#vicious cycle. endless repetition

[smokeys-house]

I need to go to the doctors so I can get on paper the official diagnosis of whatever's wrong with me but I can't because I have to work but I can't call out of work because I'm out of sick time and I can't get a reasonable accommodation for a more flexible schedule without a diagnosis which I can't get without a doctors appointment which I can't go to because I c

#smokey talks #im certain theres some very shady stuff happening over me from the director of operations but i cant prove it #everyone above me from my supervisor to his supervisor and all the way up to him are refusing to listen to me #idk what to do its kinda. not working but i cant quit bc i need the insurance and the money #i need the insurance to get the diagnosis to prove that i need an accommodation to get the flexible schedule to get the diagnosis #vicious cycle. endless repetition

[the-floral-perspective]

EJ’s Obsession

::breeding kink, overstim, clinginess, stalker vibes, perv vibes (if you squint.) (Jack is 6’6 in this fic so automatically you’re prob shorter) some plot, some fluff

X fem reader

Eyeless Jack loves watching.

Staring.

He specifically likes staring at you. You were a pretty little thing. At least to him you were, his unnatural height added to that factor.

Jack first noticed you when getting back from a mission. He was walking back to the mansion and noticed you. You had been dangerously close to the portal, but you were laying on a rock, only wearing your cotton black undergarments.

You hadn’t noticed him. He was too dark to see and too quiet to hear. The moonbeam glistened on your skin and your hair seemed to be dried (assuming from the wet patch on the rock.)

Jack had thought you a goddess.

Strange occurrences had started happening around the mansion. Jack had been leaving a lot, Ben had done some snooping and found he’d won the heart of some strange girl.

He also found panties (presumably yours) that were washed and in jacks drawer.

Jack started a habit of stealing your underwear after sex, he’d masturbate with it later and return it back to you afterwards.

Ben would not care about this detail, but he did find a lot of pictures of you sleeping on jacks phone. He only put jacks phone down after seeing the ‘relationship’ folder full of nudes you’ve sent Jack.

Ben wouldn’t be doing that again.

On the other hand, Jack had been on a rule. Within three months he managed to sweep you off your feet (despite his odd appearance.)

Luckily, your sweet self was able to look past that. Which actually, you found him to be really hot, in a forbidden type of way you wouldn’t understand.

And the night came, where you and Jack had sex for the first time. He filled you up so perfectly, you had a slight bulge on your stomach from him.

Though that night unlocked a monstrous side in Jack, of which you never really saw coming.

After that night, Jack couldn’t get enough of you. Sure, he’d respect when you didn’t want sex, but fuck. He never complained when you didn’t.

Jack was ideal for you, he still is. Respectful as always, but a little more harsh whenever you do have sex.

There were times where Jack would not leave your cunt, simply because he just loved feeling you. Or eating you. God, he fucking loved eating you out.

You tasted the sweetest, Jack wanted nothing more than to combine your bodies. It felt like he couldn’t get enough of you, ever. Not in a million years. Jack was dead set on you and only you.

Whenever you guys started getting heated, Jack would have to remind you of how carried away he gets and ask if it was alright for him to cum in you tonight. He’d never stop asking, just in case.

Once he started in you, he couldn’t stop. You’d know, being underneath him and sometimes on top of him. Jack can’t restrain himself from pleasuring you sometimes.

He repetitively cums in you, eats you out, cums in you again like a vicious cycle. Somehow he always stops at the right time.

When your clit is sore, and your cunt can’t stop spasming. Your eyes are watering and your pussy weeping just the same.

His cum seeping out of you like an endless stream. Your puffy pussy exhausted and red. One final time, Jack eats you out. Your cunt already sore everywhere, but somehow, his tongues manage to find a new spot to find pleasure and abuse.

Jack cleans you up, sucking on your clit slowly, while his other tongues make their way inside you. Understanding your soreness, but still soothing and pleasuring it. He doesn’t speed up his pace, knowing your limits. One of his tongues lap up your walls slowly and greedily, while the other stays rested flat on your clit moving very slowly.

Your orgasm sneaks up on you, breaking your mind and body. White heat flashes through your pussy, as it soaks jacks face once more. Where his cum once was, is now replaced by your ambrosia.

Thank birth control, right? Let’s hope it still works against demon cum.

#creepypasta #creepypasta smut #eyeless jack #eyeless jack smut

[abinghospital]

there’s a violence that preys in the lurid silence, its hunting claws piercing through my skin in a vicious attempt to hurt. its brutal grip mars my delicate bones, shattering the joints that hold my useless body. my tears flow without intent as if a machine run only by the pain that throbs behind my ribcage. all this, in the dead silence. an ear-shattering pin-drop of soundless screams. darkness engulfs as i unlit the lights in desperate hopes that the shadows would form a familiar glint of my childhood refuge. where every face is a friendly ghost. where pavements are painted with blooming delight and the scent of home endures.

outside the still blackness of my dying prison, where the rot cant reach flesh, where the gloom cant pale the souls that wander, the city roars in wild movement. vehicles sifting through the wind, light dancing in gleaming colors, streets shrouded with people holding purpose in their pockets and dreams in their eyes. the world is perpetually in motion, a cycle of never-ending toil. bones grinding against inertia, bodies forced to function for modest coins, rigid calluses taking shape on gentle hands. when did existence turn into a need to survive rather than the desire to experience? are we ever allowed to take time if only to muse at the beauty of the stars when even in solitude, there’s a war that wont dissipate? and the uproar never ends, not to nurture the wounds from my hounding thoughts brought by the prick of existential woe, not to tender the ache of the sick loneliness that has long plagued my wounded spirit. in my somber seclusion, as if to mock my trivial being, i was humbled by the absolute truth that tomorrow is promised, even without me. 

i’ve learned of life’s hostility in the way it has punished me for crimes i have yet to discern. it lights a raging ember to my fading hope, only to take it back leaving not even a flicker but a fear in my throat that knows only of consuming. luck i was told, was the rarest of lightnings i had the privilege to catch. i’ve lived my youth not with the greatest luxuries but one free of deprivation and contempt. there was always food on the table, warm clothes to wear, and enough love to fill an ocean. yet this did not come without its share of penance, for in my moments of perish, there was no embrace to fall back to. a penalty im still paying for even at present. when anguish, like poison, trickles its way through my veins, but distance, with its powerful expanse, holds me back from the antidote. luck it turns out was a chance at ease priced with a hefty bargain. 

life at its most hostile, is an esoteric irony, a drop of bliss followed by an outpour of ceaseless dread. 

life is a spineless joke, one i was dying to hear only to uncover that i am the eventual punchline. 

life is a striking serpent, rearing its venomous head with only the intent to maim. 

what am i supposed to defend myself with when all i have are meager words, scattered sentences, and fervent pleas for clemency, all addressed to a god im uncertain is even there?

there’s cruelty in digging a grave once you’re already dying. in my most tragic days, i still seek for ways to sink deeper into uncharted depths even my demons fear to tread. insanity, according to einstein, is a mindless repetition expecting different results. is there a map to flee the downward loop of this inescapable madhouse? madness, in experience, is an endless free fall. the ultimate torture is the absence of landing with the constant concern knowing despite the burn, a hotter hell awaits. and there’s no ceasing this continuous collapse for i intentionally elude all attempts at salvation. there is sadness in my refusal to expose my need for comfort as much as there’s merit for my fake resonance of strength. how does one bring back the will to withdraw his walls when ridicule laces his every oversight and his worries are reduced to meaningless whims? in my pondering, i discovered how to fold my bleeding chaos into tiny caricatures, tuck them in the cracks of my ruptured heart, and corrupt me in secrecy. 

life, at its most hostile, is a crashing trajectory. and the endless wonder if there is a way out. 

#literature #poetry #word #spilled ink #thoughts #prose

[hitawall]

tokidoki

Taken all-together,

the world hums and thrums.

There’s a somewhat sorrowful song

being sung.

They all said,

“She’s marching

to the beat of her own drum,”

but I came undone.

I unraveled

considering callous candor

underselling my sum:

Worthless. Backwoods. Basic. Weak.

All too often, sobbing on the floor in a heap.

Forgettable. Volatile. Vicious. Fickle.

Making things hard, when they could be so simple.

I shout, and I sob

down an endless, empty well.

Ain’t it swell?

Just predictable and repetitive:

I’m a sloppy villanelle.

My whispers fall on deaf ears.

There’s no one left to tell.

Sometimes, this cycle is a living hell.

#poetry #poem #spilled ink #free verse #insecurity

[a-d-nox]

what does asteroid 1866 in leo at 4 degrees mean?

leo sisyphus (5°, 17°, 29°): these people have a tendency to make secret bets and polls regarding others - they tend to not mind making a pretty penny. it could also indicate having addictive tendencies where gambling is involved - when you are ahead you must get out. these people don't know how to "walk away" from the table and end up in a loop where they are ahead then fall behind and believe they just have to break even, they break even then they think they can gain - VICIOUS CYCLE. people with this placement are often seen as callous towards/by their father, children (oftentimes their son(s)), and in romances - they seem selfish by nature and as though they only have themselves in mind. when i say this please recall sisyphus had his wife dump his body in the river, so he can escape the underworld. he didn't escape for her, and he didn't care that his wife was then frowned upon by the gods. these people thus tend to trick their father, children (oftentimes their son(s)), and romantic partners. these people may find themselves in endless/repetitive lessons in romances (ex: if you are a straight fem - you may find your partner is just like your father OR alternatively you can simply date people who are all alike one another). these people tend to live lively then become stay at home parents or spouses, and find their lives are not as fun as they once were and become slaves to routine in that respect.

cancer sisyphus (4°, 16°, 28°): these people may come off as protective but are likely not, this is all a disguise they talk a big game and tend to only have their own safety in mind. they tend to decieve their own family and some times deceive for the sake of a family (these are the people who are likely to poke holes in condoms). these people also could lie about where they live or put up a front for those who visit them (these are the people that return decor when their company leaves). people with this placement are often seen as callous towards/by family. they do not mind pulling the wool over their own blood's eyes. these people are likely to feel trapped in their own homes they may find that they struggle to keep up with their own lies as cancer in general tends to rule over fickleness of the mind (aka your lies may not be consistent).

hope this wasn't too harsh, but it is sisyphus lol.

a.d.

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#astrology #astro community #asteroid astrology #astro chart #astro placements #asteroid #natal chart #greek mythology #sisyphus #asteroid1866 #leo sisyphus #cancer sisyphus

[mariacallous]

Of all the charges laid at the door of Harry and Meghan, we can reasonably discount the idea that being paid by Netflix is the sin to end all sins. I’m not sure how people think the British royal family have historically accrued their vast wealth, but a contract with a streaming giant is right down the list of money-spinning horrors.

Let’s face it, there are a lot worse ways to lay your hands on a reported £88m in today’s money. No one dissolved the monasteries, here. No one ran a foreign country as an extraction colony. Looting-wise, no one did much beyond taking a call from telly warlord Ted Sarandos and thinking: yes please. This is the market value of my truth.

Anyway, on with the show. Again. I can’t help feeling the Sussexes increasingly come across as a pair of ancient mariners with a TV contract, condemned to tell their tale to everyone they meet. After this latest exhaustive (and fairly exhausting) six-parter, many will now feel they have seen enough of the albatross in question, which has been hung around the neck either of the Sussexes or the news media, depending on to whom you speak. Both sides of this forever war seem locked in an endless cycle of tale-telling, which will ultimately have to be moved on from. Or not, if it keeps being lucrative for both sides (of which more shortly).

Despite the work that has gone into crafting the impression of a further banquet of revelations, the Sussexes really only have one story to tell. Admittedly, it’s a dramatic and sensational one that has sold countless books and papers and driven online traffic and TV ratings around the world. They told it to Oprah last year, and now they are telling it again to Netflix viewers.

In some ways, there’s nothing wrong with telling the same story over and over again. John Grisham does it, though he is at least able to change the names and locations. The most successful movie stars have always repeatedly played some lightly adjusted version of their persona, on the timeworn and financially proven principle of giving the public what it wants. That’s showbiz.

The question with Meghan and Harry is how long it can go on after this latest rather repetitive instalment – or, indeed, how long anyone focused on new horizons really wishes to be trapped in this same old cycle. The cycle is certainly of the vicious variety. The Sussexes publicly say something; the papers pounce on it and make merry hell with it for days or weeks; some drama-queen palace courtier makes a disparaging off-the-record comment; a new grievance is thereby minted on which the Sussexes will soon publicly say something. Repeat cycle.

But is this just going to be it, for ever? The returns look likely to be diminishing. It will – surely? – eventually become incredibly boring. Indeed, for many, it already has, with even some sympathisers now judging that things could be a lot worse. Then again, I’m not sure they have the cost of living crisis in Montecito.

Despite it being a cliche, I do think one of the soundest pieces of advice is that the best revenge is a good life. However, the more classic form of revenge, which the Sussexes are pursuing, is much more lucrative. For all their talk of escape, they are still locked in a destructively symbiotic relationship with their detractors. “You shut up!” “No, YOU shut up!”

Crucially, though, their detractors also have a choice, which is to leave the entire thing alone. We do, after all, know this story now, and pretending that unignorable news is being made is just something you tell yourself as a fig leaf to keep running it all, at remorseless length, because it sells papers and drives traffic and engagement. But hey – everyone’s on the take.

As for the consumers of the endless psychodrama, there is little so enduring as the public’s unwillingness to see its part in all of this. A few years ago, Prince William and his brother participated in a documentary about their mother, in which they recalled the scenes in the wake of Princess Diana’s death, when the children were famously forced out in public to view tributes and observe the crowds. “People wanted to grab us, touch us,” remembered William. “They were shouting, wailing, literally wailing at us, throwing flowers, and yelling, sobbing, breaking down – people fainted and collapsed. It was a very alien environment.”

Alien is a kind way of putting it. Those people behaved weirdly and appallingly, yet would never dream of recognising their behaviour as such. Many of them are the same people now howling about the Sussexes, the same people who absolutely hoovered up the intrusive coverage of Diana, the same people who then pretended to be disgusted by it all after she died. The same people who demanded the late Queen leave off comforting her young grandsons at Balmoral, despite the fact they’d lost their mother, and come back to London to … what? Comfort them? Grow up.

But then a lot of people love all this stuff, whether or not they care to admit it. They love the drama, love to take it personally, love to get angry about it, love to act as if they know the family, love to paw bereaved children, love to comment, love the whole endless shooting match. Don’t get me wrong – I too am a grateful beneficiary, given I’ve just got another column out of it. But it all cuts both ways. A disapproving and enraged market is still a market. Whatever you think of Meghan and Harry and their truth, it’s difficult not to judge that much of the British public has a long, long way to go before it faces up to its own.

[dailyaudiobiblechronological]

7/21/2022 DAB Chronological Transcription

Hosea 8 - 14

Welcome to the Daily Audio bible chronological, I'm China. Today is the 21st day of July, welcome. So great to be here with you today. Today we continue on with the book of Hosea. We are in chapters eight, eight through 14. We continue on with the English Standard Version for this week.

Commentary

As we're reading today's word. I can't help but think if we rewind or back up all the way back to the very beginning of this year. We read about the Israelites coming out of slavery and led into freedom by the Lord. By Moses. Which should have taken eleven days time of a trip and it took 40 years. Was kind of this onset motion for the rest of the stories that we have read. Which is this consistent cycle of turning to the Lord and choosing him. And then things kind of plateauing and then there's a need or there is a moment of choice, either choose the Lord or choose fear and allow that to make us spiral and choose other things that are not the Lord. And so really in today's reading we have read this recap of so many generations ago and them following the Lord and then turning away from the Lord and then their descendants turning and then falling away. And really it's this very vicious repetitive cycle that never really seems to be stopped. And there is part of me that's like I do wonder what that would look like to perfectly follow the Lord all of our days and not struggle with I'm going to do this my own strength or I'm going to turn. I mean, I don't really see people throwing up golden calves or shrines or altars anymore. But I do know that people choose other things that could take those literal images place. Whether it's our own selfish ambition, like it can just manifest in so many different ways. I could sit here and name a bunch of examples, but truthfully, if we would ask the Lord, he would definitely show us. And something that was kind of speaking to me in chapter 13, there's this talk of I am the Lord your God in the land of Egypt, you know, no God but me, besides me, there's no savior. So right there in that verse four, the Lord is very clearly saying I am your God all the way back to Egypt. I know you weren't there. You are just hearing stories of that time. But I was there and I led them and I was faithful even when I didn't want to be or when I didn't need to be. I chose to be faithful. I chose to keep my word and I did. And then, you know, no God but me. And there's a lot of truth in that. I mean, it is truth. It is truth. And really to dissect that a little bit is there is no other God, there just isn't. And our hearts know no other God but Him besides me. There is no Savior. That's the truth. That is the landing place for our wandering hearts. And I love that. He continues to say, it was I who knew you in the wilderness, in the land of drought, but when they had grazed, they became full, but they were filled and their hearts were lifted up before they forgot me. That makes my heart so sad to read that these are the Lord's words and we're reading about how this affected Him and his point of view and the story. And also it just encourages my heart to really remind myself, hey, you know, no other God what the Lord besides Him. There is no Savior. I cannot save myself. I cannot save whoever. I can't save my daughter or my husband. I can love them and I can serve them and steward their lives to the best of my ability, but I can't do it outside of the Lord, and I definitely can't give them salvation. I can't give them eternity. I cannot give them boundless endless amounts of grace and love and mercy outside of the Lord. That just can't happen. And so understanding, oh, I need the source. I need the Living God. And that's kind of my own extension of the story. But quite literally, people were I mean, we know this story, we read it earlier this year. They were groaning because if we could just go back to slavery, at least we were fed on a schedule or at least we could count on having water, but you part of those seas. But now I'm so hungry and that has to be too hard for you, or I'm not even asking. I'm just whining and complaining and that just kind of gets me because we all do that, whether it's that quite literal way of moaning and groaning, complaining, whining, any form of immature communication to the Lord that is ultimately saying, I don't trust you. I have forgotten the ways that you have come through for me, and I'm refusing to believe the truth.

Prayer

And so, Lord, I pray that our hearts would not be like the Israelites, that they would not be stubborn and believing the truth. And what I think that the truth has been revealed to us. And Lord, I thank you that even Jesus himself says that he will reveal Himself for those who have eyes to see and ears to hear. And so, Lord, I pray that we would have eyes to see and ears to hear. And I pray that we would be people who are diligently seeking out Your truth. I thank you, God, that when we seek you, we find you. So, Lord, I pray that you would cleanse our hearts, our hands, our mouths, our whole bodies, Lord, and I just thank you that you have already made a way for that to happen. So, Lord, we just thank you for who you are. It's in Your name we pray, amen.

Announcements

Dailyaudiobible.com is a website that is a place of connection. It's where you can see what's happening here in the community. Be sure to check that out. You have prayer requests and things that we as a community can come alongside of you and encourage you and pray over you. You can call it 800-583-2164. And those get sent in and played at the end of every day's podcast. That is all for today. I'm China. I love you. They'll be waiting for you here tomorrow.

Community Prayer Line

Hello DABC, this is Aaron from Houston calling to give an update regarding my friends from church. It was actually the same night or maybe even the next morning after I had asked for prayer for their father who had cancer and he had passed away. So it has been a long time coming, but he's healed now, that's for sure. I've been able to catch up a little bit with my friends Brian and Bailey here and there. They seem to be doing all right and I think the length of the battle that he went through and the fact that he survived so long, I think they were just thankful to have that much time with them. But I know they even told me that some days are better than others and this is not an easy journey to go through, but just be praying that comfort continues to hold them and especially their mother who they're trying to keep company now as well. Just that this can be relayed and be used for God's glory as well, just because this is part of life and we know that after such a long battle, cancer, now he's with the Lord in many ways. How can we ask for much better? So just be praying for them, be praying for just the ability to grieve well and to continue with life so that they can continue to glorify God. Thank you.

Good morning. Daily Audio Bible. This is Kelly in South Carolina. Jill, I just wanted to say yes, I totally relate to the daytream driving or just the daytream living and you sort of have that wake up moment back in the day. I used to work night shift and I would get way down the road and think, oh, I've gone through three or four stoplights by now. I sure hope I did the right thing when I was there and I definitely think that I am guilty of going through life that way at times too. Renee Carl, you just broke my heart and I so relate. I was reminded of Paul in Romans seven when he says for I do not do the good I want to do, but I practice the evil I do not want to do. If our inner self just fighting and we've just got to let the spirit went out and it's so much easier said than done. So we lift you up in prayer and it's hard. Oh, you just broke my heart because it's so hard and our feelings are so real and they just hurt so bad sometimes. But girl, I'll pray for you. And I just wanted to say one other thing. This community is amazing. As I was sitting here listening this morning and I hear messages come in from Atlanta and from Dubai and from Mexico. I'm reminded that this is a worldwide community and it is just so encouraging to be a part of this group and I really do feel like it is a family and I love you all and I pray for you and I pray that you continue to pray for me and all this. I pray glorifies Jesus every day.

Hi. It's IVIS from Florida. I had called to provide encouragement to Cassidy from Kansas and I am now asking for prayer for my son Esra, who is in his preschool. I pray that he will continue to progress. He is not yet vocal, so we're praying that by the end of next year around this time, he will be in this school being with other kids. And I just asked that if this is where the father wants him to stay, that he will reveal that to me and delay him starting kindergarten to the next fall. And I just asked for prayers now as we are my husband and I, we just recently moved to my mom's house after ten years of not living with her. It's a bit difficult because we have a rocky relationship. So I ask for prayers. I pray that she will find peace and the struggles that she's experiencing and that whatever it is that's causing the strain in our relationship will be revealed and we can meant whatever it is that needs to be listed. Thank you.

Hello DABC family, this is Diana from Florida and I want to pray for Renee. Dear Heavenly Father, we thank you so much for Renee's life. I just want to pray and worship you Lord God for the fact that she is super self aware of all the God, of the mistakes she's made in her marriage and the fact that it's both her and her husband made mistakes that drove them apart. And Father, I just thank you for her repentant heart. I pray that you would do a mighty work in her husband's heart, that he would come to repentance and he would return to his wife and they would go together to get help, O Lord God, to get marital counseling, to go to church, to read the scriptures together and start rebuilding what has been lost in Jesus name. Amen. I also wanted to call in to give a praise report. I recently called some time ago asking for prayer regarding a job that I had applied for and by God's grace I did get an offer two days ago and I am preparing all the paperwork and everything to make the transition. So I want to thank you, the AVC community, for praying for me. This is in the new beginnings for me. I have been in my previous employment for seven years and just wasn't seeing any particular growth or change. And on top of that, I felt like I was sacrificing so much time away from home. And this new job will afford me the opportunities to grow, but at the same time, give me a hybrid working schedule so that I can be home several days a week and work from home. So I just want to thank you all for your prayers and keep me in prayer as I do this transition and that all may go well. In Jesus name.

[mindspiritbodyhypnosisca]

Hypnotherapy For Anxiety And Health

Are you paying attention to what is written on the screen or your thoughts as you read it? Although you may have temporarily let go of some problems in order to read the last sentence, soon enough your mind will return to "busy mode" where you'll be thinking about such things as:

What time can I spare to read this article in detail?

I am curious if my weekend plans will be made.

I'm curious what will happen if I keep reading but lose track of the time?

It's a vicious circle in which the mind wanders from one distraction to the next. This cycle can be broken by relaxing and controlling your mind. Stress is inevitable when life moves at such a rapid pace. We need to be able to control our thoughts and relax.

Many people seek out answers elsewhere. They want to have more fun, be more successful, and feel more happy. How can we combat this? Have a glass of champagne. Turn on their iPads, or let them sleep on the couch. These are not the best ways to deal with stress. Do you think that killing brain cells with alcohol is the best way to relax and forget your troubles? We would like to believe so in an ideal world. But it is often not the truth. The rise in antidepressant use could indicate otherwise.Hypnotherapy For Smoking Near Me

Hypnosis is used in many different ways by societies around the globe. Many hypnosis techniques are focused on relaxing the body and allowing the muscles to relax. Next, you focus on your breathing and allow your body and mind to relax. You may be able to imagine yourself walking through quiet countryside or climbing endless stairs. These are often repetitive scenes that you can easily conjure up. The scenario you imagine will make you feel almost like you're living it.

#Hypnotherapy For Smoking Near Me

[shouldntcryoverit]

a clone fit for a ball.

Commander Fox x Reader

I think initially I wanted to write this as a whole story, but it’s quite a lot and (because i haven’t been too active) I just sorted wanted to post something yk :) hope you enjoy! <33

———————————————————————

It’s a dramatised reality if you think about it. The idea of a gathering with the only intention being to appease the aching sore that is political pillow talk, is one that is so pompous it seems that those who benefit from the scheme are the ones who design it. It’s a drawn out, legislative, painfully particular game of charades disguised in lavish clothes and large hats. In almost every way, those garments are often large enough and sparkly enough to hide the deceit they cover, and persuade each mindless baboon that is gormless to fall victim to it to enter into the game themselves. It’s a repetitive cycle, and stupid though it may be; it does work.

Though there was beauty in it that you just couldn’t deny. The decorations were enough to mesmerise you entirely; lavishly hung around each bannister and archway of the senate hall. Bright colours of orange and pink were scattered across the flower arrangements that littered the walls and their accents. Whatever had been done to spritz life into the chandeliers and lighting had worked its magic, for the perfectly lit definitions gave luminosity and warmth all in one squeezing breath. It was inviting and spectacular; a collaboration of everything the senate appeared to be. Even as the floor beneath your heeled feet glistened with rich delight, the pit in your stomach still swallowed your joy.

Your hatred for all things political had always been your strength and your weakness, especially as a senator. You represented your home planet well enough to protect it’s people, but you would not stand for the same deceitful bulldozing that reduced planets and people to nothing more than pawns or money makers. It meant that you stood for nothing you disbelieved in, including ridiculously regimented senate balls.

Nevertheless, you needed a way in. Your planet had been overlooked for far too long; the cries of your people ignored. You needed a trade deal and you needed one that wouldn’t result in republic outposts and war dependancy littering your already fighting home world. A ball was a good opportunity for political match making, and it was one you couldn’t give up.

It was that reasoning that had led you as far as a blue, bejewelled dress that suffocated what waist you apparently had, and hugged each curve with malice. Even with the anger dripping from your rouged lips, you couldn’t deny it. You did look rather pretty. It was a small triumph, but one that gave you confidence enough to manage the heels that’d been handed to you. As you caught a reflection of yourself leaning heavily against the arm of a guard in a particularly shiny section of the wall, you realised just how pretty you did look. Perhaps there was something addicting in the madness of it all: perhaps there was something powerful about a low cut dress and tousled hair.

Your entrance was timely, a rushed manner donned after slightly too much time taken trying to find the dammed place. Typical of Coruscant, you muttered. Two guards in white and red nodded at your arrival, both seemingly emotionless under their plastoid helmets. It was something that’d always confused you about the clone army; all painfully identical, yet lightyears apart from each other. A brotherhood was one thing, yet could you even call it that?

The thought itself was fleeting, though one you were sure to ponder later. You passed those statues of guards within seconds and continued on your warpath to the ‘reception’. It didn’t take much for you to be recognised; the perks of being one of the only senators with detailed and beautiful facial markings. It was something you prided most. The rest was a blur, but you made it into the hall and straight into a chair that’d apparently been pulled out for you. The man to your left was a kindly looking togruta, the woman to your right your stern faced guard, who looked murderous in comparison.

“My dear, aren’t you cold?” The togruta asked with a genuine smile. The question made a small laugh sprout up your throat.

“Perhaps, though my heart is beating far too fast for it to be uncomfortable.” You replied with that charming tone in your voice you’d perfected.

Everything was an act; your shoulders perked up and back to lift your chin in power and confidence, the planned placement of your hands across the table, your silken voice as it left your silken mouth. Even the unplanned conversation would seem regimented, though the Togruta’s nature settled your mind with authentic care.

“Ah, now that I can understand.” He shuffled, uncomfortable or unsure you couldn’t tell. “I do apologise, but I cant seem to place you.”

You paused again with an unfaltering expression of tenderness.

“Oh well I know you, Governor Roshti. But I don’t blame you, I took over from Madame Liobrev shortly after she resigned from senatorial status. This is my first ball to say the least.” There was a hint of an exhale by the end of your scentence, it felt good to admit even subtly that you were out of your depth.

“Well it doesn’t show, I only hope my name hasn’t ingrained in your mind the way it has in so many’s.” The sadness that fell across his face was just as genuine as the smile that it had replaced. It made the compassionate side of you ache.

“You did what this god forsaken war made you do, I see no reason for shame to fall upon you or your people. Battle leaves us all defenceless.” The spite of your tongue was heavy; anger for the war too many fell victim to.

“Thank you, my dear.”

You smiled once again, before turning back to your guard. She was perched haughtily on her seat, weapon securely hidden but it’s presence obvious. Her attire was in contrast to yours; armour and garments all of dark colours and metal accents. She looked like a warrior, and you were momentarily envious.

“Taurin you really ought to relax. Senators aren’t that vicious. Or at least not when they’re sedated with flattery and shiny things.” You joked, desperate to take the edge of both her and yourself.

Taurin, the guard, bowed her head in humor, a distant smile forming over her pursed lips. It was one you were incredibly fond of, and one you had grown to recognise as endearment.

“M’lady, it’s not the senators I’m worried about.”

You laughed; a breathy laugh that corrupted your lungs and throat.

“What more could you possibly find challenging about a ball this compensated for. Perhaps it’s that my shoes will grow painful on my feet? Enjoy yourself!” You pressured with sweet intentions.

She turned to face you with a vindictive smile laced with sour belief. Her eyes trailed over your reeling eyes in silent conversation, seconds before they jolted off their steady trajectory just past your head. What had been childish remark soon freezed over to slight panic and question. You noticed the change almost instantly and frowned with creased eyebrows. As your head began to swivel to turn to her opponent, she screeched and forced you down.

The fall from your chair wasn’t high, but the adrenaline and shock of the direct hit made it seem endless. You hit the hard floor with a mind numbing crack, one that caused your eyes to widen before you realised it was only one of the many jewels that laced your back splintering; rather than something a critical. Nonetheless, the shot that flew past certainly was real.

The bullet soared over your head, frowning that it had missed it’s target. You couldn’t even process what had happened before Taurin fell to your level, teeth clenched in agony. You reacted as best you could with hands fumbling around her leaking wound; but she swatted you away and thrusted your head down once more. That one bullet, the one that had cursed your luck and gone for your guard in spite of it, had previously had a purpose. Your mind lingered on that fact for a second before you pushed past it. Searching eyes found Governor Roshti’s, who had copied your move and positioned himself just under the table.

You couldn’t hear much over your panting breath; nothing except the shouts and screams of senators whose useless lives felt threatened, so naturally, just like their entire life’s work, they do nothing except complain and wail. It was dark under the thick tablecloth, too dark for anything to be made clear to you. Taurin had wriggled further away and was holding her position behind your table, a gun most definitely in her hand.

Three shots. Four shots. Two. One. Silence.

Now really all you could hear was your panting breath. The blood rushing through your ears made a ringing sound, and the tingling in your veins made the fastness of your heart seem ordinary. Governor Roshti made no adjustments to his stance at the silence, but you were itching to unfold your coiled legs and poke you head up and out of the cover. Like most things you did, you did it without asking. The carnage wasn’t as bad as the screams foretold it to be, but as soon as your vision shifted you saw the agony splayed over Taurin’s face.

“Help! Medic!” Was the instantaneous shout from your lips.

One of the clone guards from earlier shot up. He wore a kama around his waist and his armour was weathered; something that told you he was rough without him having to speak a word.

“Ma’am sit back down, we don’t know where the attackers went.” He commanded.

“I can manage.”

His helmet tilted slightly in what you assumed to be annoyance. With two fingers pointing he signalled for a medic to step forward. The new clone looked significantly younger through the way he held himself and the shining of his uniform. With Taurin being led away, you finally let go of the breath you’d been holding.

“Ma’am-“

“I’d like to know who just tried to kill me.” The clone looked slightly surprised at the deadpan tone of your voice. “And who shot my closest guard.”

He grimaced from under his helmet and lifted his hand up to his visor to tap into his comm channel.

“This is Commander Fox, what’s our status?” He spoke; a velvety tone lacing the authority in his voice.

Fox. It wasn’t bad. Your mind shifted once again as his comm crackled back at him.

“Suspect... run... in pursuit... ty hunter.” Was all you could make out, but it didn’t take a genius to fill in the gaps.

“They won’t find the assailant while pampering senators.” You spoke, cringing slightly at the privilege you held yourself; here you were demanding Commander of his time, all because you have some morsel of perhaps undeserved power.

“I’m sorry” Perhaps an attempt to reconcile your blundering thoughtlessness would change the trooper’s aggravated stance. “I only meant that it would help if the senators uninvolved were to be sent home and out of your hair, it can’t be fun listening to them whine.”

His head tilted slightly in what you hoped to be a grin. “You’re not wrong, but I’m afraid I can’t keep you alone in protection. Not when we don’t actually know who was the intended target.”

“Commander, let me help. Before I was a senator I was a member of the guard. I’m afraid I can just about handle myself.” There was more than a hint of pride in your voice as you spoke.

Fox shook his head and lifted off his helmet. It would be far to say you lost your breath at the sight of his actual face. In the few seconds you spent mentally sketching his face into your brain, your mind fastened at his slightly too-long-to-be-neat mop of curly hair, and how it fell playfully over his deeply tanned forehead. His cheekbones were sharp enough to shut you up (which was, as he’d come to discover, wasn’t actually that easy) let alone the bite of his jaw.

But it was his eyes that made you most intriguing; deep and wise auburn eyes set perfectly amongst weathered skin. They watched you for a moment before the eyebrows above them lifted slightly in confusion.

You hadn’t meant to stare. Or maybe you had, it was unimportant.

“Fine, I’ll take you back to the office while the boys take the others to a safe space.” He wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t seem as begrudging anymore; a small victory.

“Thank you, although I may need a change in shoes.”

At this he did grin; and it was marvellous.

#commander fox #the coruscant guard #tcw #the clone wars #commander fox x reader #clone wars #fox x reader #fox x you #the clones #clones #the cw #incorrect clone wars

[otomes-world]

Circle

@sweetstrawberrybabe said: Then how about angst? What about the character of your choice in a loop where their s/o over and over again but s/o don’t remember anything while they remember everything. I’m sorry if this is too specific 😃😃☺️☺️🥰🥰💓💓💖💖

I really liked your idea, It was a stright arrow to my heart  Σ>―(〃°ω°〃)♡→ You can imagine anyone character you want to put in place of protagonist. 0/ Also I again take Amnesia plot, so I hope you don`t mind. First part here!

Day follows day, year follows year. An endless circle without an exit, which only she could break. If her memory wasn't erased every time, of course. 

He remembered everything as if it had happened yesterday, he couldn`t forget it, even if he wanted to. He couldn`t afford to plunge into the desired oblivion, couldn`t forgive himself for it. Let the whole world be against their relationship, the young man will continue to fight. It is a pity that with each new time it became more difficult to fight.

The repetitive cycle drove him crazy, brought his physical and mental strength to exhaustion. Even in his wildest fantasy, he didn`t think that someday he would have to challenge fate for real. Trying to wage war against an invisible, but no less almighty, enemy.

It all started with a trifle: an ordinary meeting, which happens several times a day. However, heaven had other plans for that. Like a child who still doesn`t understand how painfully the fire burns, the young man was reaching out to the mysterious prefect from another world. Like a moth flying into the light of a candle, scorching wings in the process, lived from one interaction to another.

He couldn`t do otherwise.

Because there was no other reason why he rushed from one extreme to another. Because, the prefect was the only one who fought for him, when all the others gave up long ago. To abandon his significant other means begining to deny the existence of a human child who put bet on her life for him.

Unacceptable.

The young man well remembered his feelings in the first round of a vicious circle. No, overwhelming despair couldn`t have been dreaming of him, couldn`t be just a dream. The blood on his hands was definitely real, the fluid running through his fingers staining clothes and the ground a bright scarlet. Although what is happening now constantly tested his mind for sainity.

He didn`t remember how he fell asleep, a feeling of fatigue remained in his memory and a stubborn desire to not let go of the cooling body, which testifies to only one thing. Prefect's gone.

So why did he wake up in his bed? Why does everyone act like nothing happened? Why does it feel like this has already happened? Why, when he rushed to the Onboro dorm, she walked out of it happy and completely healthy without a trace of the previous battle?

Why doesn't she remember him?

"Um ... I'm sorry, do you know me?" An innocent question, posed in the light and no less hurting, ringing tone he loved so much. "Sorry, I have to go, have a nice day~!"

Allowing the wind to play with his own strands, the young man froze in place, not taking his eyes off the painfully familiar figure, until it finally disappeared into the surrounding landscape. It was at that moment that a crazy thought occurred his mind. What if... what if fate gave him a second chance? Provide an opportunity to fix everything? He would be a fool to refuse such a thing.

Man has an undeniable advantage, this time he won`t let everything end so badly. He make a destiny to rewrite the world from scratch if necessary, but won't let her die again. Who knew that... this time things would start to develop differently? Who knew Twisted Wonderland would want to get rid of the prefect at any cost?

An endless series of overblots, rigged accidents and natural disasters mingled in his memory in one multi-colored heap. Sometimes the young man envied the blissful ignorance of his soulmate, her naive childish thinking, which allowed her to look at everything from a different angle, her ability to find advantages even in the most hopeless situation. He would like to be able to do the same.

However, no matter how hard it was to start from the beginning, start with acquaintances, and then become something bigger, he couldn`t give up. Stubbornness and a selfish desire to reach a happy ending pushed forward, forced him to bring himself to the edge.

It's time to start the next round of the game.

*

*

*

At this time, the prefect opens eyes again in her bed in familiar room, listening to the squabble of Grim and ghosts. She failed to escape again...

#Twisted wonderland #Twisted Wonderland x reader #i`m sorry i accidentaly publish it yesteday... #twst fic #twst oneshot #heartslabyul #scarabia #savanaclaw #pomefiore #octavinelle #diasomnia #ignihyde #yandere twisted wonderland #amnesia!au #twst riddle #twst Azul #twst Leona #twst vil #twst malleus #twst idea #twst kalim #female reader

[sasorikigai]

chest + tender + volumes ( any of Hanryou's verses y e s p l z )

𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃  &  𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 || @sonxflight || accepting!

chest .   place  your  head  on  my  muse’s  chest .  

tender .   kiss  my  muse  on  the  [ forehead  /  cheek  /  nose ] .

volumes .   gaze  at  my  muse  in  a  way  that  silently  says  ‘i love you’ .

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || How he frames metaphorical soaring birds of the scintillating star’s radiance in his hands - pooling in the sequestered glades of his own mind, their feathers runoff into crystal waters of stream below and clog up the impurities; captive minds in captive eyes. Snapshots of time, never-changing smiles - watching the world end in snippets, against picture-perfect in the moment and forevermore -  their feathers clog up the crystalline waters and hold captive of the drains that flush out his excruciating pains. Perhaps the hanyō had been a mere shattered mirror in a skeleton - resembling a village left behind by the careless, moving hands, cupping soaring birds in endless moments, as the waters turn crystalline, unchanging, glassy in the eyes of time, while the vicious cycle of his Phoenix life becomes an impending repetition. 

The very stars now come low, come like a descending flicker of light, a simple faith admiring Ryou Sakai’s beauteous face. As the transparent blaze of tangerine dusk settles atop their bare forms, ensembling fathomably; enlarging, spreading in the wide bountiful horizon - of not only the landscape below looking over the village, but of their expansive psyche and souls - and how Hanzo Hasashi happens to glow towards Ryou Sakai, as he glows as the moment become revivified by a cosmic beauty. In the throes of ubiquitous exhaustion, the lashing flurries of weaponry to rob him from the title of Champion in the slave ring - “demon eyes, demon eyes!” they would chant, as his crumbling sky would threaten to explode and detonate, as the intoxicating adrenaline would greatly mitigate the blossoming pain - as he would become overwhelmed on loneliness in the middle of the fight, as that deafening sound of indignant chants will make anyone think twice. Even in the throes of his unbearable suffering, he consciously would seek the ōkami in prayer, fold his hands and knees in deep meditation, kneel with sympathy and stillness. 

For there is movement in faith, there is a banquet in Hanzo’s heart that calls for his wisdom. He can see the great unfathomable ocean of courage, hope, comfort of Ryou Sakai’s undying, eternal love; the shining surface of love that is instilled in his beloved, and this love is a deep prolongation. How Hanzo Hasashi becomes moved; for the sun’s effulgent radiance embedded upon his beloved’s eyes reach out and encompass the concrete arteries of his own, seamlessly healed, as the once-rupturing exsanguination of his magmatic blood encases beneath the swelling cadence of his heartbeat. 

His mind has been so loud lately, and how Ryou calms the tumultuous, ravaging storm of his inside; they serve as each other’s sun that illuminates these dark paths, the one that holds everything in their own vast universe. Time seems to pass in duality, in smooth sail and swiftly as the brewing storm of his sensuality melts the stifling chaos, the strong brutal cold winds which could erode him. Everything becomes the integrated throb of his heartbeat, and once hostile realities of his human life drains from his ancient soul; with pain twinkling, in a state of buoyant ecstasy as the heated lips scorch a spot on his beloved’s cheek. 

Hanzo Hasashi no longer has to burrow or flee; for all he has to do is let his love blossom, sink into the depth of the blinding luminescence, with Ryou unearthing himself outside his own skin. Language does not exist for what he wishes to say back. He may not possess the ability to make life grow so easily without destroying too many, without salt and scratches, deep lacerations and cleaved viscera and bones. There may always be blood in his ground, but the devotion encased in their phrase needs nothing; even no sunlight, nor hidden things that come with night. Not even the open glance, the change of breath, the lying wide awake. None of that - an answer needs only blossom, unfurling, and falling. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion) #✗ everlasting embers gone wild (half-demon verse) #(relationships; samurai jack) #(I LOVE THEM SM) #(hope this word vomit makes sense lol) #sonxflight

[natthesiren]

Meaningless Repetition

I ended up listening to this and then this song was conjured up. Have a song for DA/YN to Dark with a little what-if; what if DA/YN regained their memories of what happened from the events of WKM?

(Repeat, repeat, repeat, let the cycle repeat again)

Repeating, repeating, the cycle’s just repeating,

Count the days, count the threads that keep on fleeting

“You’ll find me, you’ll find me, I know that you’ll find me”

I tell myself, I tell myself, just to keep my sanity

Why does it, why does it, why does it hurt so damn much?

Where are you, where are you, I’m so close to losing this clutch

Losing hope, have I just been abandoned by my own “friends”?

It really hurts, it really hurts, I really hope this nightmare ends

Can you hear me, can you hear me, please tell me you can hear me,

From this mirror, why can’t you let me just let me be free?

What did I do, please tell me, would you partake this intermission?

End this cycle, end it now, end this meaningless repetition

Please...?

I hear it breaking, I hear it breaking, there goes my mind,

Sanity or misery, tell me, which one will you find?

Tell me why, tell me why, tell me why you’re not here,

All this time, I have been living in this constant fear

Why does it, why does it, why does it hurt so damn much?

Where are you, where are you, I’m so close to losing this clutch

Losing hope, have I just been abandoned by my own “friends”?

It really hurts, it really hurts, I really hope this nightmare ends

Can you hear me, can you hear me, please tell me you can hear me,

From this mirror, why can’t you let me just let me be free?

What did I do, please tell me, would you partake this intermission?

End this cycle, end it now, end this meaningless repetition

Repeat again, and again, it’s an endless vicious cycle,

Don’t have a choice, don’t have a choice, my decisions remain idle

This is hell, I don’t want this, playing his “games” endlessly,

Let me out, let me free, just end this purgatory

Why does it, why does it, why does it hurt so damn much?

Where are you, where are you, I’m so close to losing this clutch

Losing hope, have I just been abandoned by my own “friends”?

It really hurts, it really hurts, I really hope this nightmare ends

Can you hear me, can you hear me, please tell me you can hear me,

From this mirror, why can’t you let me just let me be free?

What did I do, please tell me, would you partake this intermission?

End this cycle, end it now, end this meaningless repetition~!!

#wkm #who killed markiplier #who killed markiplier district attorney #nat writes #nat's stuff #nat's songs #a heist with markiplier #ahwm #a date with markiplier #adwm #adwm y/n #ahwm y/n #nat's fanmade stuff #who killed markiplier da

[izaswritings]

Title: a future beyond our reach

Synopsis: No matter how hard you try, some battles cannot be won, and some monsters cannot be fought. Hyakkimaru learns this lesson too late. (Set during episode 5).

AO3 Link is here!

-

I hate this.

The thought echoes in Hyakkimaru’s head, in his mind, in his heart. I hate this, I hate this, I hate this. It’s a sulky thought—childish, even, but Hyakkimaru is well within his rights, damn it. He’s allowed this much, he thinks; the sounds are so loud and so annoying that he’s pretty sure anyone would complain. Besides. At this point, Hyakkimaru can’t think of anything else to do, so…

He’s out of options, which means this ‘sound’ thing isn’t going away— and yeah, okay, Hyakkimaru is pretty pissed about it.

His head lies flat and hard against the mat, but at the very least the combination of his makeshift pillow and the weird… head-dress thing Dororo tied on is helping muffle the sound. Hyakkimaru’s hand is firmly clamped over his other ear. It helps, a bit, but—  he can still hear things, which means it’s not working well enough.

I didn’t ask for this!

Hyakkimaru isn’t tired now, not like he was when he first regained the sense of hearing. He’s not even sad. He’s just—angry. Helplessly angry, which is the worst kind of anger, because Hyakkimaru doesn’t know what to do with it, doesn’t even know how to express it. It’s the sort of anger that makes his throat tight and his teeth grit and his fingers curl. It makes his eyes burn and his temper short—and, you know what? Hyakkimaru hates that too. He hates getting angry. He hates this stupid forest with all its stupid noises that make it so he can’t get any stupid sleep because of this goddamn stupid sense and it's all—all—

It’s all just too much, and Hyakkimaru hates it.

He didn’t ask for this. He didn’t ask for these noises or their words or this—this! Any of this! He didn’t ask for everything to be so… so… noisy. 

The older soul can suck it. They’ve apparently been hearing all their life; they don’t have the right to tell Hyakkimaru to get over it. Hyakkimaru can adjust. He will adjust. He just…

He just doesn’t want to, not right now. That’s all. He’s allowed to spend some time upset with this, isn’t he? He was living just fine before. Maybe not like everyone else, but what did that matter? He’d still been fine. He’d been happy. He’d had Jukai and a place to call home. But now, ever since the demons started coming after him—  now, Hyakkimaru doesn’t have Jukai, doesn’t have home, doesn’t even have the familiarity of being himself. His chest hurts. His limbs hurt. His head hurts, and the place behind his eyes kind of aches, and—and he’s tired, because he can’t sleep, the noise is driving him nuts and…

It’s like a cycle. A vicious, unhelpful cycle. And damn that old soul anyway, Hyakkimaru is going to sulk about it all he likes, thank-you-very-much.

I’ll adjust tomorrow. Or… later. Or just…

Not now, Hyakkimaru thinks, and squeezes his eyes shut against another piercing screech from the woods. He just… he doesn’t want to deal with it right now.

God, he’s tired.

It doesn’t help his case at all that Hyakkimaru also simply… can't shake this sense, this anger. This restless, maddening feeling that he’s missed something. More than even the noise, this horrible crawl at the back of his neck is keeping Hyakkimaru wide awake. He can’t put a name to it, can’t figure it out. It’s just… something. Some shift in the air, bloodthirsty and cold, that reminds him of demons but is too distant and wide-spread to belong to them. As if the malice and hostility has bled into the air. It’s tension, drawn like a wire, and something deep in Hyakkimaru is pulling at him, dragging at his mind, whispering: It’s going to snap. Something’s wrong. Everything’s going to— 

It’s the same little voice that arises whenever demons or ghouls appear, except for once there’s no monster forthcoming. It’s aimless. It makes Hyakkimaru’s already present exhaustion and irritation even worse.

Hate this, hate this, hate this…!

Jukai would say he’s sulking, and he’d even be right—  but of course, Jukai isn’t here to say that anymore, so what does Hyakkimaru care?

I’m tired...

Hyakkimaru turns his face into the sleeping mat, breathing through his teeth. His prosthetic hands press down against his ears hard enough for the pressure to hurt. He thinks the sun has risen—he can feel the warmth on his face, light and lingering. Beside him, the old soul and Dororo have gone quiet, their babble hushed, but he can hear their breathing as loud as if they stood beside him.

Hyakkimaru works his jaw, cringing at the chatters of the woods. The sunlight is welcome on his face, but to his despair, the warmth has apparently brought the rest of the woods to wakefulness too. With every passing second, the noise grows, an endless clamor. Chittering, shrieking, snapping, yelling, and…

And… something else?

Hyakkimaru pauses, for once listening, breathing through his mouth to limit his own sound. The chattering noises, a rhythmic wheeze he thinks might be Dororo sleeping, the rush of a nearby stream… and a softer, lighter sound, sweet and thin, wavering through the air.

Hyakkimaru stares out blankly in the direction of the distant thrum, his grip loosening without realizing. His hand drops to his side for the first time in two days. The sound—it’s still there, faint but clearly noticeable. He hasn’t imagined it. If he pays attention, if he concentrates, he thinks…

There. It’s coming from over there.

Hyakkimaru hesitantly rolls up to his feet, faltering a little when his flesh leg protests, stiff from sleep. His skin feels feverishly hot, and for a moment he stumbles, head ringing. There’s a rising heat on the back of his neck.

Hyakkimaru ignores the ache with stubborn denial, and wanders off hesitantly towards the softer sound, unsure of his ability to pinpoint and locate the noise. To his relief, he seems to be in the right direction—  that strangle melody rising in his ears, as uncomfortably loud as everything else, but still sweet to listen to.

Hyakkimaru continues doggedly towards it, ignoring the older soul calling at his back. He winds absently around the path of a few trees and tries to ignore the other noises—the squalling, the water rush, the whistling wind. Where...?

He steps past another wide stretch of green and pauses. There, through the green—he can see the flicker of a white soul, crouched on their knees. A person. The sound… is it coming from them?

Hyakkimaru stares, trying to focus, and jumps when the sound abruptly cuts. The white fire has turned to him. Oh, damn it—he’s startled them, he must have, they’ve stopped—

The soul vocalizes at him. This sound is just as a soft and just as sweet as the melody that drew him here—but different now, shorter and a little rough, like how Dororo sounds when they babble at him. Speaking?

Hyakkimaru wanders forward, nearly startling right out of his skin when his leg hits the water. He keeps going, ignoring the sting of his wounds and the flush of heat under his skin. He’s startled the new soul, and he didn’t mean to, and maybe if he’s careful enough, precise enough, maybe they’ll understand and that pretty voice will make that softer crooning sound again…

This is when the fever rises, when he collapses. This is when the soul catches him.

This is how Hyakkimaru meets Mio.

Mio, Hyakkimaru is quick to find, is an interesting soul. They’re bright, pretty, flickering. Their soul is alwaysflickering—but not like how Dororo’s flickers, always bouncing and jumping about as if they’re unable to keep both feet on the ground. For Mio, it’s quieter, more internal. Like Jukai, in a way. But Mio is even brighter than that. Their soul flares constantly, usually with laughter, a soft sweet sound that kind of hurts but doesn’t grate like most do. Or when they sing—their soul shines, then. It’s enough to make Hyakkimaru dizzy even without the fever.

Hyakkimaru finds a lot of things to admire about Mio, in those first few days.

But not all is right with this place. Once the fever fades, and his mind settles, Hyakkimaru is quick to find that out, too. In this place, this village, the wire-thin tension that’s been keeping him awake is stronger than ever, and even Mio, bright though they are, is not unaffected. This, Hyakkimaru learns the hard way— when Mio comes by his side before leaving for the night. They had touched their hand to his forehead, and spoken sweetly, but their soul flickered strangely, then. Quiet and tired and fearful. Sad, maybe. Or perhaps angry.

Hyakkimaru had reached out to them, that odd tension rearing in the back of his mind— but he’d reacted too late, and by the time he’d thought to move, Mio had already gone.

They had returned the next day as if nothing had happened.

I hate this, Hyakkimaru thinks, not for the first time. The thought has lost the heat and anger it carried two days ago, but his chest aches like a bruise. He’s feeling well enough to sit up, now, gathered in a circle with the rest of the souls in this house, and he closes his eyes with a quiet huff through his teeth.

Things are still loud, still grating. But… Hyakkimaru can admit this much, if only to himself. It’s better. It’s better because of Mio. He’s gotten used to their song—that’s what Dororo calls it, the word they use, song, and Hyakkimaru likes the sound of that, too—and after that, he’s started to get used to other things, too. Not that Dororo’s repetitive chanting of “gogogogogogo!” every afternoon isn’t horrifically annoying (seriously, Dororo, what are you saying, what does that even mean), but…

The sound doesn’t hurt Hyakkimaru like it used to, even if it’s still a bit too much. That change, however small, is an undeniable relief.

Hyakkimaru closes his eyes and leans over his folded knees, thinking. The rest of the house is speaking, and he tries his best to shut them out. His mind is stuck, cast back to this morning. Sitting on the steps and hearing Mio sing, and watching the way that fearful flicker of their soul faded into a more contended shine.

Mio has helped him—that much, Hyakkimaru knows. They’ve given him medicine and sang for him, have provided Hyakkimaru, the older soul, and Dororo shelter for days instead of just a single night. They have helped Hyakkimaru for no reason at all, asking for nothing in return. It’s kind. 

It’s a kindness that Mio seems delighted to give them, even, a kindness that makes their soul flare. And… Hyakkimaru likes Mio. He likes the way Mio speaks, the way they sing, the way there’s this thread of… something, warmth or laughter or maybe love, underlying their every word. He likes the way Mio’s soul brightens as they sing, sparking with an inner joy. He likes the way they’ll sometimes reach out and take his hand, folding their fingers over his prosthetics, holding his palm in theirs for seemingly no reason at all.

Mio is different from Dororo. Dororo is young and scrappy and follows at Hyakkimaru’s heels constantly, chattering and moving and being. Dororo is always doing something—and while the trait is a little charming, it’s little exasperating too, a little annoying. Mio is different. They feel more like him, more like Hyakkimaru—older, an equal rather than someone younger to look out for. They’re calm and steady and dependable, constant in their kindness. Hyakkimaru feels as if he could sit with them for hours and find himself content with that. There’s a peace around Mio that is startling, a quiet strength that lets him breathe. A sense of not standing alone. 

More than anything else right now, Hyakkimaru wants Mio to be happy. Mio, and all these smaller, shining souls. He wants them to be at peace. He doesn’t want to hear this—their voices strained with worry and fear, souls flickering with remembered grief and a deeper dread. 

There is a tension coiled around his throat. A whisper that Jukai once named as survival, a strong will to live. It’s going to snap, that whisper says. It’s all going to crash down over our heads.

Hyakkimaru breathes past the fear, the reaction, the irritation of his wounds. Language still escapes him, mostly, but now that he’s started listening, he’s also started learning. He’s picking up words faster than he probably should, but supernatural language acquisition or not, he’s learning. He can understand more and more now, can separate the sounds in his head. He gets the gist of what the older soul has told them.

There’s a place they can be safe?

Or, perhaps— the way their souls flicker, all of them. It could be safe, then. It could be, if not for…

This word, Hyakkimaru knows. Demon. The word is new—but the fear in their souls, as they say it, is not.

The tension coils tight in his chest, a vice around his heart. He can’t—  he can’t, he hates this, there’s something wrong. It’s this place. This whole village, and all the lands surrounding it. There’s an awfulness here that makes Hyakkimaru’s head ache, a fear so thick he can literally sense it. It’s dangerous here. Dangerous for Hyakkimaru and Dororo, but even more dangerous for Mio and their family, who live here within the walls. 

They have found a place to hide, but even that refuge is tainted.

Hyakkimaru curls his fingers, the tension in his shoulders making his prosthetics twitch. He wants Mio to smile. He wants their soul to be settled and content all the time. He doesn’t want them to look as they did upon the stairs, before they realized he was there—tired and worn, something bitter and angry in the twist of their soul. Something that reminds Hyakkimaru of himself, and makes his throat go tight.

Helpless anger, Hyakkimaru knows, is the worst kind. If he could help, in any way, give back to Mio after what they have done for him… 

He stands before he can even think to talk himself out of it. He’s walking away, towards the malice, before he lets anyone else try to convince him either. Dororo comes tottling to his heels; Hyakkimaru irritably waves him away. He doesn’t want a lecture, or to be stopped—he wants this fear to go away. He wants this tense voice in the back of his head to shut up. He doesn’t want to falter anymore than he already has.

Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe Hyakkimaru can fix this—can get Mio and their family out of this village before whatever fuse is sending Hyakkimaru crazy finally ignites.

His prosthetics twitch, and Hyakkimaru is hyper-aware of the blades lying underneath. He can do this, right? No, of course he can. He has to. He’s done it before, done it in worse condition than this… he can fight, and he can win. He can repay Mio’s kindness in the only way he knows how.

When Hyakkimaru reaches the safe place, the old soul at his back, he can feel the demon almost immediately. The malice, the hatred, that burning red, seeping into the air, lingering like ash on his tongue. It’s familiar, and frightening—  almost soothing. This, Hyakkimaru knows. This fear he can face. This monster he can beat.

Hyakkimaru is determined, but his own body doesn’t seem to agree. Even as he assures himself, his wounds sear and ache, and his fever burns bright behind his teeth. For a moment, Hyakkimaru sways on his feet, the stab of pain shocking through him. When he unsheathes his swords, the ache builds into a needle-like sting down his every nerve. 

The older soul speaks, their words low and rough with worry. Go back, Hyakkimaru thinks this soul is saying. You should wait.

But Hyakkimaru doesn’t want to wait, and he grits his teeth and pulls himself straight. Mio and the others can’t afford to wait, either. The tension in the air is so taut. But—  it’s not too late, it can’t be, and that means… that means Hyakkimaru can still fix this. He can repay Mio’s kindness. He can get them and the other small souls out of the crossfire. He can fight this demon and in victory he can defeat that quieter evil too. He can make it so that Mio sings without strain every day, that their soul never has that fear-shame-anger flicker ever again. Mio has tried so hard to help him—  and now he can try for them. 

He can win. There is, Hyakkimaru knows, no other option. He comforts himself with the knowledge. Once he wins this fight, the tension will finally fade. Things will finally settle. He straightens his stance and falls into the fight with hope in his heart.

Everything is going to be okay.

#dororo #hyakkimaru #mio #dororo 2019 #dororo anime #iza fanfic #mio deserves the world god damn it #hyakki too of course but like #there's a 'let mio be happy' club and hyakki is president #dororo is a founding member #and I am on the sidelines holding too many signs #so #them's the rules u gotta let my daughter live

[tmbgareok]

John F. talks to the Onion’s AV Club in the Join Us era

They Might Be Giants’ John Flansburgh with Tasha Robinson 7/27/11 

John Flansburgh and John Linnell have been making music together as They Might Be Giants for nearly 30 years, over the course of 15 studio albums and a seemingly endless array of offshoots, including a Dial-A-Song phone line, a podcast, animated sequences on kids’ shows from Tiny Toon Adventures to Courage The Cowardly Dog, more than a dozen EPs, a documentary called Gigantic, a DVD of videos for their Grammy-winning children’s album Here Come The 123s, and much more. Since 2002, TMBG has been making as many kids’ albums as “grown-up” albums; 2011’s wildly diverse new Join Us marks the band’s first adult release since 2007’s The Else. The A.V. Club recently talked to both Johns about Join Us and hitting the 30-year mark. Today, John Flansburgh discusses his thoughts on the band’s recent A.V. Undercover taping, hating hooky songs, and the joys of turning music into objects. And don’t miss yesterday’s interview with John Linnell, who discussed the difficulty of avoiding repetition, the difference between TMBG and Steely Dan, and why the group doesn’t care about its history.

The A.V. Club: You guys have been a band for 30 years at this point. How do you keep this fresh for yourselves?

John Flansburgh: Well, parts of it are not fresh. Parts of it, you have to just endure. I think the tedium of the travel part of it really can undo you. Sometimes it’ll take three days to just do a show, to just be onstage for an hour. You have to travel to some far-flung place, and it literally takes days of your life to get there and get back, and you can’t help but wonder if that’s worth it. I don’t think anybody in the band or crew are such carnies that we feel like no matter what we’re doing, it’s worth it. But that can sound very ungracious to civilians. If you’re not in the business of being onstage, saying anything beyond “It’s awesome!” can sound very grumpy.

AVC: People do want the illusion that being an artist is the best thing in the world.

JF: Well, you’re familiar with the joke about the guy sweeping up the elephant shit in the circus? [When someone suggests the shit-sweeper should quit, he says “What, and leave show biz?” —ed.] I think there’s a part of it that always applies. I don’t have a lot of transferable skills. It’s not like the headhunters are knocking down our door, saying, “We need you take over our failing dot-com business because you’ve got such mad skills.” This is all we get to do, in a way, but also, it’s exactly what we want to do. It’s a chicken-and-egg kind of thing.

AVC: Has there ever been a point where you thought about changing careers?

JF: There was a moment where we were extremely in debt, where it seemed weird to me that we were doing what we were doing. We were actually losing money being on the road, because it was so expensive. It was a vicious cycle, where basically the more we worked, the more in debt we got. The natural response in running a business is like, “If we don’t have any dough, we need to work harder. Right?” Then you work harder, then you actually have even less money. It’s part of the problem of working with people who get commission rather than sharing profits.

AVC: Are there particular aspects of the business that you like best? Do you prefer studio time, or writing-alone time, or performing?

JF: I like to say that I like every aspect of this business, but that is a lie. I am intrigued by a lot of things that people are not intrigued by. I guess when we’re on the road, I occupy my time with the business of the show quite completely. That might sound like I’m some sort of flinty guy, or some sort of control guy, but I actually find there’s a sort of Zen to it. I think it’s actually kind of fun figuring out how we should do our merch. From a distance, that might seem strange, but it’s totally fine for me. Because I it’s hard to do anything else when you’re on tour anyway, so you might as well just be inside the show.

AVC: So you aren’t writing new songs on the road, or thinking about new distribution methods or whatever?

JF: [Laughs.] A little bit. It’s good when there’s excuses to do stuff like that. We’ve done tours when we’ve written lots of songs on the road, but in general, it’s hard to get the focus up to do that. Writing a song, you really have to be in a free place psychically, I find. Letting yourself off the hook when you’re on the road is a big part of not having it drive you crazy. Like saying, “I’m just going to do the show. I’m just going to do a great show every night, and that’s going to be my focus.” That’s plenty.

AVC: At this point, what’s your methodology for getting into that free place where you can write songs?

JF: Well, it starts with a very strong cup of coffee. We approach things in a lot of different ways. I’m constantly trying to come up with different strategies to write songs. There’s a new song on the album called “Cloisonné” that started with two completely disparate elements that had no relationship to each other: this very tiny drum-machine programming thing that I did, that is really just all about the charm of tininess in drum-machine sounds, and then this linear lyric that almost seems like it was just off the top of my head. Although in both cases, they’re both highly edited. But the drum-programming thing, I probably spent two days just doing a dozen different drum-programming things. I was just making beats in the same way anybody would be making beats, any hip-hop guy would be making beats. I would work on something for an hour and put it aside, and work on something else, and then maybe come back to the other one. I ended up shipping off some of the other beats to other projects, but the “Cloisonné” beat was the most interesting one. And it just had kind of a crazy spark to it. So that was just pure experimentation. There wasn’t even a chord progression or anything, it was just about enjoying tiny electronic sounds for the sonics.

AVC: Do you ever think of what you do as improv? Starting with a key element—

JF: That’s a good question. I think yeah. I think we would probably characterize it as experimentation within the writing process. There’s so much editing going on all the way down the line. The stuff gets demoed and demoed and revised and revised, so I think part of the focus of what we do comes out of this very editing process. But yeah. Improv makes it seem super-free. I wish we felt more confident about what we did, to just go, “Yeah, we can improv something and it’ll be great.” I have the highest regard for people who can do that kind of improv stuff. Having witnessed Asssscat and stuff like that, seeing that crew of people doing that stuff and realizing what a magical thing it is, it’s very impressive.

AVC: I’m not so much talking about improvising songs, especially given how complicated your song structures are, and how dense the lyrics often are. I mostly just mean that you seem to like to work with little prompts or games or experimental methods to get you started.

JF: Yeah. I guess in the sense that improv uses devices as springboards, it is in that vein. We have joked in the past that we are running out of nouns. There is this thing about what we do that sometimes I feel like is just entirely too married to the physical world. It’s almost like we’ve made the entire physical world a fetish. I don’t think that’s necessarily a strength, I think it’s a place where we started, and hopefully we’re evolving out of it. I’m ready to move on to verbs, or adverbs. It’s a thrilling thing, being able to write songs. It’s hard to explain. People always say “Where do you get the ideas for your songs?” and there’s no question that will stump us longer than that.

AVC: It’s the question that’s most asked in any creative industry, and it’s the hardest one to answer.

JF: Yeah. I guess I’m proud that we don’t have a pat answer for it. Truth be told, once you’ve written a bunch of songs, you’re also in this strange dialogue with yourself, and since John and I work together, I feel we’re always cross-referencing each other’s thing. So often, things we talk about end up in the songs in a weird way. I jut realized that I’ve been working on this new song that has the word “babytooth” in it. There’s a song on the new album with the word babytooth in it. And they’re really unrelated, they have nothing to do with each other, but I don’t want to be in the penalty box with Linnell, that I used the word babytooth again.

AVC: In our interview with him, he addressed your shared urge to avoid any kind of repetition. But it seems that it would be particularly difficult over the course of 30 years, especially given how prolific you guys are.

JF: I think the constructive strategy is to forgive yourself the impulse to keep on writing simply. It is different. The very first time you write a song… I remember when I was 17 years old. It was the summer of 1977, and I had seen the Sex Pistols on 60 Minutes, and I was about to go to England for a summer. A friend of mine had given me an electric guitar, and I had three strings on my electric guitar, and I had a tape recorder. And I wrote this three-chord song that anybody with ears would realize in many ways is kind of “Sweet Jane” by Lou Reed, though as far as I was concerned, it was a completely original three-chord masterpiece. And it was so exciting, making a recording and hearing it back. Hearing it standing on its own two legs as an experience, as a sonic thing. To me, the thrilling part was turning it into an object. Turning it into a recording was more interesting than actually playing it. Because then I could actually experience it. I wasn’t like, “Oh, I really love the guitar, I’m really expressing myself now.” It was actually the making of a song that could be played on a tape recorder. That was the goal. So I guess the fact that we ended up being prolific, or making a lot of recordings—even beyond records, just even making podcasts… There’s so much effluvia in the They Might Be Giants output, but I think it goes back to the joy of home taping.

AVC: You were talking earlier about how you demo your songs over and over, and you’ve often shared those demos via your podcast, or Dial-A-Song. Is that about letting people experience the process? Are you looking for feedback?

JF: I don’t think we’re looking for feedback at all. I think we enjoy the positive reinforcement like anybody else, and if we just lived in a world with high-fives and critical praise, that would be fine with us. The thing is, a lot of the time, the critiques just seem harsh. I think our luckiest break is that we started with something like Dial-A-Song, which was so “non-hit song” specific that it kind of unhinged us from the tyranny of the hit song. It’s useful to have a hit song, it’s great to have a song people know. But it’s also, that brass-ring part of it can be stifling. “Dial-A-Song” was just such a strange space project. People didn’t even think we were a band. A lot of people just thought we were a phone machine. And that’s a much more interesting place to start as a creative enterprise than being the hot band at South By Southwest, or being the band to watch. Bands in general get introduced to the world in such samey ways. You just end up getting plugged into a system, and it was really interesting to not, to just be a UFO.

AVC: You’ve always been into alternate distribution, with the Video Of The Month club, and the EPs, and the McSweeney’s album, and podcasting, and selling music off your website before that was common. Is that more about not following the pattern?

JF: It makes us seem contrarian, because it is against the regular stuff, but it isn’t like a statement against the regular world, you know what I mean? It’s not like we’re saying, “Oh, everybody should change.” In some cases it’s just what’s available to us, and there isn’t necessarily that much more stuff available to us. We’ve been on five different record labels over the course of our career. We’re not Radiohead—we don’t get to just cherry-pick what we do because we’re awesome rock people. We did Dial-A-Song as a way for people to hear our songs, because you couldn’t hear our songs any other way. Desperate times call for desperate measures. That was before any record company was interested in us. And truth be told, we wouldn’t gave gotten a major-label deal if we hadn’t already sold more records than most major-label record sell. I met Howard Thompson, the head of Elektra’s A&R department, five years before we were signed to Elektra. He knew who we were, there was just no interest. They heard our music and went, “That’s not going to work.” But we ended up finding an audience for ourselves. I guess the thing is, for us, Dial-A-Song was a creative opportunity that turned into what from a distance looks like a marketing strategy. But for us, it was exciting to just have our songs heard. Think of all the people who create Facebook sites to post their demos. It’s the same. It’s no different than that.

AVC: You’ve been working on Join Us for a couple of years now, between children’s albums and side projects. Were you ever frustrated waiting for reactions, thinking “I want to know what people think of this song we’ve had in the can for a year, and aren’t going to release for another year”?

JF: Well, we’re used to that. We’ve always been writing and recording in that. Ever since our second album, we have not been playing songs live before the record gets released. And that’s kind of a weird thing. One of the things that’s really sad about YouTube is that if you’re in a band, and you want to do something, you just want to wheel something out in a live show and see how that goes, you can’t really do that anymore, unless you want to have a million people saying, “The first time you did it was a million times better,” or “This song isn’t fully formed,” or whatever. When The Breeders went out on their first tour, they didn’t have words to half the songs. They literally just kind of mumbled through the second verses of all these songs. And it was not a big deal, because it was a rock show—you could barely hear the words anyway. It was a work in progress, and it was okay. I don’t think we’d ever be brave enough to do something like that, but it’s a way that people have worked, and I feel like the fact that everything gets recorded now, everything you do is part of your permanent record now, it’s very strange. I guess there’s something nice about being able to be off the record, or just do something for a workshop purpose.

AVC: That seems a little strange given how often you put your demos out in the world.

JF: Yeah, but I have to tell you, if we could do a podcast that disappeared after a week, that would make me even more excited about it. To me, one of the exciting things about Dial-A-Song was that it was forever in the ether. You could do anything and then it would be gone, and it was a kind of broadcasting. It was just for the experience. It was not about being documented, it was not about being forever. It was just about a person listening to a phone machine.

AVC: Is that about controlling the output and who owns it? Are you a fan of ephemerality?

JF: I guess I’m a fan of ephemerality. It’s got a different spirit. I guess that’s also why I find live performance to be exciting. There are a lot of things that can be done in live performance that can’t be done anywhere else, or aren’t effective anywhere else. Our shows have a lot of improv in them that just wouldn’t hold up to repeated listening, but in a linear, kind of visceral way, seems interesting.

AVC: Though if you still feel like the exciting thing is having the artifact of the recording, that’s the opposite of ephemerality.

JF: Well, at the risk of being candid or self-critical, sometimes what you’re good at and what you like are different things. I’ve come to realize that personally, I have strengths as a live performer that are pretty odd. I’m not shy, but I’m shocked at how bold I can be onstage. Part of it is that when I started with John, I couldn’t sing and play guitar at the same time. And since then, we’ve done many hundreds of shows together, and I’ve learned how to play guitar and sing at the same time, but also, I’m not scared of being onstage anymore. And if we’re playing some weird, lame festival where everybody’s sitting in lawn chairs, I actually have no trouble saying, “Everybody stand up and move to me.” And making it seem like that would be the greatest, happiest thing that could happen, rather than some awkward, horrible thing. Even just talking about it, I can’t imagine, it sounds terrible, it sounds like a bad show. But it’s actually a very joyous and natural show. We’ve actually gotten good at some things that we might not necessarily been good at in the beginning, in terms of performance and stuff like that.

AVC: We had a brief email exchange yesterday about the hugely positive reaction to your A.V. Undercover performance. You said, “It seems like a little bit of joy directly expressed can be quite resonant in this grey world.” In spite of all the songs you do about death and disaster and misery, that sounds like a TMBG mission statement.

JF: Yeah, that’s what art is, right? If you think about it, life is a one-way ticket. [Laughs.] But while we’re here, you got to make the most of it. Now I sound like the guy at the end of the bar. The “Tubthumping” thing is especially weird, because it’s a song you almost can’t like with your conscious mind. It’s all those things about a popular song that are kind of manipulative—or, not manipulative, they overwhelm you. It’s such a hooky song, it goes from hook to hook to hook. It’s such an earworm kind of a song. It’s like the Steven Spielberg of songs. You just feel like you’ve been lassoed and dragged into its presence. It’s overwhelming.

AVC: Is anything wrong with that?

JF: Well, if you like being lassoed. No, I don’t know. Did you walk out of E.T. feeling like, “That was normal”? Or did you feel like you were kind of… I feel like I have a love-hate relationship with the hooky, the impossible catchy song. I feel like the world has a love-hate relationship with that kind of thing. Because it’s relentless. I’ve been singing the song “The Longest Time” by Billy Joel for 20 years. And I don’t even particularly care for Billy Joel’s music. A good friend of mine is a huge Billy Joel fan. I love Elton John, but as far as those classic popmeisters go, I find Billy Joel very hard. I want my mind back from that. [Starts singing melody to “The Longest Time.”] I cannot tell you. Three times a day, I think about that song. It drives me crazy.

AVC: Do you have a different relationship with the ultra-hooky songs you’ve produced, the ones most people immediately think of when they think of you? Do you feel differently about “Birdhouse In Your Soul” or “Particle Man” than some of the more jangly, atonal, complicated songs?

JF: The stuff that’s more far afield? Um. Making those songs we did with Alan Winstanley and Clive Langer was so thrilling on so many different levels. I learned so much in that process, about recording and arranging, and just how to think about the experience of a song. Clive Langer, the producer of “Birdhouse,” he was a classic hit-maker, producer, nut, so it was an interesting process. We spent so much time on it. We’ve never spent that much time on anything, before or since. In a way, it doesn’t surprise me that that song is so memorable now. When we started on the song, all the components, all the elements were there, all the things you would think would make it catchy were present. But it seemed like kind of a slip of a song. It wasn’t like you would listen to it and go, “Oh, this is going to be the biggest song of our lives.” And in the fullness of time, it’s kind of our calling-card song. It came together. Sometimes recording songs does feel sort of magical in that way.

AVC: What sticks with you most about Join Us? Is it the catchy earworm songs? Some technical thing you accomplished or struggled with? What stands out?

JF: For us, there’s a challenge in that we are aware of our history. We think about ourselves. We do interviews where we have to talk thoughtfully about our stuff, and we have this history as a band. So trying to figure out how to up the ante and evolve as writers and producers is a real challenge. We don’t want to just be a pale version of our younger, less-grizzled selves. We’ve been basically toggling back and forth between kids’ projects and adult projects for the last seven years now, I guess, eight years. As soon as we started doing kids’ stuff, as soon as we started doing No!, I think we actually touched on something that the years of writing, recording, touring shook out of us, which is the simple joy of the psychedelic impulse in the middle of a short song. Our first couple of albums have a lot of these hard-left-turn departures. This is incredibly self-serious, so let me apologize in advance.

AVC: You’ve talked in the past about wanting to get back to the “beginner’s mind,” as you put it, for this album. And it really does seem that way, with the sharp turns and the eclecticism.

JF: And I think the strange thing about the success of our children’s stuff, which was kind of unnerving to us, is that as soon as we started doing the kids’ stuff, a lot of that original spirit of the band came back very naturally into the mix. Because it’s kids’ stuff, it’s the most open writing assignment you’re ever going to get. It’s like, “What do kids know about anything?” They don’t know anything. They don’t know Pink Floyd, they don’t know Cream, they don’t know Prince, they don’t know The Beatles. Your pop references are meaningless. You’re on the most abstract plane that somebody in a band could be. And also, it’s a world free of rock critics. It’s a world free of clerks in record stores. It’s a world free of people with their arms folded in the back of the room. It’s a world of love. All you have to do is fascinate the person directly listening, and that’s a really great assignment. It’s not like we think we’re E.B. White. It’s a privileged place to be as a writer, to write for kids, but it’s also extremely liberating, because you get to do the thing you want to do. The audience is really like yourself as a kid. You’re just writing for your own kid self.

AVC: What’s next, after the tour in support of Join Us? More children’s music? Another adult album?

JF: As John has said, with the kids’ stuff, it’s not like a “never say never” thing, but I think part of it was just the success of the kids’ stuff started taking over our lives. It seemed like there was a never-ending amount of recording work to be done. Getting back to your question about what was the process of making Join Us like, the one thing that actually bugged me was that we basically recorded two studio albums for kids back-to-back, Here Come The 123s and then Here Comes Science. Because basically when we got a Grammy for The 123s, there was a lot of momentum in that world to get another thing out, and to keep the ball rolling that way. Because a lot of the marketing of those records was through television, which is just a whole different thing. We were just going at the recording process very, very hard for a long period of time. When we do kids’ records, we treat them like any other recording. We actually spend a lot of time on them, which I gather a lot of people in the world of children’s music don’t. They go, “Oh yeah, we recorded it in a week, and it was fine.” We really treat them like full-blown creative projects. So we’d been in the studio a lot. We kind of started in on recording Join Us full on right on the heels of finishing up the Science record, and I don’t think it dawned on us that we were actually a little bit burnt out. And also just kind of confused, in a way, as to what we were going to do. We probably recorded 30 songs for this album, and the songs that are on album are basically the last 15 or so. There were so many strange misfires at the beginning, just the most mutant songs. And they were casting about. It was sort of about trying to find the right tone, find the thing that really clicked on every level. And that was a big challenge. We didn’t want to do a relentless… The Else, our previous album, kind of has a relentless quality. When we were listening to the whole album as it was being mastered, John turned to me and said, “Well, this is the least-coziest record we’ve ever made.” And I don’t think it’s our goal to make cozy albums, but there’s a little bit of cozy in Join Us, in a good way.

AVC: Some of that might have come out of working with Dust Brothers. In the theme of changing up and not repeating yourself, are there other artists you want to work with?

JF: Yeah. I just produced an album for Jonathan Coulton, and that was a very, very exciting process for me. And if there are any people out there as talented as Jonathan Coulton, I want to work with them. I enjoy the production process, though I think working with Jonathan spoiled me forever, because he was so receptive to the challenges I would put out in front of him. I would very sheepishly say something that I felt was kind of crossing some boundary. It’s a part of collaboration, but as somebody who’s worked with producers, I know how destructive certain things can be, and you really don’t want to simply be challenging somebody in a non-constructive way. And he was always game. He worked so hard, and with such focus, it was very interesting. It made it all seem much easier than it really is. I think most of the time you’re dealing with people with acute cases of divaticulitus.

AVC: Of what?

JF: Divaticulitus. You know, divas. People who are deeply in love with themselves. I thought everyone had gotten their divaticulitus shots.

AVC: As far as your own work, where do you want to go from here?

JF: That’s a good question. Sometimes I think it would be interesting to try to write something with a larger theme. Try to write something more in a song cycle, or something that could be theatrical. It seems like the world of musical theater or just musical vehicles has kind of opened up in a way that could be an interesting challenge. People have very different notions about how music and storytelling can be combined. I guess I don’t mind things that are colder. People who do stuff in theater are always talking about “heart” and stuff like that. I think I’m a little bit more in the Bertolt Brecht, V-effect side of things. I find things that are stilted and alienating to be much more compelling than most people, I think.

AVC: Join Us features some of that, but also songs that are warm or easy or catchy. Do you think about album sequencing anymore, now that so many people only think in terms of individual songs?

JF: The real collaborative process with me and John is in that arranging, producing, how best to set up the song, set up the changes in the song and keep the ball rolling sonically. Part of it kind of flies out the window when people are downloading things, and people’s iTunes gets loaded in backwards. When we’re sequencing things, originally we would just try to set up the hardest contrast we could think of. We were like the vibe-killers. If there was a short, fast song, we’d put it up against the slowest, longest song. We were setting up our albums like they were these horrible roller-coaster rides. I think over the course of time, we realized you could do it in a more leisurely, friendly way. But it’s usually pretty much about blending sonics together, or breaking off, making a short, sharp snap between one approach and another, just to have a real theme change. But these days, I don’t know if that stuff even exists. With The Else, we put the song “The Mesopotamians” last, but the way it loads in on iTunes, it’s first. Depending on how you set it up, for a lot of people, it loads it in exact reverse order. I remember talking to many reviewers as that record was coming out, and they’d be like, “I love this ‘Mesopotamians’ song, what a great way to start an album.” And it’s like, “Huh. Interesting.”

AVC: It sounds like what you were saying about YouTube as well. It’s sort of an argument against trying to control how people experience your work—if you go in with a plan, and that plan is immediately disrupted, is that frustrating for you as an artist?

JF: Well, not really. We’ve been doing this for almost 30 years now. I don’t know, it’s very flattering just to have people hear your music. It’s really hard to forget that. Just the idea that anybody is even thinking about us is exciting to me. I think it was Roy Orbison who was asked “How do you want to be remembered?” and he said, “I just want to be remembered.” I think that’s a healthy point of view. I think when people start going down that rabbit hole of trying to control how people experience what they’re doing, it’s just not productive. That’s kind of negative energy. You’re trying to get inside people’s minds. And the truth of the matter is that there’s always more than one thing going on anyway. When you’re doing a show, there’s the people in the front row and there’s the people in the back row, and they’re having a very different experience, and they’re different people. There’s only so much you can do. I’m probably 20 years older than you, but do you remember the Lovesexy album by Prince? So he made this CD—it was one of the first few CDs I ever bought—and it’s all one track. You can’t go from one song to another.

AVC: He really believes in trying to control the user experience.

JF: But that’s the thing, it’s the listener’s experience. Some people like to listen to music completely high. Some people like to listen to music while cleaning their house. People use music for very different reasons, and it’s kind of none of your business as the person making the music. I don’t know. [Laughs.] I listen to a lot of music. I listen to a lot of other people’s music, I love listening to music. It’s just too much when people start thinking about stuff like that.

#TMBG #John F.. #interivew #they might be giants

[parabola-magazine]

"Thus year follows year in endless succession. 'What was will be again.' The individual may enjoy this endless repetition throughout his life without ever reaching any kind of reckoning. Every year will be for him just one more old year, the same old dream without end, the same vicious circle from which there is no escape. That is why the schofar is sounded, its simple ear-assaulting cry. Its wordless wailing (since no words are understood by all) consists of two broken blasts, a lamenting for what was, for what has been. This is followed by two warning notes, for what may still lie ahead to entrap and degrade, and culminates in two shouts of victory: the promise that, in spite of everything, there is a possibility that the coming year will be more than a mere repetition of its predecessor, that within the cycle of the seasons there is room for hope that the coming year may be truly 'new.'" —Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz on transforming repetition into renewal

Read the full article here.

Pictured: Marc Chagall (1887-1985), “The Shofar,” 1911

#Parabola Magazine #Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz #hope #renewal #repitition #spiritual practice

[projectalbum]

177. “Hail to the Thief,” 178. “In Rainbows,” 179. “King of Limbs,” 180. “A Moon Shaped Pool” by Radiohead

Here we are. At that point where I have to defend my previous assertion that Hail to the Thief (#177) is closer to my heart than the widely-beloved Kid A. And here we go…

There are 14 tracks, far more than any other Radiohead album, and I only dislike one of them. And it’s not “We Suck Young Blood” (it’s “The Gloaming”). Like, “Blood” is a creepy, chain-rattling chiller with deliberately cracked vocals and that cool little jazzy breakdown between the verses. “The Gloaming” is like a ghost taking a nap.

Even stranger, my favorite songs are all in a little clump in the last third. Right after the aforementioned downers, this suite of winners begins with “There, There,” the lead single. Featuring one of the loveliest, slightly gritty guitar lines in the catalogue and a chorus lyric (“Just ‘cause you feel it, doesn’t mean it’s there”) that stings, if not like a knife in the heart, than maybe like a sharpened icicle in the lower abdomen. “I Will” is one second shy of 2 minutes, but there is beauty in the utter simplicity of gently-strummed electric guitar and three-part Yorke harmony. It’s the soundtrack to staring into a dying fire. And it transitions right into “A Punchup At a Wedding,” slinky and pissed-off at once, sitting next to “You and Whose Army?” as the straight-up coolest piano numbers. One of these days, mark my words, I will master it, because it’s just fairly repetitive chords. But the distinct rhythm of the pounding on the keys has always slightly eluded me.

The escalating tension of this killer suite boils over in crunchy, foreboding synth and aggressive drums on “Myxomatosis.” “I— don’t— know— why I— feel so— tongue… tied” is, I believe, the exact cadence of the chorus, and I can identify with those moments when the churning chemical processes make articulate expression impossible.

15 years on, Thief remains hard for people to pin down. Though there are a few “angry” songs, the material is not explicitly about political leaders or Blair or Bush. That title pun was read as a pissy, middle finger salute as on-the-nose as a Banksy, despite any statements made by the band members to downplay that interpretation. Unlike the albums that made their name, this collection of songs lacks an over-arching thematic focus, which may still hurt its legacy. But I will continue to argue passionately for the music’s inherent strength. The follow-up, released four years later, requires no such defense.

In Rainbows (#178) was my introduction to Radiohead. It has and will probably fulfill that same purpose for a lot of others. From 2007-2010, I was in college, majoring in film production and spending a lot of time in a windowless room filled with iMacs. I give you the range of years, because I’m not positive just how fresh the surprise late-’07 digital release of that album was when my friend Seth handed me the thumb drive in that iMac editing lab. College is a time to experiment with new experiences, you see, and I really only followed that credo when it came to dadaist TV comedies and ponderous rock bands. So in that sterile environment, when I should have been working, I put in earbuds instead.

“15 Step” began with clapboard beats played through a glitchy hard drive. Thom lamented another repeat of the vicious cycle. Then Jonny’s guitar came in, soft and inviting as your pillow, bolstered by Colin Greenwood’s nimble bass. A sample of schoolyard cheers, and then we stepped off the sheer drop. The rest of the album was what I saw as I fell and hit the ocean’s surface, a sort of “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” if the man dreamt of the noose tightening anyway. “Nude” is the haughty confirmation of the protagonist’s fear in “There, There”— “Don’t get any big ideas, they’re not gonna happen” is the lilting, falsetto admonishment. It shares DNA with R.E.M.’s “Tongue” from 1994’s Monster, to the point of sibling rivalry. But Michael Stipe’s feminine protagonist on that tune feels like an amusing pose in comparison.

To continue both the R.E.M. connection and the falling man’s dilemma, the split title of “Weird Fishes/Arpeggi” acknowledges the rapid, repeating guitar technique that that band’s Peter Buck made a staple, but here it sounds like water rushing overhead. I’m sinking deeper, but I’ve determined that the way out is through. By the time the clacking boneyard beat and flickering piano of “Videotape” laid the album to rest back in that college computer lab, I felt like I’d been through something. That some synaptic pathways had been rewired by a piece of art in that way that becomes neurologically harder and harder to achieve again as the years go by. The hypnotic draw of this series of songs is impossible to shake even after an ensuing near-decade of revisitation.

By the time The King of Limbs (#179) leaked onto the web in 2011, Radiohead had been taking over my brain one used CD purchase at a time. As I collected the discography, marveling at OK Computer and puzzling at Pablo Honey, the security blanket melodies and instrumentation of In Rainbows wriggled in ever deeper. So the murky production, polyrhythmic grooves, and murmured vocals of Limbs were not immediately arresting. “It’s a grower,” I gently warned people when handing them a burned CD-R. Meaning over multiple listens, not over the course of the album: at 8 tracks and 37 minutes, it’s as fleet as a couple of their EPs.

Opener “Bloom” is like the score to a Biblical epic as listened to through a glass pressed to a hotel room wall, all muted horns and a vocal that sweeps like sun rays. “Morning Mr. Magpie” and “Little by Little” are statements of Limbs’ groove-focused identity, and melody-wise tend to blend into each other with little resistance. Where the guitar on Rainbows was a hand to guide you, here it’s another rhythm component, along with the doubled-up drum kit: as the band took the songs on the road, they enlisted Clive Deamer to join long-time drummer Philip Selway. Four hands were better than two to create the beds these compositions required.

“Feral” jettisons pop song structure completely as a cut-up chord collage dashed against unstoppable train drums.  “Lotus Flower” is 2/3rds floor-rattling bass, 2/3rds hand-claps, and 2/3rds crystalline falsetto: as mathematically impossible as Yorke’s dance moves in the video. The album closes out with three pastorally pretty and almost terminally mellow numbers: the deep embedded roots of “Codex,” the treetop birdsong of “Give Up the Ghost,” the late Sunday morning wakeup of “Separator.” The melodies are sweet invitations, but I can understand if they sound, in their final produced form, like rock n’roll Ambien. The live arrangements, like those recorded for the “From The Basement” special, are generally thought to breathe extra life into the tunes. The recent Hans Zimmer/Radiohead reimagining of “Bloom” for “Blue Planet 2” makes that song’s cinematic ambitions more readily apparent, as well. But I’ve got a soft spot for any and all versions, and don’t feel any sting of disappointment that TKOL wasn’t In Rainbows Part 2.

The 4-5 year gaps between records has proven an energizing practice for the band’s members as they explore their own projects. Jonny Greenwood created an impressive body of work as Paul Thomas Anderson’s film composer of choice, Yorke (with producer Nigel Godrich in tow) collaborated with Flea on Atoms For Peace and indulged DJ-focused electronica on the self-released Tomorrow’s Modern Boxes. Where Rainbows had drawn inspiration for its sonic approach from the close-miked intimacy of Yorke’s solo record The Eraser (more on that next time), 2016’s A Moon Shaped Pool (#180) has Greenwood’s stellar orchestral composition work threaded throughout. 

Any hazy production cobwebs from TKOL are swept aside by the Bernard Hermann stabbing strings and depth charge bass line of “Burn the Witch,” the true paranoid opus of our surveillance state age. “Red crosses on wooden doors, and if you float, you burn,” Yorke hums and coos, deliberately juxtaposing his trademark vibrating falsetto against the dire warnings. “We Know Where You Live,” stated the cryptic postcards sent to fans, and it was true, because we’ve offered our whereabouts freely to whoever will listen. “Daydreaming” follows its own somnambulant trajectory, with piano that ambles along until periodically the notes catch a long wind, to paraphrase the Feist song, swirling like cel-painted animated leaves. The video closes the gap between Jonny’s prestige film work and his longest-running gig with P.T. Anderson helming a low-key gorgeous M.C. Escher puzzle of Thom moving purposefully through an endless series of doors, spaces, environments.

Before the album dropped, I saw a live clip of Yorke debuting “Desert Island Disk,” just he and his acoustic guitar. The studio version does little to distract from that simple backbone: it’s a sweet, dexterous garden party riff bolstered with gentle drumming and subtle synth washes. “Glass Eyes,” the shortest, most melancholy track, has taken hold like an itch in the mind. Watery electric piano and Yorke’s murmured phone message verses slip through like a dream you struggle to remember the details of, until suddenly the exact angle of a cold gray street corner sparks a complete deja vu, and the heart-rending string section swells.

I’ve taken to playing “The Numbers” at inappropriate volumes, lately. Symphonic rock is nothing new, but it’s rare to hear such a mid-tempo acoustic groove be so suddenly opened up by falling stomach cello courtesy of London Contemporary Orchestra. “We call upon the people / The people have this power / The numbers don’t decide / The system is a lie” is the undeniable political exhortation, and the strings are the wielded tools of revolution: if “Burn The Witch” was a warning against mob rule, “The Numbers” is a rallying cry for positive upheaval.

“True Love Waits,” and there’s no better evidence for that sentiment than the official release of this song from the era of “The Bends.” Live performances and bootlegs through the years featured variations on acoustic guitar or Rhodes piano. Repeated attempts in the studio every few years yielded nothing wholly satisfying. In its final version, closing the album, reverb-laden grand piano and Yorke’s ghostly yearning is joined by glittering ice crystal notes that steadily accumulate. In my head I see the scene from A.I. in which the artificial boy, David, patiently and gratefully beholds the Blue Fairy, as his systems freeze into a thousand years of sleep. Melancholy become manifest.

In the next entry, I’ll jump out of alphabetical order to revisit two of Thom Yorke’s extracurricular activities.

#Radiohead #album art #Thom Yorke #Jonny Greenwood #cdcollection #in rainbows #a moon shaped pool #lotus flower #king of limbs