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ausetkmt · 4 months

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14 Lesser-Known African American Historical Sites in Detroit | Visit Detroit

1.4 miles. That is the short distance that stood between many 19th century Black Americans and freedom in Canada.

For many runaway slaves, the shores of the Detroit River would be their last glimpse of life in the country that enslaved them.

Detroit’s history as a stop on the Underground Railroad is only one aspect of our city’s invaluable Black history.

Some of Detroit’s historical landmarks are well-known. Places like the Charles H. Wright Museum, and Second Baptist Church are not to be missed on any visit to our city. But, for those who would like an even deeper dive in Detroit’s Black history. Here’s a list of some of our faves.

Be sure to scroll to the bottom to see all of these sites mapped out for easy itinerary planning.

1.The Offices of the Detroit Plaindealer

1114 Washington Blvd., Detroit, MI 48226

An independent African American newspaper, The Detroit Plaindealer, published its first issue in May of 1863. It closed up shop somewhere around 1895.

Published by brothers Benjamin and Robert Pelham Jr. - alongside Walter H. Stowers and W.H. Anderson - The Plaindealer was the African American voice. “That was our voice,” explained Kimberly Simmons, chair of the Detroit Historical Society’s Black Sites Committee and president of the Detroit River Project, to The Huffington Post. “You had a whole group of people here, and the only way they knew what was going on was the Plaindealer. So it was a huge deal.”

The newspaper’s office was located on the southwest corner of Shelby and State Street. That space is currently occupied by the Westin Book Cadillac Hotel. A marker was recently erected to denote the historical relevance.

2. The Alger Theater

16451 E. Warren Ave., Detroit, MI 48224

While it has largely been white-owned, The Alger Theater served what evolved into the diverse historic neighborhood of Morningside located on the near-Eastside of the city.

One of only two remaining intact and unchanged neighborhood theaters, the Alger Theater was granted historic designation in 2009. The designation saved the theater from demolition.

Historically, it was a movie house that eventually showed B-movies in the late-70s and early 80s. However, earlier in its life, popular jazz acts like Dave Brubeck and the Duke Ellington Orchestra played in the 800-plus seat theater.

The Friends of the Alger Theater is a 25-year-old active non-profit organization committed to making the historic theater an anchor of this evolving neighborhood.

3. The Alpha Phi Alpha Fraternity House

293 Eliot St., Detroit, MI 48201

The home of Gamma Lambda Chapter, the 100-year-old Alpha House near downtown Detroit is home to the third oldest alumni chapter in the history of Alpha Phi Alpha Fraternity, Inc.

The building was built in 1919 and the fraternity purchased it in 1939. It is currently the meeting location, a museum, and event space for the organization.

Alpha Phi Alpha Fraternity, Inc. is the oldest Black Greek Letter Organization in history. It was founded in 1906.

4. Elmwood Cemetery

1200 Elmwood St., Detroit, MI 48207

One of the first fully-integrated cemeteries in the Midwest, Elmwood Cemetery is the resting place for a number of iconic Black Detroiters.

Former mayor, Coleman A. Young; Fannie Richards, Detroit’s first African American school teacher in the public school system; and Dudley Randall, Detroit’s former Poet Laureate, are all resting in this historic location.

Elmwood Cemetery and the Historic Elmwood Foundation launched a self-guided African American History Tour in 2015.

5. Algiers Motel Location

8301 Woodward Ave., Detroit, MI 48202

Three people were killed throughout the night of July 25-26, 1967, at the Algiers Motel in an incident during one of the darkest times in Detroit history. A period that the city has still not truly healed from.

As the 1967 rebellion raged in Detroit, several Black male youths and white women were listening to music inside the motel. One youth fired a starter pistol into the air which drew the attention of nearby officers believing they were dealing with many armed rioters.

The resulting police clash and deaths and wounding of seven others enraged the already tense community. The legacy of the Algiers Motel has been preserved in stage plays and films including the 2017 movie, Detroit.

6. The Shrine of the Black Madonna

7625 Linwood St., Detroit, MI 48206

Founded in 1967 by Albert B. Cleage, The Shrine of the Black Madonna was established as a segment of the Black Christian Nationalist Movement. The church is known for its recognition to center African Americans within the Christian narrative – a narrative that was often rooted in white supremacy.

Since its founding, the congregation at The Shrine of the Black Madonna became a powerhouse in Detroit politics instrumental in the mayoral elections of Coleman A. Young and Kwame M. Kilpatrick.

The Shrine also has a dynamic bookstore that is essential for any visitor to the historic site. The store features new and rare books on Black history and culture.

7. Masjid Wali Muhammad

11529 Linwood St., Detroit, MI 48206

Linwood Street was the site and home of much of the pan-African and Black nationalist movement. One important site is this historic masjid. This location was initially established as Temple #1 of the Black Muslim movement, The Nation of Islam.

The Nation of Islam moved into this space in 1959 and was designated a historic site in 2013.

The location was renamed in the late 70s after the death of the Honorable Elijah Muhammad. The name, Masjid Wali Muhammad was chosen in honor of the brother of Elijah Muhammad and designated a “masajid” the Arabic word for the place of worship for Muslims.

8. King Solomon Church

6100 14th St., Detroit, MI 48208

Founded in 1926, King Solomon Baptist Church has been an important center of Black life in Detroit since its founding.

The church was the site of one of the first Boy Scout troops for Black Detroiters. It was also a community center for the neighborhood. Youth outreach programs, like a boxing program led by the legendary Emmanuel Stewart, was where world champion boxer, Thomas “The Hitman” Hearns got his start.

The church was also the home of a number of gospel acts including Reverend James Cleveland and The Supremes. The church, which has 5000-seats, has also been the location of a number of historical Black speeches including two appearances by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

9. Submerge Record Distribution

3000 E. Grand Blvd., Detroit, MI 48202

The world headquarters of Underground Resistance is also home to the Detroit Techno Museum.

Original records from the height of the era, including gold and platinum plaques, are on display inside the museum. It should be noted that it is only available by appointment.

The museum has been called a “mecca for true techno fans” and the music, which reflected the grime of Detroit in the 1980s. John Collins, a DJ and producer told Detroit Metro Times that techno music, which is renowned around the world, was created to give listeners “hope for the future, that things will get better.”

10. Plowshares Theatre Company

440 Burroughs St. #185., Detroit, MI 48202

Founded in 1989, the Plowshares Theatre Company has been offering a true off-Broadway experience as Michigan’s only professional African American theatre company.

The company has dedicated itself to “breaking new ground” by nurturing emerging, talented writers and actors. Named after a blade that cuts the top layer of soil in a farm, the name Plowshares refers back to the work that enslaved people did on plantations.

Producer Gary Anderson wrote that Plowshares is important because when African Americans can see themselves in artistic endeavors, like plays, it is a validation of life.

11. Dr. Ossian Sweet House

2905 Garland St., Detroit, MI 48214

This historic site does appear on a number of must-see lists for visitors to Detroit, but it remains worth mentioning again.

In September of 1925, Dr. Ossian Sweet and his wife Gladys moved into their home on Garland St., and within hours a neighborhood group gathered to run the couple out of the home. A mob of at least 400 people gathered the next night throwing stones at the house.

Someone inside the house fired shots from a second-floor window hitting a rioter who had come onto the porch and wounded another in the crowd. All of the Black people in the house were charged with murder.

Dr. Sweet was acquitted of charges after being represented by the illustrious Charles Darrow. Charges against the rest of the group were dropped. However, Mrs. Sweet contracted tuberculosis in jail and died, along with the couple’s two-year-old daughter. And years later, Sweet took his own life.

The home represents the challenges that African Americans in Detroit had in moving into primarily white neighborhoods. The city is now majority Black.

12. Whipping Post

The Southeast corner of Woodward and Jefferson Avenues

This site was the location of Detroit’s first and only whipping post. The post was used to flog thieves and vagabonds, in protection of the city’s moral codes.

The whipping post was also a location where a man could be sold for a number of days work for petty crimes although slavery was illegal in the state of Michigan.

The legacy of the whipping post is still little-known. However, it is reasonable to assume that Black Detroiters, prior to 1830 when the post was removed, were punished at the post. It is mapped on the Mapping Slavery in Detroit map created by the University of Michigan.

13. Second Baptist Church

441 Monroe St., Detroit, MI 48226

Second Baptist Church is the oldest Black-established church in the Midwest. Founded in 1836, Second Baptist Church was a station on the Underground Railroad. The church was a final stop for some 5,000 enslaved people giving them food and clothing before sending them on to Canada.

14. Elizabeth Denison Forth’s House

328 Macomb, Detroit, MI 48226

Born a slave near Detroit in 1786, Elizabeth (Lisette) Denison Forth won her freedom after she and her brother moved to Canada to establish residency, which guaranteed that they would not be returned to their previous slave owner.

Lisette became a domestic servant, but she invested all of her pay into purchasing land. She became the first Black property owner in Pontiac, Michigan. She invested in the stock market and real estate and ultimately her own home became a Michigan Historic Site.

The front doors of St. James Episcopal Church is dedicated to Lisette who was a devout Episcopalian. She dedicated her life savings of $1,500 in 1866 to the building of the church.

In 2017, she was added to the Michigan Women’s Hall of Fame for her dedication to freedom and for equality among the rich and poor.

#14 Lesser-Known African American Historical Sites in Detroit #Detroit #Black HIstory in Detroit #Black Detroit #Black People #Black Lives Matter #Black Detroit History #racism in michigan #elizabeth dennison forth

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doom-nerdo-666 · 1 year

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blinklomo · 2 years

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nafeary · 4 years

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Cuddles and Snuggles with the Ikevamp Suitors

Anon asked:

Hello 👋, can I have some really short and maybe flowery scenarios of the Ikevamp suitors cuddling? Just some cute little paragraph (that can turn smutty but doesn’t have to be) I really really like your style of writing, you see. Thank you!!!!

Heya! I love love love requests like these, they really make my day. Considering I didn’t want to give everything the same plot, I figured I’d just allow my creative freedom to run rampage.

I’m sorry I haven’t been posting much, but school is keeping me pretty busy (a week of holidays are coming up tho hehehehe). This has been sitting in my WIPs for an eternity, and I finished the last five bois today (it’s Sunday/Monday midnight by the time I’m scheduling this YEET).

I hope you’ll all manage to find some comfort in this, and I hope you’ll all enjoy (and remember to drink water~)

Also, I don’t care what Cybird says; Theo is 186cm and I do not take criticism on this.

Warnings: implied sexual intercourse (only for Leo tho), otherwise only toothrottingly sweet fluff... maybe angst, too. Blame Aki)

Napoleon Bonaparte

『laying siege to your heart』

Laughter prompted your body to tremor in delight upon seeing the form of your lover snuggling his blanket, spilling into the room in coaction with the afternoon rays streaming in buoyant ribbons. Napoleon lethargically peeked past his lashes, grinning as he grasped your hand to pull you into his awaiting arms.

Your head fit perfectly underneath his chin, your bodies an amalgamation of puzzle pieces enjoying their reunion. You allowed a few teasing quips to spill from your lips, regretting to have done so tout de suite as your body writhed beneath his butterfly kisses tickling your nape. The most darling sounding giggles encompasses your ears, eliciting some of your own as you tried your best to escape his tight embrace.

Eventually, he stilled, burying his face into the crook of your neck, and holding you for what felt like an entire eternity—no ounce of egomania weighed upon you, the fierceness of it brought forth by his sheer adoration for yourself. And even if he were to lay siege for an eternity, you couldn’t see yourself caring if you were pledged with no disparate treatment.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

『moonlight tryst』

If there was one thing you’ve come to cherish, it would be the time of the moon, when it reigned the sky in its eerie glory. You’ve never been able to see the stars’ purity, constellations clearer than ever before. Perchance, the appreciation stemmed from the company the firmament would gift you with, when the other half of your bed was frozen and weeping alongside you in abandonment. Yet, as you mused your loneliness, approaching echoes of heels hitting the tiled floor incited your gaze to leave the stars, instead turning to embrace the sight of your lover coming to join you to your tryst.

Stars melted into fervid streams of gems, pouring upon Wolf’s skin, hair, and eyes, aiding his appearance to leave you blinded beneath its ethereal irradiance. You picked up a ribbon le Comte had gifted you long ago, jesting the embroidered amethysts would gracefully accompany the composer’s own set of eyes; but the juxtaposition left you disenchanted at the blunt and transparent crystals, opting to tie his alabaster strands with it, shivering slightly as you parted a curtain over his nape.

He enfolded your hands with his, hastily trying to get it off. However, his lips were quickly claimed by his muse, pouring every emotion and feeling you could gather into it. You were glad for the minuscule distraction, even more so as his arms fell limp, succumbing to your passion—nay, not without teasing remarks, leaving your pounding heart at the wolf’s mercy, and carrying your cries into the night in concordance with the owls’ song.

Leonardo da Vinci

『the gift of light』

At times, your relationship felt like stumbling through an obsidian forest, the only object not the plunged into abyssal realms a map to show you the right path. The map knew everything, could achieve anything, would create the unimaginable, while you were left impotently relying one its guidance.

Leonardo was aware of these clouds obscuring your emotions, hindering your felicity, and he was unsure whether he should act upon it. Perchance, it would leave you in deeper misery, but he’d take the chance to undress the light in your eyes.

You essentially knew that that was what a relationship with Leonardo da Vinci would result in; after all, no one could possibly match his genius. Natheless, the string pinioning your souls was stubborn, and it would be near impossible for anything to deter you from this love.

As you straddled him, panting in exhaustion with sweat glistening like deep sea pearls across your bodies, he slid his hands past your ears, tugging on the ribbon keeping your hair up. They ran past your bare shoulders, a cascade of bougainvillea shadowing the outside world from seeing your lover’s flushed expression. With his hands still resting on your cheeks, he pulled you toward himself, capturing your lips with raw ardour. A gossamer simper slumbered onto his face just as the sun announced the arrival of dayspring, enkindling the forest in the light of dawn.

Arthur Conan Doyle

『cosy and secluded dancing』

A myriad of candles appeared to dance within the salon, frolicking in the gentle zephyrs through the opened window. The lovers exuded the impression of pure serenity, swaying in each other’s clutches in synchronisation with the flames.

A saxophone urged your feet to tap along the tiled floor, the beat accompanying the agute anecdotes Arthur shared with you. A simper blossomed on your face as the topic of them always managed to include yourself in some way or another; you’d taken notice of this the further you relationship wrote itself. And just like his words filled the paper with ease under the influence of his fountain of delight, so did the words pertaining to your mutual ardour.

As you allowed your lips to meet his nose, perplexity pulled your brows into a furrow—how anyone could just accept all the malicious comments of “mongrel”, “bastard”, and other vile slurs without retaliating in defense was beyond you, especially when a simple action like yours dissolved him into a fumbling mess, his footing faltering to and fro akin to the rustling branches outside. It was nothing but a mystery, but he was your mystery. And you had more than enough time to solve him, buoyantly filling the paper with breathings of your love along the way.

Vincent Van Gogh

『picnic in a flower meadow』

There was nothing but warmth—the ground, the breeze, the sun’s ever so gentle embrace on this bright autumn’s day, creating an atmosphere of absolute serenity.

However, the sun wasn’t the only one to embrace you. You felt your lover’s breathing gently caressing your face, his heartbeat beneath your head the sole sound next to the sunflowers’ ever so tranquil rustling.

Another breeze ruffled his flaxen tufts of hair, eliciting the tiniest of giggles as they brushed against his nose. As his hands rose up to brush your hair, he gifted to with the most brilliant grin, the epitome of an angel walking amongst mortals.

It made you nuzzle closer into his chest, inhaling the wonted scent of paint and dried sunflowers. Opting to enjoy these last moments of your picnic with the artist, your eyes fluttered close to the most ethereal sight on earth.

Theodorus Van Gogh

『unfeigned aftermath of a fight』

Ire was not strange to him, acquaintances till death, for sure. Nevertheless, these kind of manners didn’t appeal to him, but charading as the scapegoat for his brother’s wealth has made him into the devil’s advocate—and old habits hardly perish.

His hands caught the last few droplets of despair running down your chin, stroking your own pair of hands as he held you from behind. A few moments prior, he had shown you his quiet, oftentimes guarded, ardour, carrying these words to your ear. It left you nearly broken, the brush having stumbled across the artwork, red marks littering the void. But as fast as the shade spread, so did the greens and blues, the yellows and whites; if someone knew how to fix these mistakes, it was Theo himself.

In favour of his height, he straightened to place his chin atop your head, allowing you to lean into him. You couldn’t even remember what miscellaneous things you’d been fighting about, rendering your throats hoarse and your hearts wound; alas, as perilous as his clamours were, he never failed to apologise, whispering adorations as sweet as the saccharine treats he enjoyed.

Truly, as painful as some words could be, he always committed to proving you his worth. He just didn’t realize that that was irrelevant; after all, your devotion for him ran deeper than any slash could ever reach.

Dazai Osamu

『tranquil lazing in the garden』

Amidst the most delicate petals and the green leaves, the pond’s reflection of two twirling birds was similar to the lovers leaning against an oak, intertwined branches unable to release their hold.

You were situated between his legs, his broad chest acting as your pillow of comfort. It was a serene kind of purity, the meadow’s song—flora and fauna uniting to create a serenade of peace—coaxing your pair into a state free of despair and ire. That is, until he let his lips flutter down your exposed neck, prompting you to grip the flesh of his thighs a bit tighter.

The butterfly kisses didn’t appear to end anytime soon, not that you payed it much negative mind. A simper danced across both of your faces as a butterfly, with gossamer wings fluttering gently, landed on your lover’s finger, drawing a titter to resound throughout the garden.

He beheld your reach for the lepidopteran creature, the flaxen colours scintillant in your orbs. Perchance this little guy was an omen of genuine ebullience. However, certainty belay onto his thoughts, knowing that you were nothing but a sign of fortune, even to someone as tainted as himself.

Isaac Newton

『snuggles to chase away self doubt』

Unrelentingly, you pushed chocolate into his calloused hands, pledging that the tryto-something—“it’s tryptophan, darling”—would surely lift his solemn mood, clouds of doubt and pressure weighing upon him. He’d been used to the wallowing forlorn, solus; he’d been used to secluding himself apart from any comfort helping hands could give.

But now, now he’d been exposed to a star, more lucent than the North Star could ever dream to be, which shared its balmy rays with him, never imploring for anything in return.

As the slightly bitter treat melted in his mouth, he pulled the almost oneiric appearance of his sweetheart closer to him, your foreheads colliding together to display the sanguine shade of his fiery cheeks. Both of you chortled at his endearing ardency, finding yourself neglecting the light mound rising from the top of your head as you beheld his cherry blossom orbs.

He wasn’t a man of many words, his thoughts the stars he couldn’t fathom into constellations; and while all he could manage were the faintest pleas of gratitude, you knew that that was his crisp layer masking the dispatch of genuineness. Underneath, he was just as sweet and fulfilling as the fruit he so hastily denied. These obstinate and vexing thoughts pulled at the corners of his mouth, but you were swift in your endeavor to diminish them, letting your fingers glissade like zephyrs through the wild locks of salmon and ever so gently massaging him with their tips.

Jean d’Arc

『eskimo kisses and pep talks』

Jean oftentimes felt as if the world was weighing upon his lungs, threatening to suffocate him from the inside out. With his wings clipped and feet bound, all be could was sing in fear and cry for help, knowing he was undeserving of such feat. And yet, you were holding him closer than he’d ever been held before, kissing every scar, every painful remainder of his past, with the force of what could only be described as love.

He’d call himself vile names, thinking nothing much of it, and you’d never grasped what he meant. Moronic? His gentleness spoke of wisdom that many men could only dream of owning. Appalling? You would incessantly reassure him that his arms were your favorite place to while in, and that you wanted to feel his pulse through your veins. Ugly? His eyes met the moon and became almost prismatic as he claimed so, releasing that inhumanly beautiful hue of disenthralled, limitless amethysts, his skin reflecting the pale alabaster rays. How could a person so stunning and breathtaking be ugly? A person so kind and selfless?

Jean scoffed at your sentiment; withal, he allowed himself to succumb to his selfishness, brushing your nose with his own in an anguished assay to express his gratitude. You responded with a glee, succumbing to his endearing affection. He could only yearn for you to be able to withstand the barrel of infinity that he was bound to curse you with.

William Shakespeare

『interruptions ft puck』

You rose to the canorous breathing of your lover, nay, soulmate; that much was apparent judging by the euphoria encompassing your entire being at the sole mention of his name. It perplexed you how you were able to manage waking up to this empyrean sight without your heart granting the artist its last applause.

From his flushed checks, to his bare chest exposed to your own, to his lean arms reaching around yourself to tangle his fingers within your mane, more delicate and loving than the activities of the previous night required—you knew you were borne under a lucky star, whose only affiliation could possibly be be playwright claiming you his, cradling you with nothing but the zephyrs of a quiet twilight downpour.

You noticed a few candles he’d lit, most likely while you still rested, and they carried scents of raspberry sorbet, wafting around you in refreshing sprites. They were made my William himself, akin to the abundance of objects you’d sentimentally ramble about; and yet, he’d obstinately organise the most trivial things, no matter the obstacle of time and place.

Warmth engulfed your heart, your mind and being at how utterly cherished you were within his arms, and a few tears threatened their exeunt, but you suppressed your expression to the best of your ability, not wanting to worry him ignominiously. The fortunate appearance of your favourite character from the playwright’s own little story supported your despair de trop—even if he might not have intended to.

The little bunny hopped onto your lover’s head, staring down at you as if to mark his own territory. However, this attempt only prompted laughter to spill from your lips, and it amplified as William plucked Puck from his hair, placing him in midst of your tangled limps.

Comte de Saint-Germain

『napping in front of his fireplace』

The fireplace was ablaze, each scarlet flame radiating heat as the fumes frolicked in delight. With your legs angled to your lover’s lap and your fingers clutching his dress shirt, you were curled into the man’s side, the sofa cushioning your assay to sleep.

Your eyes fluttered open when you felt the snug quilt slide over your shoulders, meeting brilliant gold whose owner was busy with shielding you from the frigid cold. His hand released the fabric, instead opting to ever so carefully grasp your chin, as if frightened you were a withering rose.

Words of adoring troths danced on your lips, assuring him that you weren’t fragile, that he mustn’t fret upon your disappearance. He could only place a kiss between your brows, aware that silence weighed more than words ever could; his mirth was apparent as he pulled you closer to him, wanting nothing but to transcend time and space for his other half.

Sebastian

『oreos, milk, and ice cream』

There were certain difficulties when your heart belonged to two people, but even more so when it belonged to multiple places—or periods. Nevertheless, being employed to a time-traveling and immortal boss had its certain advantages.

You knew he longed for these items as much as you did, yet only organised them as you uttered these fantasies in a sleepy stupor. Enthusiasm spurring the atmosphere, you scooped the icy vanilla custard into crystalline bowls, improvident about the dampness coating your fingers. Before the fallen spoon could hit the ground, your lover caught it, trapping your back against his chest as he placed it back onto the counter.

His reverberating laughter prompted your own, enjoying the sensation of the flush body enbosoming your own. Arms winding across your chest, further strengthening the protective cocoon, a feather brushed your neck as he kissed with the ilk of cotton fields. You couldn’t halt the goosebumps from waltzing to the rhythm of his teasing, rather opting to stuff an Oreo past his appealing lips.

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lailoken · 3 years

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The Faery Physicians of Myddfai

—or—

The Farmer and the Water Maiden

“The legend of the Meddygon Myddfai again introduces the elfin cattle to our notice, but combines with them another and a very interesting form of this superstition, namely, that of the wife of supernatural race. A further feature gives it its name, Meddygon meaning physicians, and the legend professing to give the origin of certain doctors who were renowned in the thirteenth century. The legend relates that a farmer in the parish of Myddfai, Carmarthenshire, having bought some lambs in a neighbouring fair, led them to graze near Llyn y Fan Fach, on the Black Mountains. Whenever he visited these lambs three beautiful damsels appeared to him from the lake, on whose shores they often made excur- sions. Sometimes he pursued and tried to catch them, but always failed; the enchanting nymphs ran before him and on reaching the lake taunted him in these words:

Cras dy fara, Anhawdd ein dala;

which, if one must render it literally, means:

Bake your bread, ‘Twill be hard to catch us;

but which, more poetically treated, might signify:

Mortal, who eatest baken bread, Not for thee is the fairy's bed!

One day some moist bread from the lake came floating ashore. The farmer seized it, and devoured it with avidity. The following day, to his great delight, he was successful in his chase, and caught the nymphs on the shore. After talking a long time with them, he mustered up the courage to propose marriage to one of them. She consented to accept him on condition that he would distinguish her from her sisters the next day. This was a new and great difficulty to the young farmer, for the damsels were so similar in form and features, that he could scarcely see any difference between them. He noted, however, a trifling singularity in the strapping of the chosen one's sandal, by which he recognized her on the following day. As good as her word, the gwraig immediately left the lake and went with him to his farm. Before she quitted the lake she summoned therefrom to attend her, seven cows, two oxen, and one bull. She stipulated that she should remain with the farmer only until such time as he should strike her thrice without cause. For some years they dwelt peaceably together, and she bore him three sons, who were the celebrated Meddygon Myddfai. One day, when preparing for a fair in the neighbourhood, the farmer desired her to go to the field for his horse. She said she would, but being rather dilatory, he said to her humorously ‘Dôs, dôs, dôs,' i.e., ‘Go, go, go,' and at the same time slightly tapped her arm three times with his glove. The blows were slight—but they were blows. The terms of the marriage contract were broken, and the dame departed, summoning with her her seven cows, her two oxen, and the bull. The oxen were at that moment ploughing in the field, but they immediately obeyed her call and dragged the plough after them to the lake. The furrow, from the field in which they were ploughing to the margin of the lake, is still to be seen—in several parts of that country—at the present day. After her departure, the gwraig annwn once met her three sons in the valley now called Cwm Meddygon, and gave them a magic box containing remedies of wonderful power, through whose use they became celebrated. Their names were Cadogan, Gruffydd and Einion, and the farmer's name was Rhiwallon. Rhiwallon and his sons, named as above, were physicians to Rhys Gryg, Lord of Dynevor, and son of the last native prince of Wales. They lived about 1230, and dying, left behind them a compendium of their medical practice. A copy of their works is in the Welsh School Library in Gray's Inn Lane.'

In a more polished and elaborate form this legend omits the medical features altogether, but substitutes a number of details so peculiarly Welsh that I cannot refrain from presenting them, This version relates that the enamoured farmer had heard of the lake maiden, who rowed up and down the lake in a golden boat, with a golden oar. Her hair was long and yellow, and her face was pale and melancholy. In his desire to see this wondrous beauty, the farmer went on New Year's Eve to the edge of the lake, and in silence awaited the coming of the first hour of the new year. It came, and there in truth was the maiden in her golden boat, rowing softly to and fro. Fascinated, he stood for hours beholding her, until the stars faded out of the sky, the moon sank behind the rocks, and the cold gray dawn drew nigh; and then the lovely gwraig began to vanish from his sight. Wild with passion, and with the thought of losing her forever, he cried aloud to the retreating vision, 'Stay! stay ! Be my wife.’

But the gwraig only uttered a faint cry, and was gone. Night after night the young farmer haunted the shores of the lake, but the gwraig returned no more. He became negligent of his person; his once robust form grew thin and wan; his face was a map of melancholy and despair. He went one day to consult a soothsayer who dwelt on the mountain, and this grave personage advised him to besiege the damsel's heart with gifts of bread and cheese. This counsel commending itself strongly to his Welsh way of thinking, the farmer set out upon an assiduous course of casting his bread upon the waters—accompanied by cheese. He began on Midsummer eve by going to the lake and dropping therein a large cheese and a loaf of bread. Night after night he continued to throw in loaves and cheeses, but nothing appeared in answer to his sacrifices. His hopes were set, however, on the approaching New Year's eve. The momentous night arrived at last. Clad in his best array, and armed with seven white loaves and his biggest and handsomest cheese, he set out once more for the lake. There he waited till midnight, and then slowly and solemnly dropped the seven loaves into the water, and with a sigh sent the cheese to keep them company. His persistence was at length rewarded. The magic skiff appeared; the fair gwraig guided it to where he stood; stepped ashore, and accepted him as her husband. The before-mentioned stipulation was made as to the blows; and she brought her dower of cattle. One day, after they had been four years married, they were invited to a christening. In the midst of the ceremony the gwraig burst into tears. Her husband gave her an angry look, and asked her why she thus made a fool of herself. She replied, ‘The poor babe is entering a world of sin and sorrow; misery lies before it. Why should I rejoice?' He pushed her pettishly away. ‘I warn you, husband,' said the gwraig; 'you have struck me once.' After a time they were bidden to the funeral of the child they had seen christened. Now the gwraig laughed, sang, and danced about. The husband's wrath again arose, and again he asked her why she thus made a fool of herself. She answered, ‘The dear babe has escaped the misery that was before it, and gone to be good and happy for ever. Why should I grieve?' Again he pushed her from him, and again she warned him; he had struck her twice. Soon they were invited to a wedding; the bride was young and fair, the groom a tottering, toothless, decrepit old miser. In the midst of the wedding feast the gwraig annwn burst into tears, and to her husband's question why she thus made a fool of herself she replied, ‘Truth is wedded to age for greed, and not for love—summer and winter cannot agree—it is the diawl's [devil’s] compact.' The angry husband thrust her from him for the third and last time. She looked at him with tender love and reproach, and said, ‘The three blows are struck-husband, farewell!' He never saw her more, nor any of the flocks and herds she had brought him for her dowry. In its employment of the myth to preach a sermon, and in its introduction of cheese, this version of the legend is very Welsh indeed. The extent to which cheese figures in Cambrian folk-lore is surprising; cheese is encountered in every sort of fairy company; you actually meet cheese in the Mabinogion, along with the most romantic forms of beauty known in story. And herein again is illustrated Shakspeare's accurate knowledge of the Cambrian goblins. 'Heaven defend me from that Welsh fairy!' says Falstaff, 'lest he transform me to a piece of cheese!' Bread is found figuring actively in the folk-lore of every country, especially as a sacrifice to water-gods ; but cheese is, so far as I know, thus honoured only in Cambria.

Once more this legend appears, this time with a feature I have nowhere else encountered in fairy land, to wit, the father of a fairy damsel. The son of a farmer on Drws Coed farm was one foggy day looking after his father's sheep, when crossing a marshy meadow he beheld a little lady behind some rising ground. She had yellow hair, blue eyes and rosy cheeks. He approached her, and asked permission to converse; whereupon she smiled sweetly and said to him, 'Idol of my hopes, you have come at last!' They there and then began to 'keep company,' and met each other daily here and there along the farm meadows. His intentions were honourable; he desired her to marry him. He was sometimes absent for days together, no one knew where, and his friends whispered about that he had been witched. Around the Turf Lake (Llyn y Dywarchen) was a grove of trees, and under one of these one day the fairy promised to be his. The consent of her father was now necessary. One moonlight night an appointment was made to meet in this wood. The father and daughter did not appear till the moon had disappeared behind the hill. Then they both came. The fairy father immediately gave his consent to the marriage, on one condition, namely, that her future husband should never hit her with iron. ‘If ever thou dost touch her flesh with iron she shall be no more thine, but she shall return to her own.' They were married—a good-looking pair. Large sums of money were brought by her, the night before the wedding, to Drws Coed. The shepherd lad became wealthy, had several handsome children, and they were very happy. After some years, they were one day out riding, when her horse sank in a deep mire, and by the assistance of her husband, in her hurrry to remount, she was struck on her knee by the stirrup of the saddle. Immediately voices were heard singing on the brow of the hill, and she disappeared, leaving all her children behind. She and her mother devised a plan by which she could see her beloved, but as she was not allowed to walk the earth with man, they floated a large turf on the lake, and on this turf she stood for hours at a time holding converse with her husband. This continued until his death.”

—

British Goblins:

Welsh Folk-lore, Fairy Mythology, Legends and Traditions

by Wirt Sikes

#British goblins #faerie lore #faerie #faeries #faerie folk #tylwyth teg #welsh folklore #gwragedd annwn #meddygon myddfai #physicians of myddfai

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vintage-story-time · 3 years

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MANHATTAN MADNESS by Chili Peeler

Chapter 1

Jim Andrews stared through the window of the plane as it came in for a landing at LaGuardia. He had never seen anything as impressive as the island of Manhattan; it looked like every square inch of the island was filled with a skyscraper. At 17 years of age, the biggest city he had ever been to had been Des Moines. When his sister, Elizabeth, had written to him and asked him if he wanted to come visit her, he'd jumped at the chance. He felt the same urge as Elizabeth had; to get out of the backwater burg his family lived in back in eastern Nebraska. He admired the way Elizabeth had just tore out one night, leaving a note for their parents that she was going to travel and see what else was out there in the world. That had been 3 years ago and no one in the family had seen her since. Occasionally a postcard would come, addressed to him, from different cities around the country. Chicago, New Orleans, Dallas......but never with a return address. Then, a few weeks ago, a letter. And then a week later, a round trip ticket from Topeka.

The plane was coming in low now over the Long Island Sound. He'd studied a map in the family Encyclopedia Britannia; probably outdated but he doubted they had changed the name of the Sound. He looked over again at Manhattan, still not believing his sister had made it this far from home. Jim came out of the airplane entrance ramp, walking in the midst of other passengers. He moved forward, swinging his head from side to side, looking for Beth. He tried to keep in mind, as he scanned the faces around the gate, that his sister was sure to have changed in the three years she'd been gone. The crowd began to thin away, people meeting their families and heading for the baggage claim. Jim was beginning to feel dumb, standing there with his head swiveling around. "Jim?!" He looked around and there she was - his big sister, Elizabeth. Man, had she ever changed! When she's left, she'd had short brown hair and the fashion sense of any other teenaged girl from eastern Nebraska, namely jeans and T-shirts. But now there was a wild looking girl....no, woman...in tight black Lycra pants, a bright red half-shirt that let her stomach bare and a tan suede jacket with lots of tassels swinging everywhere. Her hair was now blondish, long, over her shoulders with a tight curl. "Look at my baby brother - all grown up!" Beth said as she ran up to him and gave him a big hug which he returned with equal affection. "Beth, man, I've missed you..look at you!" He let her go and motioned to her attire. "You look like a fashion model or something." "What, these old things!" Beth laughed. "When in New York, do as the Yorkers do. Come on, let's go get your bags. I'm sorry I was late...it was hell getting a taxi today." "You don't have a car?" Jim said. "No one in New York has a car. There's barely enough room for the people. You'll see. This the most remarkable city in the world..... Tomorrow I can show you around, do the tourist thing." "Sounds good to me." Jim said as they headed down the concourse. In the cab on the way to Elizabeth's place, they caught up a little on the three intervening years. Elizabeth asked about the old town, the high school, if he knew anything about any of her old friends. Jim pumped her for the things she had seen on her travels, how she liked New York, etc. Beth seemed to want to steer away from the topic of why she hadn't kept in touch with the family more; she would just say that it was probably best for everyone, then added she hadn't wanted to worry them. "So, tell me, little brother, do you have a girlfriend back there?" "Well, I've had my share but I'm free at the moment. Why? You got someone you want to set me up with while I'm here?" "No, I was just wondering. When I left, you were still in the 'girl's are yucky' stage." Elizabeth laughed. "Yeah, well, I came to my senses." Jim smiled as the taxi slowed and pulled to the curb in front of tall brick building. "This is it." Beth said as she opened her door. A few minutes later, Beth was opening the door to her fifth story apartment loft. She walked in and hit the lights as her brother carried his case in. "Holy shit! This place is great." Jim complimented her as he looked around. The apartment had real high ceiling, wood floors, cool furniture. "Glad you like it. You can put your bag in here," Beth walked over to a door and turned on the light. He went into the bedroom and dumped his bag on the bed. The room was modern looking and clean. Overhead there was a skylight that was sure to let all the light in in the morning; sleeping in was going to be tough. "You'll be staying in here. This is my room usually. I'll be sharing my roommate's bedroom." "Roommate?" "Yeah, did you think I could afford this place by myself?" "I don't know. What kind of a job do you have?" Jim asked. "I'm a hostess at a club here in town. A really trendy place. It's private, in fact." "And what, you are on a salary?" "Yeah, but most

of the money comes from tips. The member's are loaded....it's really easy work. Just a lot of smiling. Anyway, I hope you're hungry, I'm going to make us some dinner." "I'm starving...all I got was some peanuts on the flight." "Good. Go ahead and unpack and I'll get things going." Beth left him, pulling off her suede coat as she went into the living area. Jim watched her leave and for the first time thought of how attractive Beth had become. She had to know that the clothes she wore left little to the imagination. The tight pants showed off her fine legs and cute bottom. Jim bet she played on her good looks at that club of hers, flashing a smile at the old codgers who'd give her a big tip just for the illusion of her maybe being attainable. Being blessed with good looks was a pretty easy way to get by in life but he couldn't hold that against Beth. It had gotten her away from Shitville, Nebraska. Jim put his clothes in some empty drawers and took his toiletries into the bathroom. Being a neat person by habit, he opened the medicine cabinet to see if there was enough room for his deodorant and shaver. And was surprised to find the cabinet totally empty. Not a bottle of pills, not a pair of tweezers, not a jar of nail polish - nothing. He opened the drawers by the sink and found them empty as well. The absence of any girlie items anywhere in the bathroom struck him as curious. He didn't think Beth had emptied everything out and taken it into her roommate's bathroom; no reason to go to all that trouble, just take the essentials over. The bathroom looked like it wasn't even being used. Jim stowed his stuff in the drawer, kicked off his shoes and went out to see what his sister was making for dinner. "Whoa! Who is this?" Jim said as he looked at a picture of his sister and another woman near the entrance to the kitchen. "Oh, that's Julie, my roommate....well, don't walk on your tongue!" Beth said as she took a bowl out of the cupboard. Julie looked like every man's ideal woman. In the picture, she was standing next to Beth with her arm around her shoulders. Beth was probably 5' 7". Unless Beth was standing in a hole, Julie must be at least 6' 2". Brunette, almost black hair, worn to mid-back with lots of body. Her face was attractive - not great, sorta tough looking but it certainly could be overlooked. But it was Julie's body from the neck down that probably stopped men in their tracks. Julie was stacked. Big round tits with a lot of cleavage showing. 'No way those are real,' Jim thought to himself. Hips that flared nicely, plenty of meat to grab onto there. Legs that looked like she had worn out a Stairmaster. 'She looks like a fuckin' superhero,' Jim thought. Finally he moved on into the kitchen where Beth was smiling at him knowingly. "Yeah, she gets that reaction a lot," Beth said as he leaned against the counter. "I bet she does. Is that all her?" Jim said as he motioned with his hand over his chest. "No.....but she says it was the best $5000 she ever spent." "$5000?! What kind of work does she do? That's a lot of money." "Well...she's an agent, I guess. She hooks people up." Beth said. "Like how?" Jim was intrigued. "Well, she sorta acts like a headhunter." Beth continued after Jim gave her a quizzical look. "She's like a talent agent, finding people for jobs." "Oh, I see." "Don't let her looks fool you," Beth said as she opened the refrigerator and handed him a beer, "Julie's a smart cookie, too." "So how did you two meet?" "At a gym. I was living with this guy for awhile, a real jerk as it turns out, but anyway, I could use his pass fro his health club. Julie and I just got talking and we hit it off. She's probably the best friend I've ever had. She pay's for the lionshare of the expenses for this place." "Well, you've really fallen in it here......penthouse apartment, good job...it sure beats milking the cows at 5 A.M." "Oh God, don't remind

me!" Beth said as she opened a beer for herself. Jim heard the front door open. Beth did too. "That must be Julie," she said to Jim. "JUUULLLEEESS!" "YEEAHH!" "Well, come and meet her," Beth said as she took her brother's hand. They exited the kitchen walking into the dining area and there she was - Julie and the picture didn't do her justice. She was looking through a stack of mail, wearing a form fitting short dress. She looked up then and jerked her head to the side, sending her hair over her shoulder. It was quick natural movement but Jim got the feeling she had waited until they could see her before she did it. "Julie, this is Jim." "So this is your little brother." Julie said as she walked over to them, the emphasis on the word 'little'. "I'd hate to see your 'big' brother." Jim liked the fact that Julie was complimenting him on his physique. He was 5' 11" with muscle from working long hours around the family farm. Julie extended her hand and Jim shook it. "Nice to meet you, Julie." he said and meant it, willing himself not to look at her fantastic chest. Julie could be fodder for many a night of masturbation. "You got a nice strong grip, Jim. You work out?" "Nah. Just work around the farm." he said. "Baling hay, other exciting stuff." "Yeah, Lizzie's told me all about the farm life." Julie said with a wry smirk. Julie bend slightly and gave Elizabeth a peck on her cheek. Elizabeth looked at Jim after it happened but then Julie continued, "So what do you kids have planned for tonight." Jim guessed Julie was maybe 30; certainly older than he at 17 and Elizabeth at 21. Being called a 'kid' made Jim twinge but he got the feeling that was just the way Julie was. Like she wanted to get a reaction. "Nothing tonight." Beth said. "I'm whipping up some dinner and I thought we'd just relax." "I just stopped by to get another pair of shoes," Julie said. "I've got a meeting later, so I'll have to pass on dinner. I'll be back around 11. You'll still be up, right?" "Oh sure, you know me." Beth replied. "All right then, I'll see you guys later." Julie walked off toward the door to the other bedroom on the other side of the apartment. Jim watched her bottom all the way. Beth punched him in the arm to bring him out of it. "You men are all alike!" she said giggling as she went back into the kitchen. Jim followed her. "So shoot me. There's nothing like that back on the farm....Lizzie." "Don't you start with the Lizzie, too. Julie started calling me that but I don't want it to catch on. Beth is just fine." Jim heard the front door open and close again as Julie headed back out into the city for her meeting. Beth was rooting around in the cupboard, pulling out spice bottles. "Dammit!" she said exasperated. "We're out of basil....I'm gonna run down to the market and get some. Without the basil, this dish just doesn't make it." "Hey, don't go to any trouble....." Jim said as he followed her out into the living area. "The market's just around the corner. I'll only be a few minutes." She grabbed her jacket and headed for the door. Left alone, Jim wandered around. He went outside on the patio that was off the dining area and looked at the surrounding buildings in the fading dusk. He went into the kitchen and lifted the lid on what Beth was preparing; it looked like an Italian sausage dish. He roamed into the livingroom and studied the prints on the walls; they were all of women, paintings by a guy named Nagel. They reminded him of some of the artwork in the front of Playboy magazines, mildly erotic. He was walking near the door to Julie's room and the door was open, so he poked his head in. The bedroom was larger than the one he was staying in; obviously this was the master bedroom of the apartment. Same skylight, a king-size bed with black and white bedding, same sliding door for the closet and the bathroom door in the same place as in the other

bedroom. Jim was going to move back out into the apartment when he noticed something very interesting sitting on the far bedside table. He couldn't be absolutely sure it was what he thought it was; a magazine was covering part of it. He was going to walk over and check it out but he heard a key being inserted in the front door. Quickly he moved a few feet to the nearby entertainment center and made like he was looking at their music selections as Elizabeth came through the door. "Told you that wouldn't take too long," she said as she pulled off her coat. "Come on and help me set the table." "Sure," Jim said as he followed her toward the kitchen. His thoughts, however, were on what he thought he had seen in Julie's bedroom. It had sure looked like there was a pair of handcuffs under that magazine.

#MANHATTAN MADNESS by Chili Peeler #CHapter 1

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ivwxy · 3 years

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FMP Brainstorm:

what am i interested in?

recycling

food waste, finishing all your food

turning off lights in rooms you won’t be using for a while

keeping good habits and saving energy and electricity

reusing, hoarding

closing windows, doors, drawers and handling other furniture in the house gently

interior design, home accessories

redesign iKEA? design iKEA promotional image for each continent to better suit it? increase appeal? make catalogues and infographics of the unique architectural and interior differences between countries and continents, tying in their differing cultures, traditions and origins of the people and culture, communities

organisation, colour-sorting

genuine human interaction, consideration and looking out for others

balance of each individual’s needs in a relationship

give and take ratio, balance within one’s life both personal and in general

putting in effort into maintaining a friendship, subsequent ratio? does it even exist? is there a formula to a successful long-lasting friendship?

give and receive: in life, what is the average output you receive back out of what you invested? do you receive more than you give, if so what affects that? which circumstances define and influence how far your effort goes and what or how much you get out of your investment?

self-driving cars are the future; advocate for self-driving cars

consume less meat to not only improve overall health but save the planet

how humanity has wiped out thousands of species without ever having even discovered them

the impact of humans on planet earth

the impact of humans to other species co-existing on our home planet

is intergalactic expansion of humanity a positive thing? will we only ruin more planets and damage them irreversibly?

old archaeology, lost civilisations and nomadic tribes; Mayan civilisation, the Ancient Huns, Atlantans, lost peoples, lost languages

how astronomers of the past became so advanced and knowledgeable about the sky without using any of the modern tools we have today

the Paris catacombs: how the hell people used to navigate them; current illegal activity in the catacombs and the fact that no one has mapped it fully, still unexplored. caves carved by ancient civilisations that preserve thousand year old art and stories

supernatural phenomenon such as the Bermuda Triangle and other areas on earth that emit strange energy

how the majority of the ocean is still unexplored; what’s the biggest sea creature? does the Kraken exist? what lies at the bottom of the ocean?

how is the jellyfish immortal and how on earth did all the various species on earth evolve from the same point and turn out so vastly different from one another? for real jellyfish and lobsters (and every invertebrate) could convincingly be from an entirely different solar system. yet here they are, on earth with us, sharing the same resources

is everything we experience a simulation?

superhumans? genetically modified gene pool, GATTACA

are we headed toward a dystopian future?

astral projection, the subconscious: what are we really? do we understand ourselves? are we really aware of ourselves?

BANANAS

Banana house? What would it look like? Banana land, banana production, banana uses, history, benefits, health effects

badminton, promotional visuals

dogs at shelters; how to boost appeal to the public on adopting a dog from a shelter? rescuing dogs and discouraging backdoor breeders

japanese culture: internet/cyber cafés, hikokomori, kodokushi, gigolo/host industry, rent-a-family business in japan, fake-family industry, escape/moving companies, mass overworking, impact of overtime, holographic virtual idol concerts, projected characters welcoming people home, marrying virtual characters, super sophisticated interior design and functionality for tiny homes and apartments, parents letting 4 year old kids travel alone to school taking public transport and navigating to and fro on entirely their own, maid cafés and the like, weird services and industries you’d only find in japan

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abigailmaitland · 5 years

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Andi Mack 4B Plots

My 4A Plots

Trigger Warning for depression - nothing too dark, but it is a significant plot of this season.

Extra 4A plot to be nestled somewhere before the finale:

Halloween!

The GHC & Co. trying to decide whether they’re too old to go trick or treating. Intense debate with Cyrus, Andi, and Marty on one side, TJ, Buffy, and Jonah are on the other.

“How can you be too old for free candy?!” Cyrus exclaims.

“I’ve always hated dressing up,” Jonah rolled his eyes.

“Halloween is the best time to practice sewing!” Andi expresses.

“I hate sewing,” Buffy groans. “Besides, I’m trying to put my dentist out of business.”

“It just seems like none of you want to have any fun.” Marty says.

“I’m on the high school basketball team. I have an image to keep.” TJ crosses his arms.

“Is the image a boring, funsucker? Because you’re nailing it,” Marty teases.

Eventually the opposing group crumbles underneath the pressure of their friends and free candy. Planning their route is also intense - Cyrus definitely has maps of Shadyside and a detailed house list of who gives the best candy with averages he’s kept throughout the years.

The Crafty Crew joins them for trick & treating.

Cyrus dresses up as Waldo.

Andi makes a ‘cereal killer’ costume, including a cereal box skirt, blood, the whole shebang. Even Cyrus groans at the pun (but secretly high fives her).

Buffy goes as Buffy the Vampire Slayer & Marty goes as Fred from Scooby Doo. Buffy says he was supposed to be Spike from BVS, Marty laughs and says he thought Buffy and Fred were a better match.

Jonah puts those fake vampire fangs in and some fake blood on his face. Buffy chases him around all night. TJ dresses up as a failed math test because it’s the scariest thing he can think of.

Walker dresses as Miles Morales & Libby dresses as Hawkeye (we deserved a deaf hawkeye!)

And finally, the episode ends with an intense candy trading session. Lots of smiles, laughs, and friendship/couple moments. Halloween episodes should always be the most lighthearted!

4B.

Episode One.

Bex is laying in bed. She’s awake, but she’s not doing anything but staring. Her phone goes off and it’s revealed to be 3pm. Andi’s calling. Bex hesitates, then answers. “Mom - are you okay? You were supposed to pick me up fifteen minutes ago.”

Bex shuts her eyes, then opens them again. Suddenly, energy is in her voice. “Oh yeah - you know me, just running late. Traffic! I’ll be there soon, Andiman.” she hangs up quickly, she sighs. Her eyes are distant. She rushes to get ready, throwing on whatever she can, v messy, not caring how she looks.

Next scene Bowie is seen in a restaurant kitchen cooking. They ask him if he can stay late - he says no, he’s got to be at Red Rooster Records for the open mic night, revealing that he is working two jobs to try to start saving, referencing the potential for a second child (as Bex listed financial fears as a main reason).

We see Jonah’s apartment when he invites Cyrus over to hang out. Jonah says “it’s kind of small,” but Cyrus smiles and says “You know, it’s actually cozy. My house can be so...lonely.” Jonah kind of scoffs and rolls his eyes, muttering something about rich kid perspectives. He admits he had to get rid of a lot of stuff, including his old baseball gear and complains that he can’t play his guitar after a certain hour because his neighbors complain because the walls are basically paper thin. “Basically, don’t say anything you don’t want Dave to hear. He’s basically a member of the family at this point.”

Bex is off on the drive home with Andi. Andi’s talking non-stop about school events and how she failed the last project (revealed in the 4a finale) and how she needs to improve, but she feels so out of place in the school. Bex is saying “yeah” and “mhmmm”, barely listening. When they get home, instead of cooking, Bex orders pizza but doesn’t really eat much. Andi starts to get worried and asks if Bex is okay, but Bex just says she thinks she’s getting sick. Bowie comes home exhausted and both him and Bex fall asleep on the couch during a movie that they were supposed to watch as a family.

Cyrus is a little bothered by “the rich kid perspective” comment and tries to analyze how much his upbringing colors his opinions. The next day, he’s talking about it with Buffy and Andi at The Spoon and how he’s worried that he gives off entitled-rich kid vibes. They laugh and say sometimes he’s oblivious and dumb with money, but he’s not entitled. Andi complains about how tired Bowie always is now and then mentions how strange Bex was acting yesterday. Cyrus’s brain jumps to the worst possible conclusions. Buffy has to reassure Andi that everything is probably okay. As a distraction, she talks about how happy her parents are to be back together and shows off goofy pictures of them. She says her father hasn’t stopped talking about her mom in church since she’s gotten back. GHC smiles.

Episode Two.

Bex’s work has started to get a little sloppy and customers are leaving bad reviews. Celia presses into Bex, saying she didn’t invest so much money into this business just for Bex to get lazy. Bex sighs, shakes her head. “Reschedule my appointments for tomorrow, mom. I think I’m sick.” Celia’s eyes widen, as if she suddenly understands something. Bex goes home and slips back into bed. She doesn’t really go to sleep, but just scrolls her phone aimlessly.

Now that TJ is out at school, Cyrus asks him if he’s going to introduce him to his parents as his boyfriend. TJ awkwardly laughs and says “I should, shouldn’t I?” Cyrus nods. “But if it helps, we can have dinner as boyfriends with my parents first?” TJ’s eyes widen. “All of them? At once?!” Cyrus laughs. “No, we can do dinner at one house and dessert at the other?” TJ nods. “Uh, yeah okay.” Cyrus holds TJ’s hand. “Come on, Teej, you have nothing to worry about. They already love you.”

Jonah bumps into Amber in the hall and brings her to a quiet spot in the hallway. He grins and says he’s going to therapy. Amber asks him how it’s going and he shrugs, but doesn’t seem upset. He says “it sucks, but you know...it really does help. I really didn’t like it at first and didn’t talk, but he asked me to play some music the other week and that helped break the ice,” Jonah explained. Amber smiles and hugs him. “Congratulations, Jojo. I’m proud of you.” He asks how she’s doing. Amber says she’s getting there, but that she wished she was a freshman again because she’s struggling with her AP classes, driver’s ed, her job, and her family issues. He said it sounded like a lot, but that he’d try to be there for Amber because she was there for him. Amber nods and says she’ll keep that in mind. Suddenly, there’s a security guard telling them they have detention for skipping class. At first, Jonah and Amber look at each other scared, then they crack up at the situation they’ve gotten themselves in.

Andi comes home and sees Bowie sitting with Bex in the bedroom. She overhears Bowie comforting her and then hears Bex saying “I don’t want Andi to know…” Andi freaks out, texting the GHC group chat saying something is wrong with her mom.

Episode Three.

Friendsgiving episode! GHC + Crafty Crew all get together at Andi’s apartment a week before Thanksgiving and have a huge feast. Cyrus put together a spreadsheet and organized who brought what. Buffy and Marty have a competition to make the best dessert. Jonah buys store-bought microwavable mashed potatoes. Andi decorates the entire space and Bowie makes the turkey. TJ brings the BEST Green Bean Casserole and everyone bothers him the entire episode to give up the recipe. They give each other updates; like the dinner with Cyrus’ parents went really well, Jonah and Amber talk about how their detention teacher hated them because they kept laughing, Buffy talks about her parents, etc. Everyone also shares traditions their family does for the holiday.

Walker says that his family covers the table with paper and everyone writes/doodles what they’re thankful for throughout the meal. They then hang it up until it’s time to decorate for Christmas.

Libby says her family go on a long walk after dinner with each other.

TJ says his whole family plays football together before and after dinner.

Cyrus says he has several Thanksgivings and too many traditions to name - but his favorite is his mom’s side, who volunteers first and then have a small meal afterwards.

Buffy says after dinner they decorate for Christmas, which is her parent’s favorite holiday.

Jonah says they play a bunch of different board games and family games.

Amber says that her family doesn’t argue for the whole day - and also watches old home movies.

They ask Andi what traditions her family has. She seems upset and explains that they used to go to pop’s family and celebrate, but now they have to make new traditions without him because he left them. Everyone comforts her. Bowie overheard and tells Bex - they both want to give Andi the best Thanksgiving in the world. Bex tells Bowie that “all this family drama is why I don’t want Andi to know…”

Episode Four.

Cece takes Andi out for a bonding day, saying that she’s been missing her. Andi says she misses her too. They go to an art museum and have lunch where Andi talks to Cece about not doing well in SAVA and maybe she’s not great at art like everyone thought. Cece tells Andi that when she was a toddler, she grabbed a pack of crayons and for weeks, she wouldn’t put them down. Cece would catch Andi awake at night DRAWING. Andi would fall asleep with a pack of crayons cuddled close to her. She’d color in the car, at restaurants, in the bathtub with bath crayons, everywhere she could. “And that first year you went to camp, I’ll never forget how excited you were about crafts...Andi, I don’t think you’re bad at art. I think you think you’re bad at art which is making you bad at art.”

Andi says “wow…” and knows that Cece is right. SAVA wouldn’t have chosen her otherwise. They go out to have Fro-yo and Cece asks how Andi is doing at home. Andi tells Cece that it’s been weird having Bowie working so much and then mentioned that Bex is acting strange too. She asked Cece if she knew anything about that and Cece nods. “Yes, but it’s your mother’s choice to tell you.” Andi complains that no one’s ever told her anything.

Cece rolls her eyes and then says “Well I have important news. My dad is moving in with me.”

Andi asks “Wait, why? Is everything okay?”

“He’s okay, yes. He’s still healthy, especially for his age - but,” Cece pauses. “You know, he misses you and Bex. He’s been spending so much time with Mei and Ling and the twins and Ronald, he thought it’d be a nice surprise.” “Yeah, it has been awhile since we’ve seen him, but...he doesn’t need to move in with you. He could just visit, couldn’t he?”

“I asked him too.” “Why?”

“I thought it’d be good to have someone in the house. I know you, Cyrus, and Buffy still have sleepovers there, but it’s just been too empty for too long. I know how important Andi Shack is to you and how important the house is to your mom, so I decided to keep it.”

“Oh. Cece - I’m sorry. I guess I got caught up in my own stuff again…” Andi says, hugging Cece.

“It’s okay. You’re the child, remember?”

Cece drops Andi off. She calls Bex outside and they close the door.

“Rebecca,” Cece says. Bex avoids her eyes and focuses on the ground, her nails pressing into her skin. You think it’s going to be a lecture, Bex thinks it’s going to be a lecture, but Cece pulls Bex into a hug. “Andi’s worried about you. You need to talk to her.”

Plot B of this episode is Buffy and Cyrus hanging out at Buffy’s house. We’re introduced to Buffy’s father (headcanon: he’s black. I know sofia is mixed, but I think it’d be cool to have men of color in the show). He wears a cross necklace and is clearly religious, but Cyrus never feels uncomfortable mentioning his boyfriend TJ. Buffy’s father treats Cyrus with nothing but love, honestly, and mentions that he’s the son they never had while eating dinner.

Episode Five.

Jonah reveals that he’s gotten a job as a cashier at The Red Rooster. He’s not immediately great at it, which causes a spike in his anxiety, but instead of having a panic attack he’s able to ground himself using techniques his therapist taught him.

Andi’s teacher, the one who was critical about her art, notices a huge change in Andi and her work and compliments her new project, stating that she knew Andi had it in her. Walker, Libby, and Andi all celebrate together at The Spoon.

Buffy & TJ hang out - they play basketball and get to know each other better. “I don’t think we’ve ever hung out without Cyrus,” TJ laughs. “Yeah...I don’t think so? This is nice,” They play H.O.R.S.E, as well as a game they made up where each basket they make, they get to ask a question. The harder the shot is, the harder the questions they can ask.

At home, Bex is pacing the bedroom. Bowie is sitting on the bed. Bex complains that she doesn’t know what she should do or how she should even talk about it. Bowie listens, nodding his head. “You know, when my father was sick, he didn’t want to tell me. He wanted to be strong and proud. And he almost didn’t tell me, but I found his medication. I was terrified because something bad could have happened any moment and it would’ve been a complete surprise to me.” he pauses. “Andi is worried about you and probably thinks something really bad is going to happen and I don’t think it’s fair to hide it. Besides...she’s starting to get to that age where maybe it’ll start to affect her…”

Episode Six.

Christmas is coming up and the GHC + Crafty Crew go to the mall. They split up into their normal groups; TJ, Jonah, Marty + Walker and Cyrus, Andi, Buffy + Libby. They’re playing Secret Santa for each other so they’re trying to hide the gifts they’re buying and throwing each other off. Of course, they’re also buying gifts for their SOs.

Secret Santa List -

TJ has to buy for Marty

Jonah has to buy for Buffy

Cyrus has to buy for Jonah

Marty has to buy for Andi

Andi has to buy for TJ

Buffy has to buy for Cyrus

TJ fretting about what Cyrus would want and if he should even do a Christmas gift because Cyrus doesn’t celebrate (he would celebrate non-religious aspects with Buffy & Andi some years)

Cyrus complaining that Christmas is so materialistic - but then also trying to find the best gift to give TJ and Jonah.

But while TJ, Jonah, Marty, and Walker are shopping trouble arises when they’re wandering around a store, picking up different things, putting them down and whatnot. At some point, Walker notices a security guard staring him down. He feels uncomfortable, but knows he didn’t do anything wrong and continues to just walk around the store with Jonah, Marty and TJ. But it all goes wrong when the group tries to leave the store. They’re all stopped by the security guard, but Walker is singled out. The guard says that he knows that somebody in this group stole and that he has his suspicions as to who. The group all look at each other and furiously shake their heads, saying none of them stole. The guard asks Walker to empty his pockets. Walker does, he has nothing in his pockets besides his wallet and house keys. The guard lets them all go with a warning. Walker is embarrassed and angry that no one else had to empty their pockets. The group buy him some food to try to cheer him up and all agree that it was really wrong.

Episode Seven.

Christmas/Hanukkah special.

They all celebrate their respective holidays. Cyrus invites TJ to celebrate Hanukkah the day after Christmas. TJ of course agrees. We see Cyrus’ family celebrate Hanukkah. Andi, Bex, Bowie, Cece, her dad AND Mei, Ling, her husband, Ronald, and the twins celebrate at Cece’s house. Mei and Cece start to argue, but their dad reigns them in. They finally call a truce after their entire lives of competition and decide their feud isn’t worth it. (“What were we even fighting with to begin with?”) Buffy goes to church and celebrates with her family. Marty celebrates with his family; it’s the first Christmas with his step-siblings.

The gifts they all bought for each other are revealed when GHC + CO get together during Christmas afternoon. TJ gets Marty a joke gift (probably something about always forgetting him), Jonah buys Buffy a bag full of all of her favorite snacks/candy, Cyrus got Jonah an anchor necklace to keep him grounded and a guitar tuner, Marty buys Andi some weird gag gift like a yodelling pickle, Andi buys TJ a Troy Bolton basketball jersey, and Buffy buys Cyrus a mug that says ‘you’re so weird, i like you’ because she knows Cyrus loves mugs.

TJ and Cyrus psyched themselves out and ended up panicking and getting something neither of them really liked. They laugh about it and then realize they should get to know each other better.

Buffy and Marty treated it like a competition. Buffy got Marty a pace tracker that goes on his sneakers, a scrapbook for his future marathons, and those weird toe socks. Marty gave Buffy two of his hoodies, a necklace shaped like deer antlers which symbolizes strength and gentleness, and an NBA video game that they can play at his house.

The episode is light-hearted and easy, but the whole episode Bex is still just a little off. Bowie and Cece are extra mindful of her. Andi is still really confused and worried. At the end of the episode, when they all get home, Bex sits on the couch and says “Andi...I have something to tell you.”

HIATUS.

Episode Eight.

Special opening similar to the gun-control episode, as well as the anxiety/panic attack opening talking about how mental health is important and if you or a friend are struggling, tell a trusted adult and take care of yourself.

“Andi...I have something to tell you.” Bex’s voice is serious. There’s a lot of tension. Andi seems worried. Bex seems nervous. Bowie has his hands on Bex’s shoulders comfortingly.

“Mom? I’m scared...are you sick?”

“Yes,” Andi seems shocked and scared at this revelation. “But not the way you’re thinking, Andi...gosh, this would be easier if I was still just your cool, older sister.” because this is the kind of thing that ‘cool, edgy’ older siblings go through. Not parents. “Andi, I have depression. I’ve had it since I was about your age. It...doesn’t go away, but I’ve been on medication since my twenties and it worked great. But, with work stress and everything that happened with Pops, well...it stopped working. I should have been more open with you and everyone and gotten help when it started…”

Andi stops tensing. She sits with Bex on the couch. “Mom...I didn’t know…”

“Yeah, only Bowie and Cece did. I wanted to be the best mom in the world, especially after giving you up for so long. I wanted to do everything and be everything for you - I didn’t want you to have to worry about me or feel like you had to take care of me. I wanted to be strong.”

“Mom, I love you. You don’t need to pretend to be something you’re not or do more than you can.”

Bex hugs Andi. She’s definitely crying.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Andiman. You don’t have to worry or take care of me ever, okay? I’m the adult. I’ve talked to Bowie and Cece. I’m going to get my medications adjusted and I’m going to go to therapy.”

Andi feels like a huge weight has been lifted off of her chest but it only lasts momentarily. She gets out of the hug.

“Mom, I learned about depression in school…” She pauses. “It can be genetic...what if I get it?”

“Then we’ll help you through it. No matter what.” Bex and Bowie wrap her in a hug again. “You talk to us, though, okay? Don’t hide it like I did.”

PLOT B. Buffy and Marty have a massive fight. This leaves TJ and Cyrus in awkward positions because TJ thinks that Marty is right and Cyrus always sides with Buffy. This leaves Jonah has a tie-breaker and he totally panics and exclaims that this is why he hates relationships. When they realize that he got really anxious choosing a side, they realize they were being stupid and shouldn’t have put anyone in the middle of the fight. They all apologize to him and make up.

Episode Nine.

Buffy’s birthday!

Similar to Bowie, Buffy has never liked huge birthday parties or attention on her birthday. Andi says “Buffy likes attention everyday...except her birthday.” Cyrus and Andi make sure to tell Marty the first of the month that under no circumstances should he try to surprise her. He asks Cyrus and Andi what they do for her birthday then. Cyrus says that they have a Buffy birthday tradition that they’ve been doing since the second grade.

They meet at Buffy’s house for a celebratory breakfast of Froot Loops and chocolate milk because Buffy went through a phase where that’s the only thing she would eat and drink for breakfast, then they walk to school no matter what the weather because on her birthday in second grade, she demanded to be able to walk alone because she was “all grown now” (her parents followed them, just further behind. If it’s a weekend, they walk to The Spoon). After school, they walk back to her house and they play Buffy’s favorite game at the time “Twister” (Cyrus’ least favorite game) and have a silent dance party (at the time, her mother had just come back from war and asked them to not make too much noise). Then, they eat “garbage pizza” because Buffy had just learned the name of it and thought it was hilarious, and her favorite cake. Then, Andi and Cyrus stayed up as late as possible watching whatever movies Buffy wanted to watch.

During lunch, while Cyrus, TJ, and Jonah are getting their lunch, Marty asks Buffy if he can join in on her birthday traditions. Buffy is pretty rigid and likes the traditions as is, but says that maybe they can create their own birthday tradition. Marty comes up with the idea of a three-legged race (Him and Buffy vs TJ and Jonah) and then going out for ice cream - that way, all of Buffy’s new friends and boyfriend can be included before she goes back home to celebrate with the GHC.

That goes just about as well as anyone would think. Hilarious montage, honestly. This is the silliest idea I’ve come up with and yet, I love it.

Episode Ten.

After school, Jonah and Buffy decide to hang out. They go to a skatepark. Jonah is much better than Buffy - which he celebrates and exclaims “finally!” She’s determined to learn a pop-shove it.

While at work, Bex thanks Cece for supporting her during her depression and tells her that she got her medications adjusted and is starting to feel better. Cece nods and says “I’m really sorry for not supporting you when you were younger. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.” Bex forgives her.

TJ and Cyrus experience some homophobia both in school and outside of school. Cyrus gets upset and insecure, TJ loses his cool. They sigh and realize that it’s probably something they’ll have to go through a lot - but at least they have each other to go through it with.

Andi, Bex, and Bowie go to Cece’s house to spend time with their grandfather/great-grandfather. During the visit, Bex and Andi brush up on their Mandarin, they play games like dominos, cards, and Mahjong, and they eat traditional Chinese food.

Episode Eleven.

Amber got her driver’s license. She surprises Andi & Buffy on a weekend for a road trip. They drive to the town nearing Shadyside and have all sorts of adventures. They take lots of pictures to always remember this momentous occasion.

Cyrus is sick which leaves Jonah, TJ, and Marty alone unsupervised. They decide to have an adventure of their own and have a giant game of “The Floor is Lava” in public. They get kicked out of multiple locations. They end the day by going to The Spoon and having an eating competition to see who could finish their burger, fries, and milkshakes first. Being that TJ and Marty are used to bulk eating, Jonah is definitely the one who gives up and almost throws up.

Episode Twelve.

Walker, Libby, and Andi are preparing for the end of the year project where they could potentially be accepted into the school’s gallery, which is an honor and a party. Andi knows that she can create something amazing - but doesn’t know what she wants to do yet. They’re all stuffed into Andi shack, bouncing ideas off of each other. Walker wants to do a self-portrait vs. how the world sees him, Libby wants to create a sign-language sculpture, Andi is conflicted and has no idea what she wants to create.

Buffy/Marty + Cyrus/TJ double date. Lots of hijinks. They also definitely go bowling and Cyrus tries to bowl without bumpers. At one point, TJ ran to the bathroom and told Cyrus to take his turn (it didn’t matter because he was so far ahead, there was no chance of Cyrus ruining his chances of winning) Cyrus rolls a strike and celebrates. He then tries endlessly to replicate it for his own turns to no avail.

While at work, Jonah is talking to Bowie about life. He says that therapy is going really well and he hasn’t had many panic attacks since. He thanks Bowie for being there for him in the beginning and Bowie says that it’s no problem at all and that he’s glad Jonah is getting professional help. Jonah says that he really looks up to Bowie and tells him that today was career day and that the high schoolers were prompted to think about what they want to do when they’re an adult. Jonah said he has been thinking about pursuing music and wants to join a band. Bowie smiles and tells Jonah that he reminds him a lot of him when he was Jonah’s age. He advises Jonah to join a band, but to do it for the music and not for fame, because when he’s older and traveling, he might regret not being home for big things. Jonah tells Bowie that if he doesn’t do music for the rest of his life, he doesn’t know what else he would do. Bowie shrugs and says “You might not know what you want to do now, you might not know what you want to do when you’re 23, or 45, or 55. Life isn’t a straight line, it’s full of twists and turns. Just follow your heart and listen to The Universe in those times and you’ll end up where you need to be.”

Episode Thirteen.

Andi has decided that her end of the year project will be focused on her family. She decides to create a literal family tree - she crafts a tree and each branch has a picture of each family member. Branches, like Pops and his family’s, are clearly snapped at the base to show that it’s a broken tree and he left. Bex’s branch has the picture of her as a teen after just giving birth to Andi, Bowie’s branch splits into two to show that he was absent for 13 years, but then heavily involved, etc. (IDK. I know nothing about art and couldn’t come up with anything else lol)

Bex starts to participate in her photography club again, has been doing better at work, and has become more involved in the PTA at SAVA again. Bowie asks her if she remembers what they were talking about earlier in the year. Bex says “Another baby?” Bowie nods. “Yeah...I’m ready now.” He grins and tackles her in a hug and lots of kisses.

TJ gets his first A in math class, on the final test to boot, after a lot of hard work, tutoring, and accomodations. Cyrus takes him out on a date to celebrate.

Buffy and Marty are in this episode at some point, probably not a big part tbh. Mostly because I’m losing steam lol.

Episode Fourteen.

Andi made it into the gallery. Her entire family, GHC+, and Crafty Crew turn up to the gallery to see it and they all go to the after party for her. Cece says “I told you you just needed to believe in yourself first…” Bex and Bowie tell Andi how proud of her they are and because they are literally awful at timing, tell her that they’re going to be trying for a baby. Andi has very mixed feelings about this, but Walker interrupts and drags her out to dance and party with everyone.

The night ends with Cyrus, Buffy, and Andi having a sleepover. Lots of hugs, celebrations, and love. They definitely squish Andi when she’s sitting between them on the couch while watching movies.

At the end of the episode, Andi texts Jonah about how mixed she feels about having a sibling. Jonah says he can understand - she feels like she might be being replaced, that he felt that way a couple times. Andi asks, like when? Jonah admits that he felt that way when he saw Walker and Andi at the Bar Mitzvah and that was his first panic attack. Andi said that she had no idea he was having panic attacks that long, Jonah says “well now you know. Sorry for not telling you.” Jonah tells her that he’ll always be there to listen to her if she needs it.

#andi mack

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keevansixx · 5 years

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The Future Was Now...

I heard an interesting opinion concerning sub-cultures and why, in today’s age, you almost never see any sub-culture being represented on the streets anymore. When you do spy one of these rare individuals out in the wild, it’s like some rare mythical beast of a thing...fleeting, fierce, and wonderous.

Welcome to generation V (V as in “Virtual”, and not vain, vibrant, vitriol, vivacious, nor victor)

The sub-cultures of the past have all died, their digital ghosts haunt the databases like the proverbial zombies of old. Resurrected every so often to wistful nostalgia, and as meme fodder for the youth of today. Gone, are the days of artfully attired denizens of the world... languidly rambling to and fro across the surface of the land, spreading creativity in their wake like massive glaciers carving rivulets in the tapestry of the earth to be witnessed by eyes unseen, and thoughts unbridled. No....those days are long gone and forgotten.

Here I sit, alone in a box of my own design. Shackled to a monitor who’s glow is the only ambient light in the room, I watch the world scroll by in 1′s and 0′s rendered in pixel point perfection into images that my mind perceives as pictures of a world I no longer see, in a land I no longer feel, and a place that only resembles what one would call home. I no longer leave the confines of my prison. No toe crosses the threshold of my room....it’s safe here, and everything I need is in the box....no need to leave, no need to explore, no need to wander anymore.

I’m told what I should eat...and I do so. I’m told what I should be thinking...and I do so. Anything contrary to the will of the mob is quelled with harsh criticisms, threats, and heavy handed browbeating from the lowest common denominator. “No!...thou shall not think outside the box! Thou shalt follow the thought speak of the masses! Thou shalt not have an original thought or opinion! Those are reserved for the popular chattel that have earned their vanity marks in the digital realm.” I’m to remain a good obedient little digital puppet to the will of the masses. I’m told how I should dress....and I do so. The almighty digital overlords demand acquiescence, obedience, and submission to their cyber-hubris. “No creativity allowed that exceeds that of the common person, lest you offend...lest you shame...lest you make feel....the mighty digital overlords.”

“Sounds like a pretty shitty way to live.”...and you’re right...it is.

It starts on any given day, on any given week, of any given year...

I open the window. the moonlight pours in from a harvest moon I haven't seen since I was a kid, alone in the dark, watching the stars go by. I throw on some shoes that were the huge internet trend a few months ago, everybody just absolutely had to get them to be in the vouge of the moment, and walk to the door. Stepping out side, I hear the chime of the monitor, the chirp chirp of the phone screaming out for my immediate attention “Message! Alert! Come respond NOW!” the annoying braying pings, whistles, chirps, and bells that demand obedience and response.

I close the door behind me to the sound of stillness...the sonic detritus silenced by wood and glass, and I beheld the night in all it’s splendor...….glorious!

For the first time in a very long while....I have an original thought.

“What if I'm not the only one..?” “what if, there are others out there like me?” “what if...we found each other?”

Over the many weary months that followed, I slowly weaned myself, bit by agonizing digital bit, from the shackles that bound me to my electronic prison. As each day and night passed, I spent more and more time away. Wandering the empty paths I once trod in my youth. It’s empty now....very few wander anymore outside of those whom make the world turn through service, and the multitude of electronic zombies (E-Zomb’s) faces crammed into phone screens, that move back and forth following their scripted paths of life. Just grunts or the half-hearted handwave to acknowledge that they are still breathing and alive.

I sit alone beneath a large tree in the center of town, watching it all go by...a little notebook open in my lap, where I jot down the most interesting thoughts that pop into my brain from time to time, when I see a purple post-it note pinned to the tree with a thumbtack. On it is an artful picture of an eye wearing a butterfly wing in it’s corner crease, with a small address and time and no designation. I take the note, and put it into my notebook to await evening at the appointed time...curious, but still a little bit cautious.

the sky is a beautiful velvet purple and crimson as the sun sets and I near my destination from the note. I walk along a sidewalk counting the building numbers as I go by, various lamps and street posts begin to ignite into glowing life in the growing dusk. I stop between two buildings, note in my hand, I count the two and note that the number skips one between the two building fronts. I hear old music drifting on the wind between the two storefronts and notice a small painting of an eye with butterfly wings off a ways down the narrow alley between buildings. I step off the well trod sidewalk, and follow the sounds down the alley until I reach a courtyard....like the kind one finds in the special places of New Orleans that aren’t on the tourist maps, nor social media posts.

there are strings of lights everywhere, a few odd pieces of art statues, and wrought iron scattered across the courtyard. sitting on benches are kids in old hippie clothes, goth kids lurking near the stairwells, art kids wearing whatever the hell they stitched together out of a scrap bin and dancing in small groups to whatever was flowing out the speakers surrounding the area. I see street kids, and punk kids, rappers and writers huddled around tables furiously scribbling down lyrics and rhyme. Skaters talking about their latest gnarly shred, plain janes and joes talking about life and oppression....in a word...it was old scenes alive and well and very much kicking in a little courtyard in the middle of nowhere.

I get approached by one of the goth kids and a beautiful hippie girl. They both had smiles on their faces and a welcoming look.

The goth is the first to speak, “hey, new guy....you look a little lost. Anything we can do to help?”

I pull out the purple note and reply tentatively “Not all who wander are lost...”

“and not everyone who do are found....welcome!” beamed the hippie girl.

“well to be honest, it was blind curiosity that led me here, so far....*looking around*....I'm not disappointed.”

The goth dude looks sideways at me, then asks. “so....how long have you been unplugged?”

“About 6 months now, it’s not been easy.”

“Six months? Damn man.....you been alone all this time?”

“Yes....but it gave me time to think, to dream, to see a world I was no longer part of.”

“Wow....that’s deep, Mr. moody.....*eyeroll giggles* welcome to the club!!!” Hippy gal chimes in, “we all found our own ways out of the web in one way or another and sort of found each other by happy accident. You....well, you found one of our calling cards we throw up from time to time for a moot, just to touch bases and stay in touch.”

“Moot???” I reply.

The goth snorts a bit and broodingly says “Moot....a meet-up, soiree, party, get together, picnic, graveyard bash, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.” with profound dramatic hand waving. ”We meet up a few times a month in various locales to hob nob with the other unplugged, and share ideas or show off what’s been happening in our own scenes. Art, music, poetry, crafts...basically, all the best of us with none of the digital chains......everything’s on the table, and nothing is taboo. Within reason, of course *smirks* get too lewd and the community here is good about looking out for one another....fair warning.”

“Point taken. Understood. So, why the notes? Why not advertise on a board or through alts?”

Hippie gal grins, and says “Because, sugar, we’re old school.....analog, no digital...rockin’ the paper tags like the punks of old. Only those who unplug, and really start to notice the world around them will find us....like you. Notes on trees...that’s my contribution, people rarely ever look at the trees these days...too busy online with their faces crammed into their phones to notice. The goth crews tag the cemeteries and dark places, other kids leave clues in whatever scene they happen to be in, and we cross post the messages word of mouth in our own ways when we find out about the different moots going on across the cities. Tonight, it’s here in the garden with my tribe, next time it could be anywhere...you just have to keep your eyes open up for the clues as they place them. When in absolute doubt...always check the library...the dungeon/dragon kids always cross post every event they hear about in the stacks. We’re off grid baby! the ultimate “fuck you!” to the digital world. No chains, no obligations, 0 fucks given....living the life that was taken from us one soul at a time.

“Ok, so no online presence. check. Moots posted in randoms if I'm paying attention. check. If lost, check the stack for tags. anything else i’m missing?”

“Well, only thing else is snail....”

“Snail?”

“Snail mail....post office. Look, you’re going to meet people here...If you play your cards right, you might even get land addy’s from some of them. you want to stay in touch? Snail, or wait for the next moot to IRL face time. either way, you’re going to have to dust off those ancient writing skills if you want to stay in the loop. You don’t have to commit to anything...this isn’t an obligation, nor requirement, but it’s old common courtesy to reply when someone sends you a snail. Take a chance! you might just be surprised at what you get.”

“ummm, thanks?”

“No problem....and welcome to the revolution.”

I spend the rest of the evening being introduced to the different groups, watching the event as it unfolds. Being exposed to new ideas, and feelings I haven’t felt for a long long time. I get a few land addy’s from various patrons, and give out mine. It’s kind of nice, being here...in the moment.

the moot winds down, with groups and couples slowly wandering off into the night. I make my way over to a 24hr diner and grab a bite to eat. a few of the attendees are there as well grabbing coffee, or eats, and we continue conversations we had started a few hours earlier. It was a good night.

I make my way home in the early dawn, and for once, in my long life...I feel a sense of profound peace. Like everything, for just one brief moment in the world, is alright. A new glimmer of hope in my mind, and countless dreams just waiting for me to dream. life....is good.

I open the door to my home, the chimes of my digital masters fall on deaf ears for once, and I sleep the peace of the newly freed...

Sometimes, the most profound acts of rebellion involve the most simple of things, like removing oneself from that which binds you....

Welcome to a new sub-culture...may you free yourself from your virtual prisons, break the chains, and take a journey into the unknown.

this is Generation V.....signing off.....

#nightpost #randomthoughts

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mermaidenmystic · 5 years

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painted wooden ceiling panels from 1109 to 1114 in the romanesque St. Martin Church in Zillis, Grisons, Switzerland

I found this info from Flickr:

“The earliest preserved, figuratively painted wooden ceiling in Europe can be seen above the nave of St Martin's Church in Zillis. Today only three other painted ceilings from the Middle Ages remain: they are located in Hildesheim (St Michael's), in Peterborough Cathedral and in Dadesjo (Sweden). The Swedish church in Sodra Rada was destroyed by fire in 2001.

The ceiling paintings in Zillis demonstrate such a rich variety of form and contents as is only found in great works of art.

And so today the ceiling serves to illustrate the Gospel, Sunday for Sunday, from spring to autumn. In winter the parishioners do without heating in the church for the sake of the paintings and hold their services in the parish hall. Only funeral services and the school Christmas celebrations on Christmas Eve take place in the moderately heated church during the cold season.

St Martin's Church is situated below the historic centre of Zillis. At first, the church possibly stood directly above the wide bed of the Hinterrhein River. Zillis is one of the two settlements nestling at the bottom of the Schams Valley (Romansh: Val Schons), an inner-Alpine valley basin, through which a route has traversed the Alps at least since the Roman era. It used to link Bregenz with Milan, Lake Constance with Lakes Como and Maggiore. The Schams is the secondhighest section of the Hinterrhein Valley. It lies directly south of the Viamala Gorge, which on the northern side of the Alpine ridge represented the main obstacle on the route from Chur over the Splugen Pass to Chiavenna, resp. over the San Bernardino Pass to Bellinzona and Locarno. Throughout all the centuries Zillis occupied a very peripheral position on the inner border of the Alps, but was always on a route connecting the major settlements flanking the Alpine ridge.

THE PAINTED CEILING

THE CONCEPT OF THE PAINTED CEILING

The Zillis ceiling comprises 153 painted panels. They are slotted into longitudinal battens, which until 1938 were attached to the ceiling beams by long nails. Cross-battens are inserted between the painted panels as a connecting link, forming a regular grid. Doubled longitudinal and cross-battens accentuate the junctions of the grid, creating the shape of the cross.

The ceiling is enhanced by a meander frieze which was created at the same time; the greater part of the frieze was restored in 1938-1940. In the frieze we see female busts, representing the Classical sybils, whose prophesies were taken fro(ll late Antiquity onwards as a reference to the Advent of Christ.

The 153 panels are arranged as on a medieval map of the world. There is a border representing the ocean surrounding the Continent, on which the Life of Christ and the legend of St Martin are portrayed.

The border

At the edges of the ceiling, resp. on the borders of the world, swim mythical fish-tailed creatures; there are even some manned boats and music-making sirens on a continuous band of wavy lines, which represent the sea in a simplified and abstract form. Only the angels sounding their horns in the corners, marked as the south wind Auster and the north wind Aquilo, stand on firm land.

The inner cycle

On the interior fields, i.e. the Continent, the Life of Christ is depicted on 98 panels. One half describes Christ's childhood and youth, the other half recounts his miracles, his teaching and Passion. The individual scenes frequently continue over several successive panels. Each half has seven rows with seven panels. The last row of the interior panels is dedicated to the church patron St Martin.

The choir is the best place from which to view the first half of the cycle portraying the Life of Christ. Since the 1940 rearrangement the visitor has been able to «read» the pictures like a text from this vantage point, in rows running from left to right. The cycle begins with a gallery of Christ's ancestors, the Kings of the Old Testament, and the personifications of Synagogue and Ecclesia. The story of Christ's Life begins with the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin, followed by Joseph's Dream, the Visitation and the four panels on the Nativity.

15 panels describe the Journey of the Three Magi. This is followed by the Purification and the the Presentation of the Infant Jesus in the Temple, the Flight into Egypt and the Massacre of the Innocents in Bethlehem, the Miracle of the Clay Pigeons, the 72-year-old Jesus in the Temple and the Sermons of St John the Baptist.

The second part of the Christological cycle begins with the Baptism of Christ and the Temptation by the Devil. These are followed by cases of miraculous Healings: in addition to the Wedding Feast in Cana and the Raising of Lazarus, we see the Healing of physically and mentally sick persons. The mentally disturbed were considered to be possessed by demons. After the miracles follow the Teachings of Jesus, the Transfiguration on Mount Tabor, the Entry into Jerusalem and the Expulsion of the Moneychangers from the Temple, the Last Supper, the MOunt of Olives, the Betrayal by Judas, Christ before Pilate, the Mocking of Christ and the Crowning with Thorns.

The cycle then breaks off. There is no consensus among researchers on whether this was, in fact, the original end of the cycle or if the Crucifixion and the Rising from the Dead were formerly depicted on the north wall of the nave or in the former Romanesque choir.

The last seven panels of the interior fields describe episodes from the life of St Martin, commencing with the Sharing of the Cloak, probably the best-known element of the legend. This is followed by the Consecration and the Miracle of the Raising from the Dead. The conclusion comprises three panels on St Martin's Encounter with a King who pretended to be Jesus but turned out to be the Devil.

As mentioned above, the panels were rearranged on the ceiling in 1940, the 1938 sequence having been described by experts as «absurd» und «unsystematic». An attempt to reconstruct the original order, based on the sequence of the pictures before 1938, gives the following results: the panels were arranged to be read by following the rows in an S-shaped order. In the centre of the ceiling there was the depiction of Christ's Baptism; in front of this, the scenes with St John the Baptist; behind, the four panels on the Temptation of Christ by the Devil.

During the Reformation the sequence of the panels was probably altered. In the cycle depicting the Life of St Martin, the consecration scene was removed from the central axis. The sermons of St John the Baptist and the Temptation of Christ by the Devil disappeared from the central row and were replaced by the cases of miraculous healing and depictions of Christ's teachings. From the 16th century until 1938 the Expulsion of the Moneychangers from the Temple, as a symbol of one of the Reformation's main tenets, was set in the centre of the ceiling replacing Christ's Baptism.”

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smokeyloki · 5 years

Text

Making-Over vs. Making-Do - To Be or Not To Be (X-Men fanfiction)

Written in part by the loverly @supesofherown, who has offered me much inspiration for this particular X-Men snippet, ft. the one and only Remy LeBeau and some...other...weird mutant.

Whether the entire story will be written remains to be seen. But I did want to map out at least the introductory scene, see what it looked like in my mind and all that.

On the corner of two busy streets, where traffic was heavy and to walk there was a constant struggle of hugging the sidewalk so as not to collide with a speeding car, someone had decided to set up a small antique shop. It was bursting with little trinkets, many of which were on display behind smudged window-glass. There were a few rusted toy cars, a typewriter with some of the keys stuck, mismatched earrings, a stack of dusty books, and a few wall decorations (styled as late-1900’s-advertisments) among many other curious objects. However, out of all the oddities which this corner store boasted, there was only one which demanded attention. It was a necklace, and it was a fine piece of work, indeed. When sunlight hit the window just so, after working its way past car windows and weaving between the mobs of pedestrians, the necklace would glitter as if it were made of the purest gold. A few small gems would wink at passers-by from where they rested against the velvet blue neck of the display bust. It seemed to be calling out, to every person that passed:

“Pick me! Take me home!”

And there was one who certainly heard that call.

He had been eyeing the necklace for a few weeks, now, ever since he first saw it on his way to a sandwich shop further down the block. Whenever he passed by the smudged window, he would pause and look in, just to assure himself that no one else had purchased it yet. Every time he saw it, the same thought shivered its way down his spine and made his fingers tingle and his mouth crinkle.

“Rogue would love ‘dat.”

And why, indeed, wouldn’t she? Remy LeBeau didn’t know her inside-out, but that necklace had been made for her. He knew it.

Of course, in addition to being Rogue’s closest friend and a runner-up for the newly-assembled team of mutants known as X-Men, Remy was also an expert thief. If he’d wanted to, the necklace would have been in his pocket and back at the mansion the first time he set eyes on it. But it was one thing to give a gift, and another to steal it…at least, there was a difference when it came to Rogue.

Today he idled a little longer than usual outside the shop, peering at the necklace and trying to gauge the price. He would have felt better if this were a pawn shop, but he doubted he had enough on him to buy such an extravagant item. Someone at the school might be willing to lend a little cash, but Remy hated the thought of asking such a favor. If he wanted to get Rogue a gift so badly, he would do it himself, just like he did everything else. He could go inside and ask…but that would mean facing the possibility of embarrassment if the price was too high, and he wanted to avoid that scenario at all costs.

Today, though, Remy was not alone by the shop. An elderly man stooped on the front steps, rattling a pewter cup against the side of the wall as people stepped past. No one paid him any heed; he was just one more matted, filthy bit of pavement decoration, not worth the time nor the attention. Remy would’ve done the same, and was just tucking his hands into his pockets, ready to mingle with a passing crowd, when the man called out him.

“Eh! Boy! Got something to spare for an old friend?”

Remy paused. “I don’t usually carry anyt’ing on me, sorry.”

“Aaaah!” The man winked at him with one milky-blue eye. “’Usually’ bein’ the operative word there.” He motioned with the cup, “And did I ask for money? No…no..” his words died into a mumble and he rocked himself back-and-forth on the step. He looked up, saw Remy again, and his expression split into a wide smile, showing gaps where his teeth were missing. “Come here, Boy. There’s one thing you can give an old friend.”

Despite himself, Remy was intrigued. He lingered by the window. “Yeah? And what would that be, ‘mon vieil ami’?”

The old man laughed; it rattled about in his throat like the cup against the wall. “You can give me a story, Boy. Everyone’s got one of those.” He looked at him through one eye, the other still closed in his wink. “Tell me a story about that necklace.”

Remy’s gaze darted to the window, then back to the man. “Not’ing t’ say. It’s just a necklace.”

“Aaaah…but a special kind of necklace. Not buying it for yourself, are you?”

“As entertainin’ as that notion might be…yer right.” Remy leaned against the window. What were a few more smudges? He’d already fogged up the glass by standing too close to the pane. “And I’m not buyin’ it, anyhow.”

The man chortled. “You don’t have to tell me, Boy, I’ve figured it out already. There’s some special lady…hmmm? Such a cliché story…but I can’t help myself liking it.” He wriggled excitedly under his ragged clothing. The coat draped about his shoulders was far too large to begin with, dwarfing his rickety frame.

“You guessed it,” Remy admitted. “But I can’t afford it.”

“Oh, oh. That’s a shame.” The man shook his head and made a “tsk, tsk” sound that hissed between the gaps in his teeth. “Would’a looked lovely on the girl, I’m sure.”

Remy nodded absently. He might have ended the conversation there, but something moved him to keep talking, to get what had gone unsaid off his chest:

“There’s a lot I wish I could do for her. Jus’ a few fancy trinkets, maybe…a necklace like ‘dat and a dinner at a fancy restaurant…”

A better family, he might have added. A more appealing personal history, a more stable friend…someone she might be able to envision “forever” with…

“We always want to give away something we don’t have,” the man sighed. He peered into his empty cup as he spoke. “Always so ready to make a change, thinkin’ it’ll make the world better for it.” He looked up at Remy with both eyes, one a milky blue, the other finally open so its dark hue, either brown or black, could be seen. “Speaking of change…” he extended the empty cup, “How’s about something for me to remember you by? A little ‘good-bye’ present.”

Remy slipped one hand into his pants’ pocket, pulling out a few bills and stuffing them into the cup. He knew what life on the street was like, had favored it and enjoyed it, but it was harsh. Many were the days he’d wanted a little extra help and had gotten none.

“Afternoon,” he murmured. Then he turned to go, thinking the exchange over. He did not expect the visceral grip around his wrist.

“Wait!” The old man bobbed up in front of him, pulling back his flabby lips and making his eyes wrinkled up in an attempted smile. “I’ll do it.”

Remy blinked. “Do…what?”

“You’ve given me an abundance today: first the story, then the money.” He pulled Remy away from the shop, towards a little turn as the sidewalk reached the corner and branched off in several directions. “Now I’ll return the favor. Friend-to-friend, eh, Boy?”

Remy tried working his hand from the bony grasp, meaning to explain that he didn’t need anything, he was fine, and it really wasn’t a big deal. But the man wouldn’t let go. His grip was like a talon, and his stride surprisingly quick, so Remy had to stumble along behind him to keep from falling on his face. They rounded the corner and Remy found himself in a dead-end alley, quite deserted and surrounded on both sides by smooth, stone walls. At this time of day, streets crawled with activity and sound…but even the sunlight seemed to have overlooked this particular spot.

“Where in ‘da world..?” He looked over his shoulder, but the busty intersection they had just left had vanished into thin air.

“They always know what they want without ever asking the other,” the man mumbled to himself as he hobbled along. He moved with uneven steps, making him sway to-and-fro. “It makes me laugh. Isn’t it funny how they always know?”

Remy reached into his coat, feeling along the inside jacket for his deck of cards. He grabbed a few – three was more than enough – and filtered a bit of energy into them, just enough to throw this weirdo off his guard. Before he could flick them into the man’s face, the other stopped, spun around, and snatched the cards from Remy’s fingers.

“Now, now,” he said with a shake of his head, “that looks a bit dangerous to me. Better not have any explosives for the wish grantin’, should we? Don’t want to hurt anyone.” As he spoke, the man took one of the glowing cards and rubbed it between his fingers. It crumbled under his touch, turning into a spray of white dust that he blew from his hand and into the air. “That’s better.”

Remy was stunned into silence, a rare accomplishment. So stunned was he that, when the elderly man tugged off his coat and wrapped it around himself, he couldn’t react until after his coat had been effectively stolen.

“He-HEY! What’s the big idea?!” Remy launched himself forward. Mutant or no, this hobo was about to learn why it was never a good idea to steal something from a thief.

The other’s response was to raise his hand in the air, as if to ward off an oncoming blow, and Remy found himself frozen in mid-leap. His limbs were held in place by some unseen force, and his body hung just above the ground. The elderly man looked up at him, hand still splayed in the air, the other shuffling through Remy’s card collection.

“Now…” he muttered, “it was so much easier when the only options people had were three different types of carriages…or bareback.” He held one of the cards up to Remy, “Does this look like a car you wouldn’t drive?”

Remy blinked. The image on the card, rather than a clump of spades, diamonds, hearts, or any normal arrangement one would find on a playing card, had been transformed into the image of a sports car. He opened his mouth to respond, trying to think of an appropriate response to any one of the numerous things currently happening. But the elderly man didn’t wait for him to speak, choosing instead to flick the card behind him and draw another one. A different car appeared on its face.

“What about this one?”

He continued in this way for several more seconds, progressing through a series of extravagant and expensive items, ranging from cars to furniture to suits. Remy was silent through the whole ordeal, partially due to the shock of it all, partially because the other wouldn’t offer him enough time to get a word in edgewise. For as he went, he would mumble to himself between cards, engaged in an intense, one-sided conversation.

“They always think they know…helping those who help themselves, my foot…Just pick the things that aren’t like him…What wouldn’t he choose, yes, yes…only the things he wouldn’t…”

When the last card had been tossed to the wind, the old man drew near to Remy, stepping around the cards strewn about the pavement.

“I don’t know who you are or watch’a want,” Remy ground between his teeth, “But yer gonna regret it.”

The old man didn’t respond at first, only stared up at him with those multicolored eyes. They were old eyes, filled with a distant pain that reached beyond Remy and the dark street.

“Shush, now. No talking. I have to think.”

He smiled a bit. It was wrinkled grimace of smile that twisted his face in all the wrong ways.

“Has anyone ever told you that change is painful, Boy?” He placed one hand against Remy’s chest as he spoke, and the other he rested against his forehead. “Because if they have…they had the right idea.”

He closed his eyes, curling in on himself, letting a breath of air escape his lips. Then he threw himself back, arching and twisting his body, though his hands remained fixed on Remy’s chest and head.

There was a blinding light, a rush of sound, and then…nothing.

Outside the little alleyway, people continued along their respective routes, mixing with mobs of like-minded peers. A gold necklace winked at strangers in the window of a tiny antique store, and an empty tin cup rested on the steps by the shop’s front door.

#X-Men #writing #my writing #fanfiction #Remy LeBeau #Gambit #Aladdin AU #supesofherown #shared story #OC #mutant OC

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houseofvans · 6 years

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SKETCHY BEHAVIORS | Interview with VALERIE SAVARIE

Denver artist Valerie Savarie creates intricately carved book sculptures that she painstakingly maps out and cuts, forming her own unique narrative creation. Each of her unique sculptures can take her from 40 hours to over 100 hours to complete. Not only one thing, Valerie also runs a collective gallery, Valkarie Gallery in Colorado, where various artists in the community show and share work. We find out more about Valerie’s book sculpture process, what her favorite tome creation is, and the things that inspire her.

Take the leap below!

Photographs courtesy of the artist.

Introduce yourself Howdy! My name is Valerie Savarie and I create carved book sculptures. I live in the Mile High city of Denver, Co, sharing a house with two cats Meelo and Varuka and my ever loving and supportive husband Matt. As cats are insatiable creatures when it comes to food and attention (which can turn into a zero creativity day), I eventually relocated my studio to Lakewood where it is connected to the collective gallery I run (Valkarie). I believe in lots of vitamin C to keep me healthy and creating (coffee, carrots and chips). Random fact: most of my tattoos are beyond the legal drinking age.

What was your introduction to art like? I was fortunate that my parents got myself and my sisters into art as kids. During the summers instead of wasting our time in front of the TV, we were enrolled in art programs. The city where I grew up - Madison, WI – also had this (and still does to this day) awesome thing called the Art Cart that would find its way to various parks over the summer and have free art projects – my favorite was the plaster casting of our faces at the beach. My dad also took us to many galleries and lectures. I can remember being in third or fourth grade and attending a Georgia O’Keeffe exhibition.

How did that eventually lead you to creating your own works and specifically your book sculptures? Honestly, I have an older (not too much older) sister that was always the artist so I shied away from art for years. Sure, I was a professional doodler, yet I wanted to be my own person and struggled with the sibling rivalry a la Jan and Marcia for years. I turned to creative writing in high school and the first go around of college. Finally, I moved away, and moved away again, tried college a second time majoring in interior design and minoring in scenic design (secretly I wanted to be an architect) and ended up having a professor that had an MFA – Robert Work – who I am still friends with (god, it has been over 15 years since graduation). He reignited that artistic spark in me. I even applied to grad school for art and got rejected from every school I applied to yet I still made art.

A few years down the road I met my husband and he really pushed me to get my art out in public, which was frightening. I ended up joining a co-op where I experimented with various mediums and styles. I created some cube sculptures (bartered autocad drawings for them) and I was in love. 3D art took over my heart, unfortunately, I couldn’t afford to buy the cubes out right and my cabinet maker friend didn’t need any more drawings. So I sought out something that I could afford for material, something that was also easy to come by and easy to manipulate. A thrift store junky, I decided to test my hand on carving up books. That was just over 7 years ago.

What is the process for book creations? From start to finish, how long does the entire piece take? My pieces are formed by three different processes of creation: what it is, what I want it to be and it will be what it will be. What it is means that the story in the book inspires me. What I want it to be means that I have an idea that I need to find a book that fits the visual story I want to create, whereas it will be what it will be means I take a book with no idea in mind as to how it will turn out and intuitively start cutting.

I would say about 67% of the books I create fall into the what I want it to be category so that’s what I will describe. I will get an image stuck inside my head and think about it quite a bit before I will put pencil to paper, working out basic concepts in my head and then creating a very rudimentary sketch (mainly so I don’t forget the idea). I then head off to the stacks – a very unorganized collection – in search of a book whose story has some of the same elements as mine. This is a daunting task as I have no idea as to what the content of at least 97% of the books I house is.

Sadly the adage “you can’t judge a book by its cover” is all too accurate. Titles can be misleading, the content seems like a good match but the cover has illustrations that are in conflict with the vision, and heaven forbid I can’t find any information on the book on Google and then have to decide if I have the time to invest in reading a few chapters or should just keep looking elsewhere.

After hours and even days of searching, I find the match – the perfect companion to my vision. I leaf through most of the pages, book marking those passages, illustrations, lack of text or unique text layout for me to revisit as I cut layer by layer, page by page. Then a slightly more detailed sketch is created – and then comes the point of no return …

I draw the shape of the cut out on the cover and with book and blade in hand, the transformation begins. All cuts are done with a craft knife – yes, even the cover. It is cut by scoring multiple times and then stab and drag, stab and drag. Sure, there are easier ways to do this - the not so occasional accidental sacrifice of blood still doesn’t deter me - I prefer to use my hands, to be able to pack up to my art, take it anywhere I chose to create and not worry about access to electricity. With the cover hole cut, I take out my file and smooth the opening, refine the curves and lines. Then another sketch of how the piece will be laid out is drawn on the front leaf of the book. This can be especially handy to have in more complex designs where I use the image as a template or stencil when cutting the many layers.

From then on out, it is just a matter of cutting one to three pages at a time. The number of pages is determined by the quality of the paper and over all design. Admittedly, this can become tedious if the depth of the layer is greater than ¼” but it is also important for me NOT to rush through the cutting of pages stage as phrases and images easily hide from view when I first go through the book in search of the elements I want expose.

Accidents do happen – the occasional over cut of a section or completely cutting out a page I meant to keep. I am very rigid in my creative process – if the section has been completely cut through, I just walk away from it – even though it would be quite easy to simply glue that section to the page below. The story can develop plot twists during this time as the layers start taking on a different life and their shadows start telling a story of their own as I cut deeper and deeper.

This, the lengthiest part of the creation process, I mentally start to flesh out what the painted characters – or inhabitants – of the book sculpture will look like (I can easily spend over 40 hours of just cutting the pages and so have a lot of “free creative brain time”) . How will they interact in the environment, what will their facial expression be? I dare not start painting them until all pages that will be cut, are cut, as I want the character - be in human, animal or other worldly - to look as if they had grown up in the book sculpture and has called it home forever. The characters are painted with acryla gouache on sheets of mixed media paper or directly onto the book page. The latter is more of a spirit creature – a ghost that is still very much part of the life force of the book. These little paintings are then mounted to illustration board for rigidity and cut out (again by hand with a craft knife).

Once the book cutting is complete and the character painted, I move on to the last creative piece which ties the story together (literally) - the stitching. Each altered book piece has some thread or string (occasionally wire is substituted) added to help in the visual story telling. It can be very elaborate such as sewing branches and leaves onto the cover or something as simple as a few blades of grass. The drilling to create the needle holes in the cover is (again) done with a hand tool called a jeweler’s drill. This nifty device has interchangeable bits from the diameter of a hair to 7mm lead. I believe the longest recorder amount of time I have spent drilling/stitching a single piece is 15 hours.

Now it’s time to do all the boring stuff that makes the piece ready to hang. All the pages are bound together, I create a little wire coat hanger in which the piece can be hung and sew it onto the back of the book as well as stitch in the publication and rebirth years. Both covers are glued to the bound pages, clamped and by the next day, what was once an orphaned book, now rid of its shell, is a three dimensional sculpted piece of art!

And that is how my book sculptures are born.

How long? On average 40 hours a piece. A few take less time and I have spent over 100 hours on a piece more than once.

Where do the books come from? Are they from collecting or via donation? How are you inspired when creating these intricate piece? Are they inspired by the book or from an idea you jotted down? My books come fro various sources. Initially I would get them at thrift stores, the rule was that they had to be as old as me. I normally still stick to that rule unless it is a commission or a piece created for a specific themed show. More recently, I have had a lot of books donated to me – some because the thrift stores won’t take them any more and others because the former owners’ had cherished them and hoped that they could find new life in my hands. On rare occasions I do order from Ebay. I prefer the hunt, stalking down the perfect book, taking weeks and even months. Sometimes, I don’t have that luxury due to deadlines.

Normally I have a concept I want to develop, I look through my stacks (which numbers in the 100’s and shelved at random) hoping to find one that has a similar story line. Since I don’t have time to read each one, I go online and do research – reading the synopses – as well as skimming the books. This can be dangerous as sometimes the books I am sorting through pull me in and new inspiration is born from the written word.

I see my pieces as more of a collaboration between myself and the authors and illustrators. I use their art form as an inspiration stream and add my own twist (or chapter) to create the stories anew.

Is there a piece that was directly influenced by a memory or experience you’ve had or story you’ve heard? It is rare that I remember my dreams but a few years ago I awoke and remembered having a very strange dream about tiny cyclops octopuses and tea cups. Shortly there after I stumbled across a Reader’s Digest collection that contained 20,000 leagues Under the Sea and so I had to create the little cyclopes – sans teacups. I really want to revisit that dream in art form again – with the tea cups – as of yet, I haven’t come across any books that would fit.

What’s the perfect day at the studio like for you? What kinds of things would we find in your creative space?

A perfect day would start around 6pm. I prefer to work at night until the early hours of the morning. I would have a nice cup of endless coffee at hand, a bag of baby carrot and raw nuts available for snacking (separate bags) and some left over Indian food for later in the evening/morning. The original Twin Peaks is playing in the back ground (i pretty much have the dialogue memorized) and my shoes are off and slippers on.

Spread around me on the floor (I work sitting on the floor) is a brand new cutting mat that smells of childhood summer beach toys, an assortment of craft knifes with brand new blades (I rarely use new blades as I have learned to sharpen them) and a vintage book begging me to caress its pages, ogle its inner beauty and then skillfully and slowly start to transform its story from the 2D writing into a 3D world it never knew it could be!

Within my studio I have quite a nice collection of small art (besides my own of course). I use it for inspiration and feed off the remnants of creative energy that the artists left with each piece. There are books, LOTS of books that have no rhyme or reason to their shelving locations or book neighbors. I have quite a few orchids which may or may not be in bloom – all of which were gifts. I have a cool vintage love seat which normally is a place for art to lounge on along with the occasional visitor. A nice collection of coffee mugs – with at least half of them needing to be washed- and of course a coffee maker. I also have an old radio from probably the 30’s that I occasionally plug in and turn on – the sound is great but there aren’t that many am radio stations with strong enough signal that are worth listening to.

What’s one of your favorite creations you’ve made and why? I created a piece based on Pan’s Labyrinth. It was the first piece of fan art I had ever created.

I rarely actually watch movies or t.v. - I listen to them but my eyes and hands are busy creating art. I don’t like foreign films that have voice overs, there is just something unnerving about them.

So with Pan’s Labyrinth, it is something that I actually had to watch. It is a visual masterpiece – as is everything that Guillermo del Toro does.

Creating art based off of something that is already a magnificent piece of art is quite challenging. I didn’t want it to be obviously fan art it was important I make it my own. I ended up using a book in Spanish about the Spanish Civil war. I also used some techniques that were new to me – removing the decorative fabric only from the cover to create pattern, adding color and even adding the cover of a larger book as a backdrop. Oh yeah, and a drop of blood – my fingers tips are pretty callused from art making it took a little more effort than I liked to get that blood.

It was exciting to use new techniques and to push myself to be precise and exact – an actual labyrinth with tiny stairs down to the portal – and at the same time use my imagination to explore concepts that I could only see (movie) and not read and translate them into my own design.

What’s your main tool for making art? Is there a medium you’re wanting to try? A craft knife with an Excel blade – the brand REALLY makes a big difference. In a tie would be a good mat – still looking for the perfect one.

I took a class last year on wood block cutting and would really like to do more with that. I think it would work well with the book page scraps I collective (I have many many boxes of them) plus it is another substractive art techniquewhich makes sense in my brain.

Who are some artists that you’re inspired by and have influenced you throughout the years? Edward Gorey is my main influence. Partially because he was both a visual artist and a writer. I love how dark his images are and the same time laced with humor. His black and white color palette obviously works for me as well. There is a simplicity to it and at the same time it is so masterfully done that the work appears much more expansive than it already is.

As far as artists that are alive and kicking today, my local biggest influences are Aria Fawn and Nicole Grosjean. They are completely different in everything they do and at the same time such masters of detail and story telling.

Aria creates surreal and fantastic worlds in watercolor, largely inspired by the beautiful and violent balance of nature and wild things and the cycle of life, death and rebirth. There is such organic and natural beauty in her style, a freeness that I strive to incorporate into my rigid calculated creation process. I probably own more of Aria’s art than anyone else's - I have multiple pieces by her in my studio and home. She is constantly with me, always inspiring, motivating and energizing my creative spirit.

Nicole on the other hand, creates tiny worlds from hand cut, hand painted paper – which she considers three dimensional illustration. Sometimes there are over a thousand individually cut and painted pieces of paper in one work of art. She is so precise, so CLEAN I have no idea how she does it. I have a very tiny praying mantis in a watch piece from her as well as a larger dragon that I got for my husband as a gift to cover all holidays for several years.

My my top three non locals are Jolene Lai, Jason Limon and Kristen Egan. They all are completely different from one another – Kristen creates magical creatures from gourds. I am dying to get my hands on one as 3D art really needs to be experienced in person to feel the texture, see how the light and shadow changes the mood of the piece. She makes it look so seamless – at first glance I thought the were ceramic.

When I first saw Jason’s work I thought it was the most amazing paper cut art I had ever seen, then I realized it was a painting! His playfulness along with social commentary paired with his insane talent to place highlights and shadows it something I strive for. I feel that my painted characters could be so much more influential – a better actor one could say – in the dioramas I create if they appeared more three dimensional. I am lucky to own one small original that lives with me in my studio.

And then there is Jolene. I would consider her one of the greatest artists of all time. There is so much emotion, energy, story telling in her paintings. Her use of color (and again light and shadow) makes her works hyper realistic to me – I feel sucked in and transformed as an active participant in her paintings. I own two beautiful graphite pieces of hers which live at my house.

What’s your experience been like with the art scene in your area? How is the artist community? I LOVE the art scene in Denver. We are a “new” city that still has not lost its small town connectivity in the arts. Artists support other artists, galleries support other galleries. It is not an us vs them mentality here and I really think it will stay that way.

I got my start in a traditional co-op gallery that sadly just closed this year after being open for nearly 30 years.

They rejected me the first time around and told me what to change for the next application round and I got in that second time.

Even at Valkarie we host a drop in creative night every Thursday – going on almost five years. All levels of artists come, from doodlers to professionals, painters to jewelry makers. We openly give feedback on what we re working on and share calls for art and discuss booth set ups for conventions – what works and what doesn’t.

How do you stay inspired on those days when you’re feeling uninspired? To be honest, it has been years since I felt uninspired. I think because of the super supportive art community I always have someone to run ideas off of. Also, the books themselves are full of written and visual inspiration, an unending supply of it. And all that awesome art I collect, for me it’s not a lack of inspiration it’s more a lack of what I want to focus on – too many bees buzzing with ideas in my brain.

When you’re not working in the studio, what are you doing? What do you enjoy? Truth be told, 83% of my waking time revolves around art. Besides spending time with my own art and running Valkarie Gallery, there isn’t much time for anything else.

In that 17%, I enjoy making pies from scratch with my husband, getting out into the mountains to escape all the compartmentalizing of city life and being servant to the cats – if they had their way, I wouldn’t get any art done at all.

If I ever find “free” time again I would love to get back into creative writing, pick up the violin again and go on more bike rides. Nothing sporty, just peddling around town with no destination in mind.

What advice would you give someone who is thinking of becoming an artist? Start young – before you get tied down with a house, spouse or kids. It is much easier to get by on less while you are young.

Don’t feel like you have to get a degree in art (I know I will catch flack for this one). Do take art classes, marketing classes, get involved in with meet up art groups and build community. Some of the most successful artists I know have no formal art degree. Their talent, passion and drive have given them much success without a pile of debt and they tend to be the most active in artist groups.

Know that rejection is 90% of the game and don’t get discouraged. It doesn’t mean you aren’t good at what you do, it can mean that you weren’t what they were looking for. If you are really passionate, you will always create no matter what others say about your art.

Develop a style that is unique to you. This can be the most difficult especially with everything being available to anyone with a smartphone, computer or tablet. I think it is one of the reasons I keep creating the book sculptures and expanding what they are.

What are your FAVORITE Vans? It really depends on the weather and where I am headed. If it is snowy or raining and am headed to the studio, slip-ons are best, so I can easily take them off and on multiple times a day (sitting on wet shoes is a mistake only made once). In good weather, any Vans are comfortable enough to wear evening while squatting on the floor creating art.

Finally, can you tell us about any exciting things you’ve got coming up? This year I have had my art in five different states and at the beginning of December I will be showing in my sixth. I will have a booth at the Recycled Art Market in Santa Fe, NM. This will be the first time showing my art there and think I will come back with some pretty exciting new ideas on how to incorporate other repurposed items into my books and maybe even find some new resources for creating my sculptures.

I also have two commission coming up that I am really excited to get going on. Will be doing A Clockwork Orange piece and The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe(for two different clients). It has been decades since I read either but I think these two both warrant a reread before I start them (I really do my best to avoid watching movies of books for inspiration).

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#Art #Vans #Vans Art #Vans Girls #Valerie Savarie #book #sculpture #sketchy behaviors #interviews #interview

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7deadlycinderellas · 5 years

Text

Keep on smilin’

(in which I see a movie, and manage to barf out a fic within a week)

(https://archiveofourown.org/works/17404283)

Michael Banks was eternally grateful for the six extra years they all got in the old house. Six years that could have been stolen from them.

For it was 1940 and Cherry Tree Lane, nay, the whole of London, had transformed.

Jane had been the first to feel the wind changing. She’d been out of work for the first two years after Winnie had been born, and when everything had settled, she found that someone with her organizational experience was suddenly in great demand, and the position of helping coordinate the ambulance services for local hospitals had become one of great importance. Many of her coworkers were from families who were high up in politics, and they talked.

She had been nervous about going back to work with Winnie still so young, the question of her mother’s life niggling in the back of her head. Money was still tight, nothing to pay for a true nanny. What her and Jack would have given for Mary Poppins to return to them again at that time.

It ended up being almost a non issue. Winnie was a self possessed child even as a toddler, and turned out Ellen’s sister (who had moved in with the Banks following the scare at the bank) was a former school teacher who could spare an eye during the day. Ellen herself tutted at the arrangement, at least before slipping Winnie a sweet.

“I hate leaving here all the time, it feels like taking advantage of poor Ellen, you know how she always reacted when Father and Mother tried to convince her to watch us.”

“I’m home half the time as is Jane, working on my art, it’s no trouble at all. It’s the least I can do to repay you for all you did to help out after Kate passed.” Michael assures her.

The true answer appeared in Georgie, who adored his young cousin, and when out of school spent much of his spare time reading to her from storybooks and pushing her down Cherry Tree Lane and in the park in her little wagon, later tied to the rear of his bike.

Michael had been the next. The handful of pieces of art he’d completed and sold through newspapers and magazines had earned him a name, and a man visiting the bank one day had given him a business card and told him that if the wind kept blowing the way it did, he might be in touch.

In his office years later, drawing barrage balloons and Spitfires, he mused that no one had ever told him war could be a boon for an artist in need of a job.

Before Winnie was born, Jack had taken a job as a tram driver. Though he really missed the routine of lighting the lamps, most positions had been eliminated when the city changed over to electric lights. He chose to revel in the ability to still lead people home at the end of the night. One night at the flat, he told Jane about a supervisor at work who had inquired about his age.

“He said something about positions being reserved after a certain age.”

“Conscription? We’re not at war yet- why would they even be talking about it?”

Jack’s age ended up keeping him out of the forces, but he told Jane that most of his former fellow lamplighters joined up. For some, it was a god’s send.

“Nothing quite like a war for opportunity, it seems.”

John and Annabel had studiously read the newspapers and listened to the newscasts, still retaining a bit of the tiny adults they had spent far too much of their lives being. Annabel, in particular had decided it was her life’s goal to become a journalist.

A few days before the big news, Annabel heard the announcement that the government was evacuating children to the countryside.

“If there doing this they must have a reason….oh but John, we can’t leave everyone!”

“They do seem to be being overly cautious, it’s not like Germany’s declared war or anything….”

The twins shared a look.

“We should remember this. It might end up being safer. For Georgie and Winnie at least. But we musn’t worry Father and Aunt Jane”.

When 1939 had come, and the first air raid sirens blared after Chamberlin’s words on the wireless, only Georgie and Winnie seemed truly unawares. While they cowered in the cellar until the all-clear, Michael was so grateful that Jane and Jack had come over for breakfast. At least they were all here.

Winnie was frightened by the noise, so Georgie pulled her into his lap.

“Don’t cry Winnie, just pretend we’re on an adventure. This isn’t a cellar- it’s a cave! And on the other side is a magical valley! Where elves live, and fairies,”

“And unicorns?” Winnie wants to know, sniffing.

“Of course!” He adds enthusiastically.

“And animals that talk!” Annabel adds. “Just be careful of the wolf, he might not be trustworthy”.

Michael raised an eyebrow. The children had of course told them all about their adventures that awful year, but they hadn’t spoken of it often. Whereas him and Jane had seemed to forget Mary Poppins, these three had seemed to simply move on.

Eventually the all-clear comes, and they leave the cellar and go on. They put up blackout curtains, carry gas masks and line the house with sandbags. The young men in the neighborhood were called up for military service. Even Admiral Boon abandoned his cannon. Him and Mr. Binnacle even did their part by joining the Home Guard.

But still, no bombs fall. And for a time all seems well.

“Some of my schoolmates who left have already returned”, John comments around Christmas.

“It does seem like it was a bit of an overreaction,” Annabel admits. “Maybe this will be over soon.”

1940 comes. Ellen despairing at the state of her meals now that rationing had taken hold.

“Can’t bake hardly anything with the butter and sugar they give us, and feeding you lot was hard enough as it was.”

Annabel had dug up the zinnias and planted some potatoes and carrots, but Ellen still insisted that if the ones’ who had hired her were still around could see what she put on the table now, they would have thrown her out on the street.

“What do you think Mother and Father would have thought of all of this?” Michael asks one day.

“Mother and Father both saw the Great War. That was the world they left when the flu came. To think they lived in a time of prosperity when they were our age. It’s completely changed. I don’t know what they would think of where we are now.” Jane admits.

“I could hardly blame them. We’re all on tenterhooks.”

The unspoken between them was the fact that the family was still together. The children being at home and Michael’s work for the War Office precluded him from being conscripted. Jack, it turned out, had been correct in his assumptions about his supervisors questions- bus and tram drivers over 25 were considered too important to draft. Though Jane admitted that she still had a niggling fear that that might one day change.

One night he told Jane what hurt him most was that they took away the light on the fro of the tram. Complete blackouts all night, even a tiny gas lamp could be a risk.

“Can hardly see a thing at night. Always afraid I’m going to hit someone. As if the crowds on my tram weren’t ashen faced enough as it is.“

Jane held tightly to his hand. Always a leery at heart, and here trapped in darkness.

The older children march down the street with Winnie a number of times. They map out every single house with an Anderson shelter, and every tube station, between the schools and home. Georgie, again, tries to get the girl to see it as an adventure, like the marches were the world’s biggest game of hide and seek. Michael just feared that one day, Georgie’s own childlike resolve would break.

Once during a raid, Michael sees the older children showing Winnie the bowl they used to keep in the nursery (how it never broke during the Admiral’s cannon fires he will never know), and over hear them telling her.

“There’s magic everywhere, you just have to remember to look up and find it. Even when things are hard. Especially then some might say.”

Annabel keeps tight to her radio. Despite the quiet, Germany invades Norway, then the Netherlands, and then France.

And just when the rest of England seems to practically have become compliant, summer comes and the first bombs fall.

The church down the road is destroyed. The park is burnt to a crisp. Jane biggest challenge at work becomes guiding people around fire and debris to help the ones they can. She suddenly has all the work she could ever want, and never enough vehicles or doctors.

Some nights the older children don’t return from school until late, stuck in the shelters waiting for the all-clear, hoping that they continue to be alive to hear the explosions.

One night Jack doesn’t return until sunrise. Jane cuddles Winnie in one of the apartment buildings four underground shelters fearing for the worst.

When sun comes along with the all-clear, he finally emerges from the dark, eyes bright when he sees the two of them, alight.

“I was about to clock out when the sirens started.” He says, breathy, barely able to stop embracing Jane and Winnie long enough to speak. “We all had to dash for the tube station. There must have been two hundred of us in there overnight. So many of us it seemed we might suffocate.”

“I’m so glad,” Jane implores, voice wavering. When they settle Winnie down over breakfast, so adds.

“I never thought I would have this. I always thought I had to pick, that I couldn’t live in the world my mother wanted for us and be a wife and mother. Then you came along.”

“I showed you the light, you might say?”

Jane nods. She spares another glance at Winnie.

“Mother always said ‘our daughters daughters will adore us’. It’s so strange to say, that admits a war, that it’s nice to be needed, for my work to be valued. It feels selfish, but it’s all we can try to do, for them as well as us.”

She reaches over and smooths Winnie’s hair, and dreadfully misses the other children, even as they’re just across town.

There’s no more hiding it. John and Annabel go to their father with the paperwork. Three more days of terror, and all four children are hastily packed and taken to the train station to be evacuated.

Jack had had to go to work early and couldn’t them seeing them off. It had taken him nearly ten minutes to let go of Winnie in the morning. She doesn’t stop tearing until they meet up with the others, bags in hand, signs around their necks.

“Keep good care of her will you all?” Jane says, tearing up herself.

Georgie takes Winnie hand tightly, and Annabel wipes her face with a handkerchief.

“Wouldn’t imagine doing anything else.” Georgie assures her. His other hand is holding his carpet bag, a copy sticking out of Peter Pan.

“Do they know where you’re going?” Michael asks, anxiously. They always managed to act so big but right now his three children seemed so very small.

“Australia,” Annabel says.

Australia, both Jane and Michael thought, that’s a whole half a world away.

“I thought most of the children were being sent to Canada?” Michael asked, shocked.

“Anywhere that will take us. Besides, I’ve always wanted to see a kangaroo,” Annabel adds, trying to sound light, to steady her father’s nerves and her own.

“We’ll be fine Father. There are no bombs in Australia. As far away as we’ll be from you, Germany will be even further.” John assures him.

No bombs. Such a small wish it would seem.

“Fly a kite for us will you?” Michael asks, embracing John and Annabel in turn, Jane following him after.

“We’ll fly one every day we can.” Georgie promises.

The train whistle sounds, and the four children grab hands and turn away from Michael and Jane. The siblings hold onto each other, and Georgie tight to Winnie, as they fade from view.

That image won’t leave Michael. The next time he has a moment to himself, he pulls out his sketchbook and draws them, in middle of a crowd of faceless children. And as an afterthought, he adds balloons into the distance, and a barely recognizable figure holding an umbrella, leading them towards the balloons through the sky.

Maybe he could use it for an evacuation poster.

After that, the days turn into weeks, and autumn comes. The day raids slow, but the night’s are still hellish. The sights of smoke and fire are every day, and everyday, more of the familiar city disappears.

Michael’s at work when it happens. He never thought he’d be grateful for a day raid.

When he returns, all that’s left of Number 17 Cherry Tree Lane is a pile of wreckage.

Head swimming, Michael barely as time to think before he’s joined by Ellen and her sister, who had been at the grocer’s, and are now by his side, cursing the Germans.

“We’ll all be flattened, and they still won’t be satisfied will they?” She insists. Her voice is enraged, but her eyes are wet. Number 17 was as much her home as theirs.

They all crowd into Jack and Jane’s tiny flat, so empty now without Winnie. Jane has a night shift at the hospital, and the others have already tried to get some sleep before the nights raids could start. In the dim light of the single gas lamp they keep lit, Michael wallows.

Everything lost say the clothes on his back and briefcase. So many things. The dishware passed from their parents, the knick knacks Kate had brought to their marriage. And the photographs…

Michael feels his eyes stinging again with tears. Memories could fade all too easily, compared to pictures.

Pictures.

Removing his sketchbook from his briefcase, Michael commits it to paper. Number 17 Lane as it was in full bloom. It’s spring in his drawing, the cherry trees are in bloom, and the Banks family stand in front.

In his drawing, Kate is still there, her face as clear as in his mind’s eye. His parents are on the steps, in the flush of their lives. The children are as grown as they are now, Georgie flying his kite, while John and Annabel look on Jack and Jane stand off to one side, a little in their own world. Michael thinks, and adds two more small figures to the roof of the house beside them, twirling amidst what must be the soot.

He would draw it as it was, as it had been, as it would always be for them, no matter where the rest of the world took them.

His spirits are lifted a few days later, when the post comes in. Jane hands him the envelope.

“They don’t know. I’m amazed this even got through.”

Number 17 is written in John’s neat script, but the drawings inside are Georgie’s and Annabel’s. They both had inherited Michael’s artistic skills, but Annabel was far too sensible to indulge them much.

Her drawings are of the trains, the ship, the farmhouse where they have been billeted. Georgie draws the kite in the sky, the chickens and sheep, and yes the kangaroos, though they look far more ordinary to Michael’s eye than what the children had probably thought. John’s letter inside is equally reassuring. They are safe, and together. Winnie swears she saw a mermaid on the trip, and all four speak of having never seen the sun so much in their lives.

“Don’t worry too much of us Father,” Georgie adds as a post-script, his handwriting far shakier than his siblings, “we could never have imagined such an adventure. “

Michael tucks the drawings in his jacket pocket. When he goes to work the next day, he sees a poster someone has put up from the US.

“Keep em’ smiling with letters!” It says, with a drawing of a smiling serviceman accompanying.

And for the first time, in a long time, Michael feels like he might be able to.

#mary poppins #mary poppins returns #fic

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cptcrooktail-blog · 6 years

Text

#12: Accolade

“Woooah, now- steady on there, sailor! Yer fergettin’ somethin’, surely?” Rinh’a looked up at Jack in puzzlement, stopping short on his way to grab his sweet bucket, and she couldn’t help but grin toothily as she watched the gears wheel in his head. He was so, so much like his mother when he was lost in thought. “Um... um? Oh- no, I did put the feather in,” Rinh’a pointed to the long white gryphon quill popped into the brim of his felt tricorne hat, lovingly sewn in so as not to be blown away in a chill autumn breeze.

“Aye, ye did- an’ smashin’ it looks too, by th’ way- but yer missin’ yer decorations!” Jack explained, tapping the gold braids on the epaulettes of his fetching black frock coat, detailed to an exacting accuracy. “Are ye not a ship’s Captain, my lad? Don’t get there without earnin’ some pins an’ chevrons, ye know. Gottae show off yer proof o’ yer adventures- it’ll land ye more sweets, I wager!” “Oh-” Rinh’a paused to think, and then his little ears sank a bit as he considered the implications of such an immersion-breaking oversight. Jack hurriedly explained to avoid having to look at dreaded kitten eyes of disappointment- she couldn’t stand it these days. How soft her heart had grown! “Ah- nay, fret ye not, I got jus’ th’ thing- wait right there, lad, then we’ll be ready tae go out door knockin’.” With a spirited hop in her step, Jack trotted off down the stairs of their home- their little family’s home, all their own, decorated as they pleased, and slipped into the master bedroom that she and Rinh shared. The air in here was sweet- filled with the scent of parchment, polished leather, and the faintest mingling of perfume and cologne, the dusting of a freshly opened pot of powdered make-up. It was filled with their things- and it surprised Jack endlessly that she now had things to be filling rooms with, when at the start of this very cycle, she’d felt like she had nothing at all left to her name, save her old uniform, and the crutch propped up by the door. The majority of her things, all the same, were hung on the walls- the plank of wood bearing the name ‘The Calico Queen’, her grand helm, her well-weathered Barracuda flag- artifacts from her ship, stowed safely at her old room at the Bark, now decorated the cottage, sharing the space with the enormous and reverently hung Tuna, and a gifted set of Megalodon jaws above the door. Trophies from beautiful, and now dead things, much beloved and held with pride. They nestled together with Rinh’s banners and meticulously kept maps and charts, her furniture from her flat given so much more room to breathe across two full floors- her hundred score books settled into new homes, safe and snug upon shelves and whatever surfaces were going spare. Rinh’a naturally had all his belongings mostly in his room, apart from the odd toy that would escape to the downstairs study, or up in the den by the fireplace, or the homework left on the dining table as a reminder - and acquired new things, she supposed, as well. One full room’s worth of new things, for a new member of the family, eagerly awaiting their approaching arrival. A room full of things that in the future would become so steeped in sentiment and nostalgia that it made Jack’s head spin to think about. There were bittersweet things, too. There was a painting on the wall in their bedroom that she spotted as she came in, framed, of the ship that carried them home from Gyr Abania. She shook her head- now was hardly the time for mentally cataloguing her life’s milestones in things. She had something to fetch. The rest of Jack’s belongings all lay in one squat trunk, emblazoned with Maelstrom colours, dotted with Mealvaan’s Gate stamps of approval that she’d never cared to remove, tattooing the practical box with years of toing and froing as part of her duties at home and abroad. Inside, a smaller, plainer box, nestled between layers of folded coats, britches and rough tunics, and sets of left socks that she hadn’t the heart yet to pitch. Carrying it under arm, she jogged back up the stairs, casting a brief glance around the living room to admire the odd collection of their family’s milestones, represented in objects held onto- like accolades. It didn’t seem so strange, now, why her mother had kept that daft drawing Jan made when she was a cub pinned to the kitchen cupboard. It was the first time she’d written ‘mammy’ - poorly, clumsily, but with heart. Josie kept it like a badge of honour, until Jan’s own babes were grown and on their way to proper schooling. Jack felt a swelling sense of honour of her own, when she knelt down to crack open her wooden box, and beckoned Rinh’a over to pin her career’s worth of hard-earned medals carefully to his jacket, giving them a quick buff shine until they gleamed in the light of the jack o’ lanterns, and clacked together when he walked. Knowing that he trusted her as much as he did, to join his family, that he beamed at her bright enough to put the poxy medals, nay, the moon to shame- That was an honour as real as her crimson Red Anchor, awarded to her by a dear friend and canny mentor. As great a privilege as it would soon be to wear the ring she had commissioned from the best jeweller she could find, knowing that her beloved wore a matching band. Those were the accolades she wore on her very heart.

“There y’are, lad- yer th’ most decorated young Captain in th’ Mists, as o’ now, and- hah-” She grunted, then laughed, as Rinh’a leapt in for a tight hug, and she squeezed him back tighly, doffing his tricorn hat to ruffle his hair and his fluffy ears. “Jus’- jus’ be careful wit’ em, tha’s all. Mind- they shouldn’t be fallin’ off any time soon, they’re on fast an’ meant tae stay stuck tight through foul weather an’ fair- but I know ye, lad. Yer careful an’ thoughtful as can be.” “...Ye make me right proud, son.”

#ffxivwrite2018 #jack crooktail #oh my god the family feels #THESE CATS

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