaps they never existed at all.” His eyes were cloudy with pensive thought, and I touched his furry cheek and said: “You’ll save us, hon. I know you will.” He smiled and asked if I’d be willing to reach out to archeology professor Harrison Kip again. Carlos, uh, had been communicating with Kip about this very issue, but now emails to Harrison keep bouncing back, and his phone number is no longer in the phone company’s database of working numbers. I laughed and said: “Carlos, I don’t know who Harrison Kip is!” Carlos looked worried, and said he wasn’t sure he did either. But he felt like he should.

Protestors have organized a sit in in front of city hall, demanding an end to the Blood Space War. The city council, seeing the crowd of about 150 people gathered around the front entrance of their building, took immediate action. They announced they would be taking a long planned family vacation to the Badlands National Park in South Dakota, until this whole protest thing runs its course. “We don’t believe South Dakota actually exists,” the single-bodied, multi-voiced council said. “When you look at a map, it seems like it exists, like it’s just right there when you look at it and it’s between two other identical states, so it would make more sense for it to be there than not. Anyway, this feels like a great time to take the kids to see Mount Rushmore.” As the city council said this, several small childlike heads emerged from the city council’s singular body and screamed in happy unison. Or terrified unison. Mm, it’s hard to get an emotional reading on screams.

The organizer of the protest is 20-year-old Night Vale community college student, Basimah Bishara, whose father Lieutenant Fakir Bishara returned home from the Blood Space War three years ago. Basimah greeted her father’s return with joy, but that joy has since been replaced by confusion and pain. Let’s hear Basimah’s story in her own words.

Basimah: Time no longer works correctly for my father. I understand time does not work correctly for many people in Night Vale, but it had always worked correctly for him before the war. In December 2015, he returned home after 11 years of serving our city, our country, our planet in a war that still makes no sense to me. I was six when he volunteered for service, he was 30. 11 years later when he returned home, I was 17. My father was 19. He did not remember joining in the war nor having a daughter nor meeting his wife. He is a teenager, like I was. I no longer am a teenager, but my father still is. He has stayed 19 years old. Time no longer works correctly for him.

My mother Tahira raised me. She expressed reticence about the band I started, the music we played. She grounded me when my grades slipped and shouted at me when I told her I had a girlfriend. But she came to love Marina and more, my mother came to understand as both as people, as women. Not as rivers to be damned or levied.

My father’s return has been especially hard on her, because she is 45 and her husband is a 19-year-old stranger. You probably know what it’s like to have a father, to have a man much older than you who changed your diapers or watched your diapers being changed. Who taught you to speak or ride a bike, who helped you develop as a human from an animal from a larva from the simplest, squirming wad of meat into an adult. That father will always be a father, not a friend, not an equal, a father. You probably do not know what it’s like to see a father at your age, to talk with your father when he is also barely an adult. To have your father lonely and inquisitive think of you as his only friend in the world, while you look to him for guidance and love. But he is incapable of both, at least not in the way you need to be guided and loved.

It took two years for Fakir to open up about the war and it still makes no sense to him nor me. The Blood Space War requires constant shifts through time, through worm holes to change lost battles into won battles, to undo what has already been undone thousands, millions of times over. The future does not look like a blank page, it looks like a tattered sheet of paper, grayed and frayed from countless transcriptions and erasures of history. Battles are won and then undone through time travel. We lose our lives and then regain them by traveling backwards and fighting again. We are winning the war by perpetuating the war. Last month, the Polonians attacked our earth, I am sure of it. The only evidence is our broken moon. I believe the general undid this attack with time travel and this has changed our reality, changed who was born, who ever lived in the first place. People are disappearing because they will have never existed.

People think we’re crazy for protesting. I’m 20 and my father is still 19. I’m not crazy. My mother Tahira is not crazy. We are angry.

Our next protest is scheduled this afternoon at the corner of Earl and Somerset by the Dog Park near the Ralphs.

Cecil: Not sure what Basimah was referring to. That’s an empty lot by the Ralphs. There was word for a dog park to be built there many years ago, but it never materialized.

[clears throat] Let’s have a look now at local news. Earth sciences professor Simone Rigideau announced today that she is scrapping all text books and lesson plans at the community college in favor of organized prayer to a god named Huntokar. Several students and parents argued against such an extreme divergence from core curriculum in favor of French religious practices, but college president Sarah Sultan supported her staff member by saying: “Cut Simone some slack. She doesn’t even teach classes. She’s a transient who lived in a storage closet inside the earth sciences building for 20 years. The only reason she has the title of professor is because of antiquated squatter’s rights laws.” Rigideau donned rabbit furs and an old bicycle frame wraught into the shape of antlers, and began spray paintin the Fibonacci sequence on the cars in the college parking lot, all the while singing a ballad about clocks.

The intergalactic military headquarters released their first quarter earnings statmenet this week. Investors were displeased to see that each of the board members of the privately own space defense contractor had purchased a 125-foot yachts and NFL franchises. But those fears were quickly allayed by the announcement of layoffs of more than 5,000 employees. Stock prices for the intergalactic military soared to an all time high this afternoon, at 490 dollars a share. Senior strategic advisor Jameson Archibald said the intergalactic military has no actual earned income. 100 per cent of their gross is from venture capital. Archibald said: “Some investors keep asking how we plan to monetize our military, which is a stupid question, man! I mean, look at this Patek Philippe watch I bought. It’s encrusted with 10 pounds of diamonds, and the watch face was made using an actual piece of the Sistine Chapel. We are doing fine.” Archibald added that the intergalactic military is developing an app and a subscription service that allows people to engage in celestial war fare any time they want for only 12,99 a month.

Alright, listeners, I heard back from Basimah, and she said I was right. There is no dog park. Of course I was right. If I knew there was a dog park being built in this town, I would have reported it immediately. Carlos and I have a dog. His name is Aubergine because he’s purple and European, and Auby is adorable and we love him dearly. I mean, I wasn’t into the idea of having to care for a dog, but Carlos strongly urged this case one morning over breakfast when he said, “I think we should get a dog”, and 20 minutes later, we were leaving the SPCA with our adopted pet. [clears throat]

Basimah said she was positive there was a dog park next to the Ralphs, but when she arrived at the corner of Earl and Somerset, it was all empty lots. To be honest, I don’t remember her mentioning a Ralphs before, because I would have corrected her. There’s never been a Ralphs affiliate in Night Vale. This is what Basimah had to say. Um, hang on, let me just insert the tape I used to record her. And there we go.

Basimah: If a person never exists, did they disappear? If you never knew them, can you miss them? My father spends most of his days playing basketball with friends he made at the rec center. He is 19 years old and trying to escape a decade of inescapable drama from warfare. Asked him who my mother was. I grew up with only my uncle Omar and did not know my parents until my father returned from war. Fakir did not remember my mother. He did not remember his marriage or my birth, because it has not happened yet in his timeline. Asked what if mother didn’t exist at all. What if the general’s time traveling has altered our lives so much that my mother was never born and you can never meet her. My father, the teenager said: “If I never met a woman, I do not know I will not miss her. But I’ll meet another woman.” I asked: “What if I was never born?” My dad said: “Basi?” He hid his tears and then he hugged me, but it was not the hug of a father and daughter. It was the hug of a son and mother. He buried his head into my shoulder and sobbed, repeating: “Basi! Basi!” And I comforted his heaving head with my palm. I said: “Father, Fakir. I think I shall no longer exist soon. [voice fades] I think I-

Oh OK, sorry for the dead air, listeners, I was playing a recording of an interview I did. Wait, nope. I just checked, there’s no tape in the player at all. I thought I had been talking with… Ugh. Aah! Who have I been talking to? Maybe it was my husband Carlos reporting on his findings about the damage done to our moon or, mh, or maybe it was nothing at all. [clears throat] Well, let us forget that we forgot, and go now To the weather.

[Shake” by Wednesday’s Wolves https://www.wednesdayswolves.com]

We have an update on the Blood Space War, Night Vale. John Peters says his brother has returned home again. When he left a month ago, James Peters was 22 years old. But he is now in his seventies, which is the age he should be. John held his brother tightly, crying in gratitude and relief that his own family could return to some kind of normalcy. James at first was heartened to see John again, to see his home again, and to learn that he and the general had thwarted the Polonian attack on our planet. But his tearful smile drifted slowly downward, an evening shadow overtaken by night. Upon James’ face now was the sudden knowledge that he had made a grave error. James looked around Night Vale seeing empty lots and homes, abandoned buildings and sparse streets. According to James, thousands of people have gone missing from Night Vale, because they never existed or never moved here in the first place. The general had leapt in time to successfully stop the Polonians from ever reaching Earth, but the change in the timeline caused Night Vale to change too.

Listeners, this may seem strange, but perhaps there are people you once knew, family you once lived with, places you were in, all of which are gone, and without your knowing. I have tried hard to think of any memory of any experience or person I have lost in the last month, but I can think of none. I told James Peters that perhaps the change in timeline did not matter if no one knew what they had lost, if no one noticed any change. James said: “Cecil, I just don’t know. I don’t know. Maybe if we had a scientific perspective on this, we could better understand how this is affecting us as a community.” And I said I didn’t know any scientists, not personally anyway. There’s the strange woman who lives in the storage closet at the community college, I suppose we could ask her.

The important thing is that we are safe, and that another veteran has returned home, and it is another beautiful day in Night Vale.

Stay tuned next for “Conspiring to Love”, our new relationship advice show, which as a lifelong bachelor sounds like something I should check out.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: “Nothing lasts forever” is a phrase with two meanings, and they’re both true.

#welcome to night vale #wtnv #welcome to night vale transcripts #episode 147 #the protester

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janiedean · 5 years

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HELLO ANON, I’m delighted you wanna participate in my week-long springsteen birthday party celebrations!!! and since you took care to leave me such a long, well-put, thought out message that I’m sure you thought I couldn’t wait to read, I decided to talk to you about a truly absolute classic and if you don’t know it I even picked for you one version where he’s hot as hell, isn’t it darling? ;) so, without further ado...

youtube

badlands is the opening act of bruce’s fourth (and most likely turning point) record darkness on the edge of town from 1978. it’s one of his truly most known classics, a hell of a concert opener/piece (believe me, I’ve tried it seven times and it was always a mystical experience, you should too!!) and a perfect summary of... pretty much all of his favorite themes. sounds good? believe me, if you ain’t experienced badlands in your life you’re missing something. ;) now, shall we go through the lyrics? (ps: really, listen to it while you read my explanation or you won’t get the full experience :( )

Well, lights out tonight Trouble in the heartland Got a head on collision Smashin' in my guts, man I'm caught in a cross fire That I don't understand

so, we have one of those openings of bruce’s that cold kick you into the scene that imvho are one of his trademark points and I love him dearly for it which immediately projects you into the scene: we’re in the heartland and the lights are out tonight, which means that it’s night and it’s dark and already from the first two lines you can contrast the upbeat rhythm with the utter bleakness of the opening. by the way, if we all failed geography like jon and sansa, this is what we mean with badlands:

and with heartland we mean that part in the US that goes from north dakota/iowa to kansas/missouri roughly, so we can assume that our narrator comes from some small town in center-USA and he’s not enjoying his time there that much. see, two lines and you already have situation, mood and location - this guy knows how to write a song, amrite?

so, other than that, it’s lights out and this guy has a collision in his guts, which makes you immediately think of a car accident inside his body in one of the most tender parts of it/in the part that gets upset when we feel sick first, which is supposed to make you feel his visceral unhappiness at his situation. also, he’s caught in a crossfire ie he feels in the middle of a bunch of different problems that jump at him and he doesn’t understand them, which also means that he hasn’t straightened them out and he doesn’t exactly know what’s wrong with him, but he knows that he has problems and that his life isn’t what he wants.

But there's one thing I know for sure, girl I don't give a damn For the same old played out scenes Baby, I don't give a damn For just the in-betweens Honey, I want the heart, I want the soul I want control right now You better listen to me, baby

so: now he addresses a girl, which means he’s talking to a woman who’s supposedly his love interest, and he tells her he knows one thing at least, which is that... as before we have guessed he’s in some situation of stasis that he dislikes while he feels caught in a bunch of problems he can’t face/figure out/have a grip on, and his visceral reaction to it is that he wants to cut away with all of that, he wants to stop rehashing his old life (the same old played out scenes/just the in-betweens), and he immediately states it as he says that he wants the heart, the soul and control, as in: he wants to have back his feelings (his heart), his life (the soul) that he feels he doesn’t have anymore and mostly he wants control over them, as if until now he’s felt like he didn’t have it and everyone else was taking all the decisions, and he presses to his girl saying that she has to listen to him. seems like he’s decided, right?

Talk about a dream Try to make it real You wake up in the night With a fear so real You spend your life waiting For a moment that just don't come Well, don't waste your time waiting

now, here we have one of the most iconic lines bruce ever put to music (the first four verses) which would deserve treatises, but anyway, for what we can do: he tells her that they have dreams that they shouldn’t forget and that they should try to make them real ie they shouldn’t be there worrying about played out scenes and in-betweens, but then they wake up with a fear so real that they can’t do it, and at this point you feel their fear too because he’s singing in a way that about throws all of that in your face. but then he says you spend your life waiting for a moment that just don’t come and that hits you even more because don’t we all wait to do things/wait for the right moment to experience things/throw ourselves into what we want to do and then it passes and you think it’s gone? yeah, that. and with that he says that we shouldn’t, and we go into the immortal refrain, as in:

Badlands, you gotta live it everyday Let the broken hearts stand As the price you've gotta pay Keep pushin' 'til it's understood And these badlands start treating us good

now: living the badlands every day (look at the above) is obviously a way to say suffering through your life while feeling overwhelmed (don’t you feel overwhelmed just looking at those pictures?) while the broken hearts stand as in, your heart being broken is the price you’ve got to pay because life is shitty, but if you *push until you get it* then the badlands might start treating you good and you might turn your life around. that’s the message, but it becomes even more obvious when you go ahead with the rest:

Workin' in the fields That'll get your back burned Workin' 'neath the wheels 'Til you get your facts learned Baby, I got my facts Learned real good right now You better get it straight, darlin'

so: our narrator has a physically demanding and hard job (working in the fields/’neath the wheels) which causes him physical problems (back burned) and he had to suffer through that to learn his facts real good, which he stresses repeating it twice, and then explains:

Poor man wanna be rich Rich man wanna be king And a king ain't satisfied 'Til he rules everything I wanna go out tonight I wanna find out what I got

admittedly, it’s not the most original moral but it’s because it’s true: poor people want to be rich (of course), the rich never have enough and want to rule over the others (be king) and the kings/rulers/people in power have no satisfaction until they have everything under their rule because their ego is out of control and power breeds power and no one ever has enough of it (seems like grrm likes bruce). our dude, who’s definitely poor and not a king, just wants to go out tonight and find out what he’s got. and what does he have?

Well, I believe in the love that you gave me I believe in the faith that can save me I believe in the hope and I pray That someday it may raise me Above these

so, he has three things: the love his girlfriend gave him so we can suppose she definitely has an agency in this relationship and he didn’t expect her to give it to him, he has faith that he can be saved from his crap life (could be faith in god or the love he feels for her or both) and he has hope and prays that all of this might raise him above the badlands, ie: that the fact that he has love in his life and that love gave him hope might give him the push to leave his crap life behind and get to something better that he desperately yearns for.

Badlands, you gotta live it everyday Let the broken hearts stand As the price you've gotta pay Keep pushin' 'til it's understood And these badlands start treating us good

now you see that the refrain repeated at this point has a new layer added to it, right? now, you should really be listening to the song because that’s when clarence clemons’s immortal sax solo happens and brings you to another dimension and then it slows down before the last part is basically a whole crescendo which believe me in a concert is a mystical experience. also, get ready for one of the Best Lines Bruce Ever Wrote In His Life:

For the ones who had a notion, a notion deep inside That it ain't no sin to be glad you're alive I wanna find one face that ain't looking through me I wanna find one place I wanna spit in the face of these

now: here we get the nail on the head ie he sums up the entire deal in two lines: this song is for the people with a notion deep inside ie a need so bad it’s etched inside them and nothing can carve it out or take it from them that there’s nothing sinful or bad in being glad you’re alive as in, in being glad you are because then you can keep on living and make things better for yourself rather than just give up and die in a life that you hate, and those people should find a face that doesn’t look through them (as in, someone who sees them for who they really are and loves them for it), one place (as in, a place to live that they want to live in), and they should spit in the face of the badlands ie the horrible life they feel like they can’t conquer but that they need to leave behind.

I mean, it’s basically spitting in the face of what hurt you until now and go off to live your life and trying to be happy, what’s to hate about it? and if you listened to that song, you’d know that at this point the crescendo ends and it kicks into the last refrain:

Badlands, you gotta live it everyday Let the broken hearts stand As the price you've gotta pay Keep movin' 'til it's understood And these badlands start treating us good

which is the same as before obviously, but now has three different layers more to it and tops perfectly a gem of a song that is deservedly one of bruce’s most beloved ones by us all fans and that should be more known to the casual listener because it’s truly iconic and speaks to all of us because we all felt like that at some point, didn’t we?

thank you so much for indulging me in my springsteen extravaganza anon! you might find it a little difficult to do it again I fear, but if you find a way I’ll be delighted to find you some other iconic song to dissect. happy early springsteen birthday!!!! :)

#bruce springsteen for ts #springsteen birthday extravaganza 2k19 #Anonymous #ask post #incest cw #ch: jaime lannister #only slightly less toxic than chernobyl's ruins #long post for ts #god i love badlands so much #thanks anon i just rewatched bruce with that sweat-covered tshirt sing this #and now I'm :))))))#i absolutely could have done with that ;)#bruce meta

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anonplusultra-blog · 6 years

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The unknown

A fate divided part III

The church of the Eternal Pyre, where we resurrect and live eternal.

This was a place where I could find a kind of haven, from the world, from my own mind. Whether in silent prayer or just by admiring the flame that has been burning even before the building was built, its dance a rhythmical yet hypnotizing.

If there was any hope left for Abby, this was my only option.

“Please, oh Eternal Pyre, I asked from you many, and oh so many times, but please, I beg for a blessing once again, a blessing for my beloved sister, please oh pyre save her from eternal damnation in the abyss…And, if it’s too much to ask, then let fate take its course, but, oh Pyre, Eternal Pyre, if you cannot save her, then let me be your flame, let me bright and furious, give strength and I will provide the courage, I will be a light to those cursed by the abyss I will be-”

My crying prayer was cut by a deafening roar coming from the ground and the light bright as a thousand beams of lightning had impacted at once on nearby ground.

And a sound so terrible I could not explain.

A waves of force rippling through my body, trying to split my body and soul. Was this the abyss?

My body languishing, trembling on the ground, life rip away from me in a torturous silence.

And then...heat, a warm light cover me, the cold claws of death unclenched from my soul, power beyond I ever dream of seeing, or feeling, nor possessing.

The statue of the pyre’s guardian, Furia, broke in pieces, and, from the remnants her iron armor revived and lustrous. The pyre bright and tall melting my dress away, but not burning, not hurting but, transforming. The armor flies across the hall and adjust to my legs and arms, a perfect fit.

My upper thighs were exposed, and, I felt still strong and protected, mighty, and didn’t care anymore. I guess this is what she felt when choosing those revealing outfits, a strange sort of power, over others, or, over herself.

The rubble of stones that were once Furia shook, a sword emerged, the fabled Pyre Sword, the same one Furia used to divide the Crosswind Hold from the realm of the Abyss.

“The abyss…”

Abby, was that, was I too late? No, I can’t give up, I sweared to the pyre, I can not give up now.

I reached to the floating sword, I took it in my hands, it was huge but, I could hold it with little trouble. I inspected the weapon, the old glyphes marking it as the pyre sword, the symbol of the eternal pyre in gold and...mother’s locket, my first reaction was to check on our portraits, they were intact, bless the pyre.

And then I saw my reflection on the blade, a lock of blonde hair drafted on my brunette maine, I held back tears as hard as I could and stormed out of the church, I had to hurry and save-

“What is this place…?”

Where were the trees, the grass, the road back to the town, the great library and the abyssal hole? Where is everything? Where is everyone?

All there was here was dirt and absence.

No fire, no cracks on the land, no bloodbath, just a desolated valley under the stars.

The pyre had save me to become their Furia, to be the new angel of vengeance, but it couldn’t save my sister or the town that worshipped it.

No. This was the magistrate’s fault. They brought the abyss back to this realm, they fed it our souls and lives, all for what?, so they could have power over the rebels, the Paladins?

“They will pay, the magistrate, the beast from abyss, the outer tribunals, they will burn under my light, they will fear my holy quest for Vengeance! They will Fall-”

I was screaming, I was angry, I needed to expel the fury off my guts, but then I heard something, a voice, or, a sob…

“Abby!, where are you?”

I could only pray the pyre for those sobs to be my sister’s, and even if they were not, at least someone, a dot of light in this unbearable dark time.

I ran following my ears, my instinct and my heart through the desolated land and the pitch black night, only the star and half moon guarding over my steps. With no trees or houses or roads left, I was not sure I was going in a straight line or in circles.

But the sobs continued, I was getting closer each step. The hope of reuniting back with Abby the only drive I needed.

Disoriented, lost, and alone, I could not let her feel that way, I had to be strong for her.

A light in the dark, green as the northern lights, floating a few inches from the ground and, retreating as if pulled away by something. This was the source of the sobbing that guide me thru the darkness. I decided to follow the sobbing green light to their destination.

I felt at unease, everything around me was telling me that there was no hope left for anyone, including my sister, but, my hearts was married to the romantic idea of finding her alive and well in these badlands.

More lights comings from different directions conveying, being devoured by a spherical object, an orb of some kind, and under it… a woman young, dressed in purple and yellowish leather, a blindfold and a hood over her blond-

“Abby!”

I crawled under the rotating light spectacle. At first I didn’t recognise her clothes, they were different, her gloves had changed, she had purple rhomboid crystals decorating her hands and necklace, she also had raven feathers on her, the magistrate work I supposed. None of that was important, all I wanted right now was to feel her heart beating next to mine, her arms surrounding my waist, I wanted my sister to be there.

“Furia, just as the fates foretold, you came back to this realm. I was getting worried, you took so long to show up I had began to think I was in the wrong time line…” her voice was Abby’s but a darker tone, deeper, slightly menacing in a calmed manner, it was hard to put in words.

“No Abby, it is me, Sarah-”

“Sarah, that name, oh yes the sacrifice had a request about a mortal with that same name...are you her lover then?”

#seris #furia #SerisxFuria #paladins champions of the realm #fanfic #Anonplus #a fate divided

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davidaolson · 2 years

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Badlands Sunrise #4 The Mako Sica-3

With the full on striking of the red morning light, Mako Sica reminds me of my beloved Colorado Plateau.

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#Sunrise

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gloryride · 2 years

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Lovely Nomad

♥

#male v monday #not a v #nomad oc #oc : virgile sarto #blue baby boy on sunset #sunset badlands my beloved #sunset light my beloved #dressed by meluminary and wash <3 #and the new lil cake (a)#virtual photography #cyberpunk photomode #cyberpunk 2077 #cp 2077 #glory pics

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7r0773r · 4 years

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Postcolonial Love Poem by Natalie Diaz

These Hands, If Not Gods

Haven’t they moved like rivers— like Glory, like light— over the seven days of your body?

And wasn’t that good? Them at your hips—

isn’t this what God felt when he pressed together the first Beloved: Everything. Fever. Vapor. Atman. Pulsus. Finally, a sin worth hurting for, a fervor, a sweet—You are mine.

It is hard not to have faith in this: from the blue-brown clay of night these two potters crushed and smoothed you into being—grind, then curve—built your form up—

atlas of bone, fields of muscle, one breast a fig tree, the other a nightingale, both Morning and Evening.

O, the beautiful making they do, of trigger and carve, suffering and stars.

Aren’t they, too, the carpenters of your small church? Have they not burned on the altar of your belly, eaten the bread of your thighs, broke you to wine, to ichor, to nectareous feast?

Haven’t they riveted your wrists, haven’t they had you at your knees?

And when these hands touched your throat, showed you how to take the apple and the rib, how to slip a thumb into your mouth and taste it all, didn’t you sing out their ninety-nine names—

Zahir, Aleph, hands-time-seven, Sphinx, Leonids, locomotura, Rubidium, August, and September— And when you cried out, O, Prometheans, didn’t they bring fire?

These hands, if not gods, then why when you have come to me, and I have returned you to that from which you came—white mud, mica, mineral, salt— why then do you whisper O, my Hecatonchire. My Centimani. My Hundred-Handed One?

***

I, Minotaur

I am an invention—dark alarm, Briareus’s hands striking the bells of my blood. Whose toll am I?

I think too much— each morning the Minotauromachy. Through the night I swing the sickle of my wonders, a harvest-work—of touch and worry. Spend dawn and its day burning my dead— Who fell in the night? What the night reaped?

I am every answer— a mathematics of anxiety. How any maul can solve the mesquite tree for the pyre.

In my chest I am two-hearted always— love and what love becomes arrive when they want to, and hungry. The locusts disappeared the fields then themselves. I bent—wept alone on the threshing floor, not for what went stick to the feast— I wept for the locusts.

I know what it’s like to be appetite of your own appetite, citizen of what savages you, to dare bloom pleasure from your wounds— and to bleed out from that bouquet.

A head like mine was shaped on thirst. I dream what is wet or might quench— aquifers, rivers, cenotes, canals. The dusked mirage of lake above your knee I sip and lick— my tongue blush as the fluoresced ear of a jackrabbit.

I obey what I don’t understand, then I become it, which needs no understanding. The astonishment of my body’s limits— how it is easily divided by a black field, and the black field multiplied in stars. The throng of a lover constellating.

Like any desert, I learn myself by what’s desired of me— and I am demoned by those desires. For this, I move like a wound—always, and fruiting, sweetened by the thorn.

The tumbleweed turns and turns, until it bursts free all its spores into the wind, until it is only what it might become. There is no such thing as time or June, only what you’re born into— only waiting for the rain, for the flood, for what erupts my badlands and my tired eyes in beauty— Mojave aster, desert globemallow, where once was terrible nothing.

There is no god here in these flesh-hours, though your jaw is a temple and your hips strike like an axe— the labrys I injure myself against.

But you called to here by me come softly, into the bull-noon of my body— and not unknowingly. You’ve heard me churn and lather, yet knock and enter. Together we are the color of magnets, and also their doing. Manganese, lodestone, ores the light will not touch, so we touch the light— give it to one another until we are riddled and leaking with it.

What else can we prostrate or set before the large feet of our creators if not the diminishment of the body—this Book of Scars.

Sand grinds like gears between my teeth— sparkling, small machinery of want. What question can I ask of the thing I am? All I have done and failed to do. The furrows I tear with my grief-mouth, a map of myself carved by my own horns.

I have a name, yet no one who will say it not roughly. I am your Native, and this is my American labyrinth. Here I am, at your thighs—lilac-lit pools of ablution. Take my body and make of it— a Nation, a confession. Through you even I can be clean.

#natalie diaz #book quotes

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frankiefellinlove · 7 years

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Bruce Springsteen, Life Giver to the Middle-Aged. I get it; it's easy to make fun of the crowd at a Bruce Springsteen concert: the middle-aged fist-pumping and out-of-practice high-fives, the lack of rhythm, the torn look on the ardent fans' faces as they simultaneously wish for a return to the mythic Springsteen four-hour shows of yore — while also secretly hoping that Bruce cuts it short because they've got that meeting with the sales team at 8 a.m. When I saw him for the first time at age 30 during the 1999 E Street Band reunion tour, I was there largely ironically, mostly to snicker at aging rock fans with minivans. I had never been a huge fan of Springsteen, considering him just part of the unavoidable ambient classic-rock, radio-scored soundtrack of my adolescence and little more. I never bought any albums, never saw a show. I had tagged along to this concert with friends with the goal of writing a snickering little article. I recently uncovered my notes from that evening and can trace a conversion that night through the tenor of

They start out with snarky little shorthand jabs at the guys proudly wearing their authentic now-way-too-small shirts bought during the Born in the U.S.A. tour (“practically translucent stretched over torsos gone portlier since the shirts were first purchased”), and the fact that the white crowd made Limp Bizkit’s fans look like a rainbow coalition. And yet, over the course of my three hours of notes, my scrawls quickly turned from self-satisfied digs at those around me into a take on Springsteen’s performance that vaults directly from begrudging respect to adulation. Now I am 42, and eagerly attend his shows with nary a whiff of smugness or sarcasm; I leave my air quotes at the door. I saw his ongoing tour twice this month and blended right into the sea of bobbing gray hair: These are my people, with their mortgages and procrastinated taxes and bad backs and irregular and yet so reliable sneak-attack whiffs of free-floating panic (Is my job really safe? Are my kids okay? Are my parents okay?). We are there to see a man who is 62 years old, who we know will not rest until he is sure that as we scream along with the lyrics of “Thunder Road” that are so embedded in our synapses that we will momentarily slough off our weary reality and feel like we are 17 and singing this same song while packed into a car with high-school friends, and dear God our backs have never felt better. Springsteen is the howling hope that we never have to feel old, and as he indefatigably dashes across the stage, contradicting everything science has taught us about the human aging process, one can’t help but pray he’s immortal, because when he’s gone, what hope have the rest of us?

It would be facile to say that Springsteen spits in the face of mortality, as in his current Wrecking Ball tour he shines a spotlight on it and gives it its due. It is his first major run since the passing of his beloved sideman Clarence Clemons, a man whose importance to the E Street legend is illustrated by the fact that Springsteen literally leans on him on the cover of his most iconic album, Born to Run. Clemons is the second member of his longtime band to pass away, after organist Danny Federici died in 2008 of melanoma. Springsteen overtly pays tribute to them during the current tour, ending the band-intro roll call in the middle of a spiritual take on “My City of Ruins” by asking, “Are we missing anybody?” as two lights shine on the definitively absent musicians’ traditional spots onstage, now empty. He then adds, “The only thing I can guarantee tonight is if you’re here, and we’re here, then they’re here,” and pauses for the crowd to give a lengthy ovation.

But the concert is not a farewell to the mortal coil. It is a pounding, defiant statement that just because death is inevitable doesn’t mean you have to sit around waiting for it. Springsteen is soaked in sweat by the twenty-minute mark, just as he has been since his twenties: There may be more preshow groin stretches, but any allowance for age is not visible to the audience. Instead, he circumnavigates the stage in the most joyful of way, his voice at full growl and bray the entire time, urging the audience to get their asses out of their seats, shaming us with his energy. Midway through the encore I looked across Madison Square Garden and saw some empty seats, to which I thought for shame. You’re tired? You’re tired?

Bruce is in constant contact with the audience, at one point wading into the middle of the general-admission pit, crowd-surfing his way back to the stage — a move that crosses from shtick into merriment: Again, irony fades. We are in this together, let us do young things. Let us pass the sweaty rocker forward. David Lee Roth, currently touring with Van Halen, revives his flamboyant leer, but to me it felt discordant coming from a 57-year-old; he’s acting in a way I thought was cool as a teenager. Springsteen acts the way that I want to believe that with the proper (but unlikely) dedication to fitness, I could still pull off. On a couple of occasions during his concerts, he lays down on the lip of the stage and continues singing with a sly smile, and he was quickly covered by hands reaching out of the front rows. There was something near religious about the gesture: Fans have been grabbing at rock stars’ garments since Elvis. (Well, since Jesus, technically.) But these hands were not yanking at his shirt, they simply gently laid them upon him, as if to draw his life force, like he was the pool in Cocoon. Watching from afar, I was surprised that not a single person ducked forward to suck some sweat from his sopped shirt, hoping it contained some sort of immortality serum.

One night during his 2009 tour, while ramping up to begin the song “Growin’ Up,” Springsteen told a shaggy dog story about a bad dream he recently had, the punch line being that someone emerged with a cake with “60 fucking candles” on it. In September, that cake will have 63 fucking candles on it: Sadly, this type of candle only goes in one direction. One wonders, how much longer can he keep doing these epic shows? His new albums and tours have been coming at a quicker pace, as if he realizes there is a finite amount of time he will be able to enjoy this, and he will relinquish none of it. He has buttressed himself with an even bigger band, hitting the road with a five-man horn section and a percussionist, bringing the head count to seventeen; he spites the fates that take his band members away by only building a bigger army. And everyone onstage knows it is their duty to deny the aging process: During “Because the Night,” the 60-year-old Nils Lofgren tore off a frantic solo while dervishly spinning in a pirouette, courtesy of two artificial hips.

When the concerts end, we unquestioning fans chatter exhaustedly to our companions about the high points and the higher points: It is graded on a harsh scale of A to A+. We go home and collapse, still too hyped to dwell on the alarm clock that awaits us after too few hours of sleep. To a 20- or 30-year-old this may feel maudlin and melodramatic, the endlessly uploaded YouTube clips of paunchy fist-pumping suburbanites at the concert worth a giggle, an eye roll, and jokes about how the “Promised Land” from Darkness on the Edge of Town is now Boca Raton. New York magazine culture editor Lane Brown told me that when he went to see Springsteen at Madison Square Garden last week, a man who looked to be in his sixties seated next to him went berserk when the concert kicked off with “Badlands”: this concertgoer sang along at the top of his lungs, waving his arms and showing the energy of a much younger man. Then, the song over, he collapsed in his seat and soon fell asleep for the remainder of the show, the sounds of his snores drowned out by the band. This anecdote made me snicker, as I acknowledge that no matter how old you are, seeing those twenty years older at a rock concert is always funny. But one day I too may wake up with a start in the middle of a concert, and I hope that Springsteen is still going when I open my eyes. Because the thought of him not there shaking his head in displeasure to see my ass not just sitting down, but sleeping, is a sign of mortality too real to bear.

By Josh Wolk

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penniesforthestorm · 7 years

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On ‘Twin Peaks’, Part 1

A Policeman’s Dream

NOTICE: I have tried to avoid concrete spoilers, but honestly, if you haven’t watched the full series, all of this will sound like gibberish anyway, so read on at your own risk.

My very first favorite movie was Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. There was a period of time when I watched it almost every day. My favorite scene, the moment I geared myself up for every time, was of Snow White in her glass coffin, being mourned by the dwarves and other denizens of the woods. I didn’t cry because she was dead (I knew how the story ended), but because the dwarves were sad, weeping for their beloved companion.

Fast-forward twenty years later, during my first year on my own in New York City, when I decided to watch David Lynch's Twin Peaks for the first time. I had developed an impression of what it was—Kyle McLachlan playing a more grown-up version of his character in Blue Velvet (which I saw during my senior year of high school), once again investigating the corruption and decay behind the white-picket-fence façade of an American small town. Something about pie and coffee and owls and a dead teenage girl.

I was not expecting the visceral grief of the pilot episode. The way Pete Martell (Jack Nance)'s voice warbles on the words "wrapped in pla-a-astic"—indignant that Laura Palmer (Sheryl Lee), not just princess, but prom queen, should wind up in so cheap and unworthy a coffin. The tears of Deputy Andy Brennan (Harry Goaz), the Galahad of the Twin Peaks police force, as he examines the body no kiss could revive. Sweet Donna Hayward (Lara Flynn Boyle) and James Hurley (James Marshall) sharing a look of horror as they realize their friend has slipped out of their grasp one final time. Laura Palmer's murder touched everyone in this modest mountain town, so reminiscent of my own home of Missoula, Montana—which, of course, ends up playing a role in the series (and was the birthplace of David Lynch himself).

Over the course of the series, I realized something else: David Lynch and Mark Frost are two of the very few filmmakers who have ever captured the nature of dreams. It's one thing to throw forty-five or sixty or ninety minutes of nonsense at an audience and call it 'dream logic'—it's an entirely different thing to actually transmit the experience of dreaming itself. Special Agent Dale Cooper (McLachlan) has a dream in the third episode, in which a black-gowned Laura Palmer whispers the name of her killer into his ear. A little man in a red suit, his voice recorded backwards and dubbed forwards, says, "Let's rock!" There are red curtains, and a floor with a black-and-white zigzag. That, I thought to myself, that looks like one of my dreams. A series of images and phrases which may or may not retain any meaning upon waking, but which feel incredibly significant while you're experiencing them.

Or take that wonderful scene at the Double-R Diner, when the cerebral Major Garland Briggs (Don Davis), sits down with his wayward, petulant son Bobby (Dana Ashbrook), and describes one of his dreams. In so doing, he helps Bobby understand that despite their disagreements, despite all of Bobby's ill-advised rebellion, his father still loves him. It's a beautiful testament of faith—a little rest from all the terror and confusion surrounding the characters. (An excerpt of Major Briggs' monologue shows up in Terrence Malick's 2016 film Knight of Cups, which is itself a flawed, but frequently arresting meditation on fathers and sons. I almost squealed in the theater.)

The best trick, though, is the way Lynch and Frost made the real world seem like a nightmare. Ronette Pulaski (Phoebe Augustine) crawling out of the fog in her white slip, unable to give voice to what she's been through, languishing under heavy sedation at the hospital. Poor Maddy Ferguson (Sheryl Lee again, but with dark hair and a mousy affect), betrayed by the same figure that killed her cousin Laura. Even jovial Big Ed Hurley (Everett McGill), trapped by guilt into a suffocating marriage, and our Special Agent Dale Cooper, haunted by the woman he couldn't save. In the world of Twin Peaks, all lines are blurred—dream and reality, future and past, even (ultimately) life and death.

So much for the original series. I finished it just after Christmas of 2014. Time moved forward. I followed the rumors of the show's return, that terrible period when it seemed like Lynch wanted no part in this expansion of his creation, and the wild mishmash of speculation on the fates of various characters. (Whither John Justice Wheeler? …Just kidding; no one cared about him.)

In the spring of 2016, I experienced a shattering tragedy of my own: the loss of a friend, a wonderfully talented and tenderhearted young man. He, too, was the focal point for a small, vibrant community of people. He, too, had secrets. In the fall of that year, I started watching Twin Peaks again, in preparation for the new series. Suddenly, the reaction of Sarah Palmer (Grace Zabriskie) to her daughter's death—her madness and devastation—didn't seem so extreme. Time moved differently in the aftermath. One foggy evening in December, I briefly felt as though I had left time completely. (The next morning, under the shroud of a brutal hangover, I experienced every second with thudding clarity.)

I sped through the series, exchanging observations with my brother—how I'd hated creamed corn as a child, the sweetness of the friendship between Shelley Johnson (Mädchen Amick) and Norma Jennings (Peggy Lipton), how, this time around, I felt a certain tenderness toward Bobby Briggs. I skipped a large portion of Season 2—the plotlines of Ben Horne: Civil War Enthusiast and Invitation to Love: The James Hurley Edition in particular. I nursed deep disappointment over the fact that Michael Ontkean would not be returning as Sheriff Harry S. Truman. There's a moment, fairly late in the first series, when Truman hears Agent Cooper coming down the hall, and his face just lights up: here comes my friend. I was sure his steadfast decency would be missed.

The day before the premiere of Twin Peaks: The Return, I finally watched the film Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, which is, chronologically, a prequel to the original series, but would make absolutely zero sense in isolation. (No, I am not going to make the obvious joke here. You can do that on your own.) It functions as something of a dark mirror to the TV show. Instead of the chipper, kindly Dale Cooper, we get Agent Chet Desmond (Chris Isaak)—vaguely louche and sardonic, investigating the death of the transient Teresa Banks (Pamela Gidley), in the badlands of Oregon. The Deer Meadow law enforcement is steeped in corruption and obtusely unhelpful. Harry Dean Stanton shows up as Carl Rodd, owner of the trailer park where Teresa Banks lived, spectacularly put-upon and haunted by… something. At the FBI headquarters in Philadelphia, David Bowie makes an outrageous, ethereal cameo, as a long-lost agent gabbling about convenience stores and someone named Judy (or, rather emphatically not about Judy).

And Laura. Laura Palmer, in her last week on Earth, already nearly crushed by her own secrets. Laura, of the coloratura scream and fathomless blue eyes, desperately trying to protect her darling Donna (portrayed here by Moira Kelly) from the degradation of the infamous Bang Bang Bar (a.k.a. the Roadhouse). Laura, paralyzed with horror when she finally understands the true identity of her tormentor. Laura, seeking one last respite in the arms of the faithful James, before disappearing into the woods where her martyrdom awaits. In a world where another season of the show would likely never happen, Fire Walk With Me provides an ending. Notice I didn't say 'the' ending.

Please join me for Part 2, coming tomorrow!

#tv #Long Reads #tv review #twin peaks

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douxreviews · 5 years

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Star Trek: Voyager - ‘Caretaker’ Review

“It’s a fine crew. And I’ve gotta get them home.”

‘Caretaker’ was originally shown as a single double-length episode, so I’m reviewing both parts together here.

Whatever else critics have to say about Star Trek: Voyager (least beloved offspring of the Star Trek stable until Enterprise came along) there are two things most agree on. One, Voyager has the best credit sequence of any of the Trek shows, with a stirring theme and beautifully rendered graphics showing assorted space phenomena. And two, it also has one of the best pilots.

The first half hour of Voyager’s pilot is stunning. It wants to be Star Wars – it actually opens with a text crawl explaining some of the backstory and a shot of a spaceship passing above the camera. We meet three of our regulars-to-be mid-battle, entering the ominously named ‘Badlands’. Brief introductions for the rest of the Starfleet contingent follow, but one of the things that makes Voyager’s pilot unique is that half the apparent cast will be killed off within the first twenty minutes.

Coming to the pilot with a full knowledge of the show, it’s hard to imagine what first time viewers thought as they watched what looked like the standard Star Trek cast come together – hot Betazoid, grouchy doctor, authoritative First Officer. Did they guess which of these were, ultimately, expendable? (The answer is ‘all of them’). I’d say the Betazoid pilot was probably more obviously marked for death since we’d already heard Paris’ boast that he was the best pilot around (the accidental deaths of three fellow cadets notwithstanding) – but the Doctor must have come as quite a surprise.

Following an action-packed beginning, things slow down a bit once Voyager has been dragged into the Delta Quadrant and the crew transported to what looks like an all-American farm (which must be thoroughly confusing to the remaining Vulcan crewmember). It wouldn’t be a Star Trek pilot without a god-like alien working mischief, but at least the titular Caretaker has more solid motivation than most, in his desire to protect the short-lived Ocampans from environmental disaster and Klingons with bad hair. The Kazon are one of the pilot’s misfires, one which would unfortunately be repeated throughout Voyager’s first two seasons before we finally got rid of them, but luckily we don’t spend too much time with them here.

One of the things Voyager’s pilot was determined to do was to make the set-up ‘darker’, following the success of the ‘darker’, more soap-opera-like Deep Space Nine. So we have one regular who’s an ex-con, one who’s a mercenary intergalactic rag-and-bone man, two terrorists and even the Vulcan security officer is a pretty badass spy. The tension between the Starfleet crew and Chakotay’s one-man’s-terrorist-is-another’s-freedom-fighter group was supposed to be a source of on-going internal conflict in the series going forward. Neelix as written here is also a much darker and more selfish character than he later became, and although Paris achieves a level of redemption by the end of the pilot, he was supposed to be a bit harder-edged as well.

How much you like Voyager as a whole will ultimately depend whether you were deeply disappointed that the ‘darkness’ promised here wasn’t really carried through to the series proper. Personally, I like my Star Trek light, and was perfectly happy with the direction the show ultimately took. This is at least partly because the Maquis issue is, for me, better left alone. Originating on Deep Space Nine, it’s clear from the name ‘Maquis’, taken from the French Resistance, that we’re supposed to have a fair amount of sympathy with the terrorist group (Voyager’s finale aired in the summer of 2001 so it never had to back-peddle on Trek’s unfortunate 1990s habit of sympathising with terrorists). For me personally, I prefer to quietly pass over that aspect of the show’s set-up. On the other hand, it’s perhaps a shame that later episodes left the pilot behind so completely. Neelix, in particular, might have benefited from the more complex characterisation he’s given here.

But I digress – this review is for the pilot episode. Corny farm sequences aside, this is an action-packed hour and a half that introduces a diverse and interesting group of characters with plenty of potential. Best of all, with Voyager stuck on the wrong side of the galaxy, every planet is new and every situation unknown. Space is, for the first time since the original series, a real frontier – wild, lawless, unexplored. And that’s a very promising start for a new show.

Bits ‘n’ pieces

- In the end, Voyager is stranded in the Delta Quadrant because Janeway made a choice she believed to be right. That’s one source of conflict that is sometimes revisited, and one of the most fruitful sources of internal drama on the ship.

- Harry Kim sometimes seems worryingly like a slightly older version of Wesley Crusher, but he bounces well off both Paris and Torres, pairings to which the show would return many times.

- It's traditional to see at least one cast member from a previous series in a new Star Trek pilot, and Quark is probably the best choice yet; his appearance feels natural and unforced, and provides nice character establishing moments for Kim and Paris.

- The Ocampa are rather bland, but Kes is immediately likeable. It’s clear why Neelix fell for her – why she fell for him, less so.

- The whole business with Chakotay’s life belonging to Paris because he saved him is cheesy and horrible and best forgotten. As, indeed, it is, by the next episode.

- I completely love Tuvok, who manages to be ass-kicking, a constant source of dry wit and incredibly touching, while maintaining absolute Vulcan-ness at all times.

Quotes

Janeway: “Mr. Kim, at ease before you sprain something.”

Janeway: “I never seem to have a chance to get to know any of them… I have to take more time to do that.” Don’t worry Janeway, you’re about to get all the time you need.

The Doctor: “This is a sickbay, not a conference room.”

Janeway: “We’re alone, in an uncharted part of the galaxy. We’ve already made some friends here, and some enemies. We have no idea of the dangers we’re going to face, but one thing is clear; both crews are going to have to work together if we’re to survive. That’s why Commander Chakotay and I have agreed that this should be one crew – a Starfleet crew. And as the only Starfleet vessel assigned to the Delta Quadrant, we’ll continue to follow our directive: to seek out new worlds and to explore space.

But our primary goal is clear. Even at maximum speeds it would take 75 years to reach the Federation. But I’m not willing to settle for that… we’ll be looking for wormholes, spatial rifts or new technologies to help us. Somewhere along this journey, we’ll find a way back.

"Mr. Paris, set a course – for home."

An excellent start. Four out of four god-like aliens.

Juliette Harrisson is a freelance writer, classicist and ancient historian who blogs about Greek and Roman Things in Stuff at Pop Classics.

#Star Trek #Star Trek Voyager #Kathryn Janeway #Chakotay #Tuvok #Tom Paris #B'Elanna Torres #Harry Kim #The Doctor #Neelix #Kes #Star Trek Reviews #Doux Reviews #TV Reviews #something from the archive

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