#when id consider them akin with paintings

[northwest-cryptid]

Alright let me try my hand at this is that's alright. Sorry if this isn't what you're looking for. Not 100% sure on how much info is too much or too little yknow? Anyway, this is Hong Lu.

We know he's uber-rich, as in his family is potentially a Wing/Wing-adjacent rich. We can say this for a few reasons. First there's his general accidental flaunting of his wealth (a random handkerchief of his being work 7 million, him receiving extravagant gifts like ponies for his birthday, I could go on and on.)

Second is his family's clear connections with several wings. Examples include how the shareholders of H Corp personally visited his home because his brother wanted a red passport and how in his W & K Corp ids its stated he got those jobs because of his grandparents.

As you might have also noticed Hong Lu is pretty aloof (for example during a comedic cooking competition between the sinners he says he's always wanted to try dog food) and this hasn't changed much though it has gotten a few layers at least. Such as him teasing Heathcliff by saying potatoes grow on trees or, during Yi Sang's Chapter, getting compared to Brother Young-ji, a kind and guiding figure in Yi Sang's life.

There's also a lot of very suspicious stuff going on with Hong Lu. Firstly there's his clear connections with the Wings, which should immediately raise some alarms if you know how these guys operate. There's also something going on with his blue glowing eye, likely something to do with M Corps Moon Rocks given the amount of Sanity healing effects he has and how he'salso unaffectedby anesthetics. Which raises the question of why he would need something like this at all times?

There's also a scene where Faust is explaining how Distortions work using Hong Lu as an example and He responds by saying "he could see that happening" only to be unable to explain why.

Lastly, it’s also heavily implied that his family is abusive. In his K Corp ID, it's implied he was given the job more-so to get rid of him or something akin to that affect. Plus its also mentioned at one point that there were a ton of rules he was supposed to follow. Little stuff like that that paints a concerning picture.

And that's what we currently know about Hong Lu. Again sorry if this is too much or skips out on too much.

This is literally 100% the sort of thing I'm asking for and I cannot thank you enough. It's all very easy to follow, it gives me enough genuine information about the character to understand what current speculations might be going around about them; and you actually include important information (even if I'm not familiar with it just yet) such as the connection to different Corps and potential connections to a Wing which as you explained is kind of sketchy considering you know, how the Wings work.

See this is a great description of this character, I walk away from this feeling like I could have a somewhat competent conversation about him even though I've not played the game. If someone approached me and mentioned Hong Lu I feel like I could easily bring up things like the Corp IDs but also still have small details about him like 7 million dollar (well, probably not dollar but you know) handkerchief. He also just seems like a likable dude with some hidden horrors that we're hopefully going to get to see in the future because man he is suspicious but what a chill guy. Not to mention this is all stuff I couldn't figure out from the website alone. This is what I was hoping for and I really do mean it when I say thank you for explaining it this way.

[bucephaly]

Getting to the point where ill see pen drawings or anything black and white or with solid black shapes and go PRINT!

#but really there are lots of prints and people dont seem to notice them much #it bugs me that prints are usually displayed alongside like. unfinished sketches or photographs in museums #when id consider them akin with paintings #so when i went to the mfa in boston i didnt see any of their prints because they were all in some tucked away gallery with the photographs #while i was busy getting lost in the maze of the boring american section #like prints should be displayed alongside the paintings in the like. european or american art or asian art sections #rather than tucked away #putting them with photographs perpetuates the idea that a print is just a copy of an original art piece so its just smth cheap #like a digital art print or a print of a painting youd by in the gift shop #rather than original art pieces in their own right. #and i know photographs are valuable art too by yknow like. a photo would be taken and then developed or printed digitally #so it isnt like directly hand of the artist stuff ? at least from a laymans perspective #ah yes the classic 'makes post and then goes on a barely related rant in the tags' trick

[1234-angelika]

Restorations

an:Hey y'all! So the weather is finally cooling down a bit here, not that I wasn't loving it, but I am finally managing to get some work done. This is the fifth installment in my Happily Ever After series for Derek. As always, hope y'all enjoy!

words:1.3 k

warnings:PDA (maybe) but other than that, I don't think there are any

summary:"We shape our homes and then our homes shape us." -Winston Churchill

masterpost|taglist|have an idea

You knew that outside of his work at the BAU, Derek had a side business restoring and flipping houses.

Since he used this business as a stress reliever and a hobby, that’s usually how he would spend his days off. When you were together, though, you would usually spend the afternoon with take-out in a movie-marathon haze. Occasionally, you would go out, but it was more important to the two of you to spend time together. You had only been to a worksite once. So, Derek promised that he would bring you out to a worksite one day, and you would work on it together.

It was five-thirty in the morning on a Wednesday, and you had just come back from your run when the phone rang. In an effort to answer the call promptly, you paid no mind to the caller ID.

“Hello?”

Derek’s voice rang through the receiver, “Hey Sunshine. That’s the hello I get?”

Giggling, you answered, “Good morning casanova.”

“Loving the new nickname sunshine.”

You smiled as you heard D’s nickname for you. “What’s up Derek? Usually you don’t call this early, especially on a day off.”

“Can you meet me later?”

“For sure. Where?”

“I’ll text you the address. Does eleven-thirty work for you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Ok. I love you Sunshine.”

“I love you too, hercules.”

You took a long shower to relax. Deciding that an hour in the shower was long enough, you finished up and made your way out to the closet. The weatherman said it would be reaching an estimated high of 87°F. This heavily influenced your choice of an outfit. You grabbed your favourite pair of shorts, a comfy black tank top and a blue flannel to wear on top. You paired your most comfortable pair of shoes with the outfit while still keeping cool in the Virginia heat. After getting dressed, you did your hair and then went on to makeup. Meandering into the kitchen, you started to think about breakfast. You gathered the components and started making it. You had just put the bread into the toaster when your phone alerted you of a text message. Picking it up, you read that it was from Derek.

Hey Sunshine.

The address is 3972 Hazelmere lane. I can’t wait to see you.

You shot a quick text back confirming that you were still meeting him and asking if he needed anything. Then, you put down your phone and continued with your breakfast. You ate your food while flipping through the latest edition of your favourite magazine. Once you finished your food, you had to make an effort to keep busy. You tidied your condo before getting started on some paperwork for your upcoming training sessions. You worked and worked until all of a sudden, the clock read eleven. You decided to just leave your place and be early for whatever you were going to do.

The drive took longer than anticipated. Instead of the fifteen minutes, you estimated, the drive actually took forty. Finally, you pulled up to the address, and confusion overcame you. At the address was a beautiful house with a lot of yard in the front and plenty of trees. You parked the car—which wasn’t done super well, parallel parking—grabbed your bag and climbed out. Looking around, you spotted Derek’s car but no sign of Derek. Taking a chance, you walked up to the front door, but when you knocked on it, it just got pushed open. You walked towards the deafening banging sounds you heard, and it was there that you found Derek. He was taking down the rotted cabinetry and dropping it on the ground. He paused when he noticed you in the doorway and climbed down the ladder.

“Hey sunshine,” he said, kissing your cheek.

“Hi Der. So, where are we?” You asked, trying not to be too apparent in your ogling of his sweaty body. As you finished your question, his body language became nervous. The same as it was when he had asked you to be his girlfriend.

“Y/N,” he said, and instantly you noted the severity of the upcoming conversation, all playfulness was gone from his voice, “you know that I do this as a side business and I did promise you that we could work on a project together. I thought it could be this one. If you’re up for it, we could make this our forever home. What do you say?”

You squealed out in happiness and launched yourself into his arms. He readily caught you, and as you hugged him, you felt his chest rumbling beneath you, an indication that he was laughing. You pulled away, and he looked at you with a brow raised.

“So I guess that’s a yes?”

“Yes!” You kissed him hard, making sure your point got across. “So Derek, where do we start?”

He grabbed a spare pair of protective glasses from the counter and handed them to you. “We start with some demolition. Don’t bang out any walls. We’re just removing cabinetry, mirrors, light fixtures and flooring.”

You nodded and walked off to what you could only guess was the living room. You made a cut into the carpet before starting to pull it up. You slowly made your way around the house, pulling the flooring up, room by room, focusing only on carpet and laminate. You were now in one of the bedrooms pulling up the last floorboard when Derek appeared in the doorway.

“Need any help gorgeous?”

Standing up, you shook your head, “nah, I finished the flooring.”

“Are you done for the day?” Derek asked you, hoping you still had the energy to do some shopping.

“Not yet. I’m still good, why?”

“I wanted to take you shopping for some materials for the house.”

“Our house,” you said, correcting him with a grin.

“Our house.” Derek said with a smile akin to your own.

The drive to the hardware store was quick. The two of you walked hand-in-hand, picking and choosing the hardware and appliances. The hardware and the appliances were easy to determine, the hardware was matte black, and the appliances were stainless steel. Both complemented the cabinetry planned for the home, white for most of the cabinets and sage green for the island cabinets. However, paint and flooring ended up being a different story. You and Derek had utterly opposing ideas, and coming to a compromise was no easy feat.

“So, what paint were you thinking?”

“Well, I was thinking we do grey on grey.”

“Are you saying grey paint AND grey flooring?”

“Yeah. It’s simple…design-wise anyways.”

The opposition to the idea was evident on your face, and he sighed before saying;

“What were you thinking Y/N?”

Taking a moment to consider his ideas, you said, “What if we went for a lighter grey for most of the walls…and instead of the grey flooring, we go for a walnut coloured vinyl instead?”

He nodded as he considered your ideas. “What do you mean most of the walls?”

“Well, I wanted to use shiplap in the entrance way but I was thinking that instead we could use it as a feature wall against the staircase.”

“Y/N, have I ever told you what a genius you are?”

“Nope,” you said, popping the ‘p.’

“Well you are an amazingly talented lovable genius,” he said before leaning over and kissing you.

The two of you were walking through the aisles of the hardware store pushing the cart, your head leaning on his bicep when he asked;

“So, what about the kitchen?”

And that’s how you spent the rest of your day off and others alike. Building your forever home together.

taglist: @multixfandomwriter @myescapefromthislife @gspenc

#criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #derek morgan #derek x reader #derek morgan x reader #happilyeverafter #hea

[yngai]

one of the main reasons ada has survived this long working on her own ( outside her predisposition to manipulate people into doing her job for her, a paradoxical method of both minimising & maximising risk ) is that she essentially became her own handler / IT support .  while she necessitated such aid early on in her career, especially during her time at umbrella, a naturally precarious mission which required years of preparation on part of umbrella’s rival corporations as well as several fellow spies implanted within the company that made way for ada’s hiring an assistant researcher in the arklay laboratory .  the death of her handler by his own hand, discovered upon her arrival at their agreed meeting point at the apple inn, despite her securing a sample of the g-virus ( or scraping a tissue fragment off william birkin’s corpse depending on route or adaption ), the sudden, brief release from her dependency on his guidance + the organization during her espionage only reinforced a core aspect of her personal philosophy, that of all people in this world, the only person she can ever rely on is herself .

of course, albert wesker came to her rescue, but his gloved hand was an underhanded offer & even back then, before they would become rival agents of the organization, she knew all he saw in her was just another card in his deck, easily shuffled out when she is no longer of any use .  it was an offer she couldn’t refuse & did little to dissuade her belief in self-reliance .  it only bolstered it, truly, for when she will find herself in a situation like this again, if she even allows herself that uncertainty overcasting her life, her exit will be assured far in advance .  if albert wesker was to treat her as a stepping stone for his own ambitions, she would only do so in return & their animosity grew from that initial meeting, an impersonal video call amidst a dying city .

ada wong’s shift in persona, from a scared woman trying to survive the hell of raccoon city, grasping at straws & desperate manipulations all in the vein hope of survival, to the fully realised spy whose status within the criminal underworld was akin to legend, was a multi-step process which the organization facilitated as her success retrieving secretive data & virus samples from within umbrella’s own, most well-guarded facilities was a display of realised promise, scouted for her talents & interests by the organization just as she had earned her degree .  a strong foundation, natural talent, myriad potential careers ahead of her, an interest in the filed & a pretty face, beneath a burning determination to make something of herself .  she was the perfect candidate & eager to commit to the life of an actress without audience, a lifelong dream without the one setback that halted it early on .  she became a guarantee of completed missions of even greater importance to their goal of overthrowing their competitor’s hold on the pharmaceutical industry & the development of biological weapons of war, an entrée into a lucrative black market that would follow when umbrella’s trade secrets make their way into criminal hands .

she was an asset & fully aware of it, but left scarred & bleeding after setting two feet in hell .  weak, bruised & fearful beyond imagination, there was a purpose here which she clung tightly onto, not the organization or their goals, she held no belief in them beyond wanting to see umbrella burn, but a chance to become something greater, something better .  like the woman painted in the legends told about her, infinitely capable, deeply calculating, twirling the world on her finger .  it would come at a cost, as all such matters often do, personal & moral in equal measure .  too much of a danger for her to return home, a risk that the few people she cared for most would become a liability in her life as a spy & she would much rather they think her dead .  allying herself with the organization’s heart will paint her in colours likened to umbrella, but the rest of the world does not often consider the reputation of a dead woman & in the long run it would not matter anyway, she was not planning on sticking around .

ada agreed to pay that price in full & thus, was given further training to account for how umbrella’s evil would mutate in the coming years, taken new, far worse forms as it exchanged shadowy hands .  though the organization could only provide so much, training ada as an H.C.F. field operative with only few additions to account for her personal conduct, lacking certain skills which instrumental to her survival which she sought to teach to herself.  while there are many facets to account for in the transition between ada’s initial equipment & skill-set in resident evil 2, compared to her much different, twice kidnapped notwithstanding, effortless professionalism displayed in 4 ( i went over her physical development in a brief ramble in the tags here ), i should probably return to origin & discuss her ability as a hacker .  a talent she picked up quickly, almost second nature, coding her own malicious software, exploiting vulnerabilities within well guarded digital systems .  already quick on her feet & adaptable, fast thinking translating from perilous situations to the computer screen, ada found hacking to be akin to the act of manipulation, finding & using a vulnerability against your target .  people & their personalities were systematised within her mind, like code, their wants & desires, their history, all absorbed & accounted for to predict every future movement .  not a perfect process, her own prejudices get in the way of fully perceiving others, her cynicism resulting from a sense of helplessness & of everyone else, she will never have access to her own code .  she understands, she infers, she consumes information at a rapid pace & sometimes that is enough but she is not above making mistakes, pitfalls of her own mind & they each cost her .

during raccoon city, her closest equivalent was the EMF visualizer, introduced in the remake but a piece of tech i rather enjoy as a callback(?) to her future abilities in regards to computers while being deceptively simple & fitting for the 1998 setting .  a fairly self-explanatory, rudimentary piece of technology that detects & interacts with the electromagnetic field generated by moving currents, though it is more apt at doing so with the force created by an electric field as opposed to a magnetic one, as the former is much stronger that the latter .  it allows its user to scan & interact with circuitry by directing charges within an electric system, or short-circuiting any point along it .  while referred to as hacking in-game, it bares very little resemblance to the real deal & quite limited .  it was a portable, small-scale EMP generator that disrupts low-level electronics & can cause more complicated tech to, essentially, glitch ( thus bypassing NEST’s identification system ) .  ada used it to destroy intake fans in raccoon city’s sewers, primarily & any access to umbrella’s internal database was acquired through her position as an assistant researcher before her credentials were erased &, would there be anything above her clearance level, the ID & passwords swiped off of dr. john clemens & dr. annette birkin, respectively .  john, of course, was far more willing to part with his than annette, both because of his infatuation with ada & his plan to leak arklay’s darkest secrets to the world .

with the evolution of technology, the dawn of the information age &, i suppose, the slight discrepancy in its advancement between the ressie universe & reality ( though a lot of what we consider groundbreaking today was developed years prior for military use before going public, meaning both umbrella & the organization would have rather easy access to such advancements quite early ), ada’s only necessity in regards to cyber-security was a computer connected to whatever secure, private network she wanted to break into .  for example, a pair of smart-glasses outfitted with such that are convenient, portable & fashionable, able to discharge a non-lethal explosive, the equivalent of a stun grenade, if activated .  used to scan an encroaching environment, any digital system she wishes to interact with &, in certain instances, as the eyes & ears of anyone overseeing her mission from afar .  hardly a replacement for a proper computer, but a useful tool nonetheless & easy to discard for fear of her tampering being tracked .  as technology develops even further, ada does upgrade from bulky laptops to tablets, to phones & whatever permutations they might take in future, a weird cube .  her abilities as a hacker, tied to a fictionalised rendition of the practice for the fun of it, grow with the tech & tie directly into how she becomes her own handler .  information is a currency, after all, & before every mission ada does extensive reconnaissance on the people & places she will be tasked with visiting, sometimes relying on a web of contacts around the world formed after years of spy-work .  anything too secretive & too hidden is relegated to field discovery, as she would rather her targets not be on alert after a potential cyber-attack .  she prefers it this way, while she always steps into a new mission with an exit strategy already meticulously planned, there is fun & risk to be had in being physically present for a grand revelation & she never passes up the chance for that thrill .  after the organization succumbs to internal conflict & she sets the stage to work freelance, ada begins carrying herself through her objectives & any outside help, predominantly in regards to transport & accommodation, different missions requiring different resources, is given to her by her various employers .  a sort of guarantee, an advanced payment, if you will, though she is not above taking those in cash just as well .  using any resource at her disposal, what is provided willingly, what is not, the people she encounters throughout her life, all to ensure her success, her survival .

a fun little headcanon to end on :  between missions, ada has taken up a little side-project that blurs the line between work & leisure .  leaking sensitive information between rival companies & criminal organizations only to sit back & watch them destroy each other, or to a hungry press looking for the next big story, satiating a starving public seeking explanation for the continuous state of disarray .  gray hat hacking to pass the time, if you will .  she isn’t looking to make waves, she takes no credit for her tampering, would be poor form for a woman wrapped in mystery, & rarely strikes businesses with an international reach, where the real damage is done .  its merely a way to pull strings & watch the world spin, a performance she enjoys viewing from afar .

#* file // : OOC — ( 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐀𝐃𝐄 . ) #* file // : 004 — ( 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 . ) #* file // : 005 — ( 𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐀 . ) #this was originally just gonna be about ada's ability to hack things but once again i go on a nightmare tangent #i feel fucking insane what even is this supposed to be #just nonsense word vomit #sorry guys i can't be helped #sad brag #etc. #😭😭😭 #ada wong is an epic girlboss

[docholligay]

Fic Prompt: the first time someone kissed Winston on the forehead (Overwatch)

The patient was, to use the words of the board Winston had to stand in front of, “functional.” 

Lena “Tracer” Oxton was expected to die of her injuries, and then didn’t. She was expected to spend the rest of her life catatonic, but she neglected to do that, as well. Four months out from her return from the stream of time itself, she was a bit quiet, a bit shaky, and there was little doubt that she would never be able to return to field work, but she was far more alive and far more engaged with the world than was ever expected of her. 

These are the things Winston reported, along with his progress on some manner of equipment that would allow her to leave the containment unit. Dr. Zeigler--Winston had only recently gotten the slightest bit comfortable calling her Angela, no matter how she insisted--was in charge of the greater medical specifics, only some of which he understood. They presented every other week, and every other week, no matter what Winston said about his chronal device, no matter what Mercy said about Tracer’s improving tremor and complete seizure control, there was nothing but a frown and a question: 

“When will she be able to tell us about the Slipstream?” 

Winston had made a thousand excuses for why she couldn’t go before the board. She had bad days, sometimes, where she couldn’t do much more than lie on her little bed with her eyes closed. There was a large possibility that in trying to recount it, she could have a flashback so violent that it would steal her ability to speak again--did they not remember when she was told her father was dead? She may not remember anything at all, given how aggressively being slipped through time had attacked her nervous system. 

He, of course, left out that Tracer had taken to cheerfully trying to decorate her little ‘bug jar’ with a bright duvet cover, and painting the little desk, asking to have some of her little tin airplanes sent with scraps of other decor from London, that she’d begged to have Winston ask if there was any chance at a window for her. He left out how she excitedly bounced and chose what to dress for the visit her family was allowed every few weeks, and that she chattered with them, full of life, the light in her eyes not even dimming when she tired, and leaned back against the pillows of her bed. He hadn’t lied, exactly, about her limitations, just made them rather more prominent than they seemed to be. 

Winston was protecting her, was the truth of it. 

It was a little stupid, he knew. Tracer greeted him brightly and talked to him all day because he was the only one nearby. She was kind and cheerful with Mercy, too, wasn’t she? She didn’t care to speak to Moira, but in fairness, Moira had suggested that letting her die and studying her body was far more valuable than expending the effort to rehabilitate her, so it was only natural there be some antipathy between them. It was silly to get too familiar simply because Tracer was a friendly person. 

 We’re friends, Win. ‘ope you don’t mind if I call you Win, us being such firm friends and all.”

She’d said that only last week, as they’d shared a fairly dismal Thanksgiving dinner brought over from the cafeteria. Friends. No one had, not really, ever declared themselves as such, and certainly not with a bright smile and an excited little rock of her body that he was learning meant she was quite happy. He tried not to let the threat of losing her get in the way of developing the chronal accelerator so she could leave. She had been so kind to him. 

He walked into her bug jar, letting one door close behind him and the other open in front of him, preserving her time lock. She was sitting at her little desk, leg bouncing against the floor as she wrote a letter, but looked up quickly as Winston walked in, and smiled all the way into the corners of her eyes. 

“Win! Afternoon, love!” 

He set down a little plate in front of her, some small sandwiches and cookies that hadn’t looked too bad over in the cafeteria arranged as neatly as he could. 

“Just some lunch.” 

“Oh, thank you, love!” she jumped to her feet and headed over to the little electric kettle in the corner of the room, “Forgot what time it was altogether. You haven’t been in yet this morning!” 

“No, I had a meeting.” 

“When will she be able to tell us about the Slipstream?” It had been so impatient, the growl so evident. 

She laughed. “And you sound like it was just lovely. A cup for you?” 

He nodded. “That’d be great. Lena--” 

“Yes?” She turned around, leaning against the tiny table she’d assembled to give herself the look of having a kitchen, more and more trying to make a tiny studio of what had only even been meant to something akin to a hospital room. 

“The board...the one overseeing your...well, you--” 

“Oh!” she jumped up and clapped, and then caught the edge of the chair, having made herself  swoon a bit, but closed her eyes and took a deep breath, looking up and smiling again, “‘ave to be a bit more careful, but, Win, did they say I could ‘ave the window? Enrichment, right?” 

He shook his head. “They didn’t say anything about the window.” 

Her kettle went off and she poured two mugs, bringing over her little tin of tea bags and sugar. She gave one to Winston, then sat down on the bed and patted the space beside her. Winston stood there for a moment, thumb rubbing at the edge of the mug. He must have considered it too long, because she patted the bed again. 

“Come ‘ave a sit. Something’s wrong.” 

He worried for a moment about breaking her bed, but she didn’t seem inclined to take no for an answer, and she would ignore her lunch until he told her what was going on. That much he had learned, over the last weeks she had been coming into herself. 

“What is it?” she looked up at him, and gently placed a hand on his knee. 

Did she have any idea how strange and disarming it was, that she never flinched from him, no matter how he moved? That she touched him with as much gentleness and friendships as other human beings touched each other? Even people who respected him never looked at him like this, like they were simply having a chat and a cup of tea with a friend. She was such an unusual person, scatterbrained but bright as a penny, her sense sensitive but her will strong as iron. Winston loved her, he realized, very dearly. 

“They want to talk to you.” 

“Good! I’d like to have a chat with them, as well.” She took a sip of her tea. “I’d like a window, you see, even if there isn’t much to watch, and I think I’ve the right to have at least as often a call ‘ome as any enlisted, right? Not as if I’m giving away secrets or nothing, just would like to see me Nan more than once a month.” 

Winston shook his head. “They want to know about the Slipstream.” 

Tracer thought for a moment. “What about it? Not as if I’m ‘iding it somewhere.” 

“What happened, where they can find it,” He took a drink, “How you managed to make it back.” 

“Already told Ang everything I know. It’s in me medical records. Isn’t much.” 

“I know. But they think...I’ll tell them you can’t, don’t worry about it.” He sat back and looked over at the grey steel wall Tracer had tried to cheer up with a few inelegant but colorful drawings, made with the colored pencils he’d brought to her. “I’ll just keep telling them the same thing.” 

“Really on you, are they?” She didn’t wait for a response, but sat poker-straight and nodded. “I’ll do it. At their earliest convenience, no less. Ask me whatever they want, and I’ll answer with everything I don’t know till they’re satisfied.” 

Winston shook his head. “They’ll interrogate you I think--they want to find it so badly--and then what if they….I mean, your health, they could throw you into...I don’t want you to get hurt.” 

She shook her head and smiled, standing up in front of him. “And every time I got into the air might ‘ave been me last. I’m a fast-jet pilot, Win, risk is part of life, innit? Sides all that, Ang’ll be there. I go down a bit too, ‘ard, she’ll give me a bit of ‘elp. And you’ll be there,” she raised her mug, “Always an ‘elp to me, you are. Won’t let them keep bullying me friend, even if ‘e’s ‘appy enough to do it.” 

There it was again. Friend. No prompting, no nothing, just her wide brown eyes sparkling, no sense of deception in them. 

“Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. Can never truly repay you.” 

She leaned forward, on her tiptoes, and kissed his forehead. 

He’d never felt anything like it. Not from Dr. Harold, not from any of the techs or scientists who had raised them, not from anyone. It was such a casual bit of throwaway intimacy that Tracer seemed to already be moving on to the next issue at hand, picking up a ham sandwich from the try and inspecting it. 

She’d forget this in the next few minutes. But Winston would remember it for the rest of his life, what it felt like to have a human being’s lips on his forehead, with no hesitation, her hand brushing back his hair, simultaneously so thoughtless and so loving, and loving because she put no effort or thought behind it. Because she simply did it and moved on to her ham sandwich. 

He was glad he wasn’t built to cry, in that moment. 

Tracer was his friend. He had a friend, and she was not afraid of him, and even if he built the best medical device in the world, she would leave this room but never him, not forever and not for real. 

Because he had a friend.

#vaelntine's day prompts #amberlilly

[carsontheleft]

One sentimental moment

Summary: Gwilym and Ben know each other through an app and set up strict boundaries for their relationship - sex only, no feelings. When Gwil is hurt, Ben needs to figure out what he really wants.

Pairing: GwilxBen

Comment: I want to dedicate this to you, @laminy. I realize that this piece of writing is not really worthy of being dedicated to someone of your talent, but I wanted to do it since it were your stories that got me into writing again after quite some time. ITBASM means so much to me, really, Rami and Joe’s place in London, the flat in Aber, the boys and their cats feel like family, like home to me. I can reread the series a million times and still not be bored, I always cry with them, laugh with them, want to hit them over the head when they’re being stupid. And your snippets are glorious! You manage to answer a range of various prompts and every single one of them is so well-crafted, so full of feelings, I’ve actually turned on the notifications for your blog so I’ll never miss a post. If this is wildly inappropriate, if you don‘t like this one-shot at all, please feel free to ignore it. This is just something I wanted to say (and yes, I totally missed the deadline from the Appreciate the Queen Creators Day...). This blog has like 2 followers but I wanted to get this out here. I hope I can show my appreciation this way, because your writing (and subsequently you?) just mean so much to me. I hope you can somehow enjoy this <3

//

When Ben’s phone rings he’s on his way to the hospital. The caller ID says Sex on LEGS and he has to bite down on his lower lip not to laugh. It’s what Gwilym described himself as on the app they met on and frankly, he’s not wrong.

“Hey Gwil.”

“Ben”, Gwil just says, his voice is deep and rough, sounding like he just woke up and it sends tingles down Ben’s spine, settling right into his crotch. “Listen, uh, I’m sorry but I won’t be able to make it tonight.”

“Oh.”

That isn’t what Ben has hoped for. He thought Gwil is calling him to set the mood for their, well not date exactly, but their date. He is an expert at driving Ben to edge and leaving him hanging there for the rest of the day until they finally met up in the evening.

“Yeah, I- I’m really sorry, I’ll make it up to you, I promise – ugh”, there’s a rustling of sheets in the background and Gwil groans slightly.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. It’s just a cold, Ben, I’m okay, it’s just a bit… not sexy.”

Ben can see him scrunching his nose, frustrated about his inelegant choice of words and has to stifle his laughter again. He also has to hold back on the offer to come over and look after Gwil for a bit.

What they’re having isn’t like that. It’s not a relationship, they’re not dating, it’s just sex for the sake of it. Mind-blowing good sex. The best sex Ben’s ever had. But nothing more. They’re probably not even friends. Ben knows what kind of rope Gwil prefers to use, but not his favorite movie. He knows the size of condoms he needs, but not if he’s still friends with his mates from uni.

Ben made himself swear to not get hung up about it. They even have a contract about the nature of their arrangement that clearly states that, if one should catch feelings for the other, he’s to tell immediately.

But Ben doesn’t have feelings for Gwil. He just likes him in a regular way, only with the bonus that he loves Gwil when he gives Ben orgasms that make him feel like the world is exploding. And he just doesn’t want him to feel bad. Like a normal, decent person does with their acquaintances.

So, no feelings.

“Okay, alright. Then feel better soon. How ‘bout you just text me when you’re better and we can set up a date or something?”, Ben cringes a little, that sounds like he’s talking to some random dude from Ebay that wants to buy his old TV.

“I’ll do that. Have a nice day, Ben.”

“Yeah, you too. See ya!”

He hangs up and fights the urge to bash his phone through his skull. Smooth, Jones, real smooth.

 His cancelled date dampens Ben’s mood a bit when he visits one of his mates, who’s fallen down a ladder and managed to crack what seems like all of his ribs. But he’s trying not to let it show, tries to stuff it away and tells himself he’ll just have a cozy night in with a movie and some popcorn.

He’s leaving the hospital again when he spots a familiar figure limping down the street in front of him. It’s a bit embarrassing but no understatement to say that Ben would recognize the shape of this back, the long, slim legs and the warm hazel colored hair just about anywhere.

“Gwil?”, he calls running up to him and only now fully realizing that Gwil is using crutches, has a brace on his left knee and sports a generally disheveled look.

“Gwil!”

It takes Ben standing in front of him for Gwil to finally look up from his task of navigating himself through the busy street.

“Huh- Ben! Wha-What are you doing here?”

“What am I- Jesus, Gwil, why didn’t you tell me you were in the hospital?!”, Ben can’t stop himself from fretting, not with the way Gwilym looks. Angry red scabs are coating the right side of his face, just like his knuckles. The jacket he usually wears for running is torn up. There’s a flush to his face that indicates he really shouldn’t be out on the streets alone with whatever’s in his system.

“Well, I’m not. At the hospital, I mean”, the taller man indicates at the street with one of his crutches as clearly not the hospital, and stumbles forward when his legs don’t quite hold his weight.

Ben immediately steps forward to steady him with a tight grip on his shoulders, whereas Gwil tries for a dopey grin but winces when it painfully pulls at his road rash.

“Oh my god”, Ben mutters to himself. This is not okay, Gwil really shouldn’t be on his own right now. Fuck not caring, fuck this, them, being something akin a business partnership, this is more serious.

“Is someone picking you up?”

“I pointed at a guy and told the nurse he’s my roommate and here to pick me up.”

“And they just believed that? Without seeing you walk out together?”

Gwil shrugs and then hisses.

“She was busy”, he takes a deep breath and seems to sober up a bit. “But I can get home on my own, don’t worry Ben. It’s not long with the tube.”

“I know”, Ben frowns at him, then makes a decision. “I’ll take you home.”

“You don’t need to-“

“Consider it a service to myself, okay? ‘Cause I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight not knowing you made it home in one piece.”

Ben just plows over Gwil, because this aspect of him, this ‘I-don’t-want-to-inconvenience-you’-thing, that he knows and that he can handle.

“Okay.”

Gwil is surprisingly quiet, so Ben doesn’t waste any time and flags down a taxi and carefully maneuvers Gwil into it.

“How did this happen anyway?”, he asks after he’s given Gwil’s address to the driver.

“A cyclist ran me down yesterday morning. Ran a red light and right into me.”

“Shit, mate”, Ben bites his tongue, cursing his sheer stupidity. ‘Shit, mate’? Really? How much of an insensitive prick can one be?

Gwil doesn’t seem to notice his inner struggles, he’s closed his eyes, relaxing against the head rest.

“So, what did the doctors say?”

“That I’ve been lucky, he could’ve pushed me against another car or something. So it’s just scabs and bruises. They might operate on the knee, they wanted to see if it heals on its own first. Apparently, I’m young and fit enough for that to happen. Doesn’t feel like it at the moment”, Gwil scoffs. He’s kept his eyes closed while talking and Ben debates if he should let him sleep.

“Looks like it.”

He leaves it at that. Gwil dozes for the remainder of the drive while Ben keeps a watchful eye on him. It’s different to see him like this, soft and unguarded, for once not in full control of his surroundings.

But Ben doesn’t mind. Sure, having Gwil in control during sex, being able to let himself be completely at his mercy is nice, exhilarating even, but he finds he likes this too. Inside of him flutters the urge to care, to protect, something he would never have associated with Gwil, but it’s there and it nearly burns through the insides of Ben.

The taxi comes to a stop and Gwil startles awake, begins to look for his wallet or phone or anything to pay with, but Ben hands a few bills to the driver and climbs out of the car to help the other man getting out.

“So, ah, thanks for the ride, appreciate it. But please, don’t let me keep you, you were probably busy before you stumbled over me.”

“Actually, I’m not, took a few days off.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence and Ben can see the cogs turning in Gwil’s head as he figures out that Ben took time off to prepare for the evening they had planned and to recuperate from it.

His face turns apologetic and Ben uses his chance to butt in.

“Why don’t I help you settle in? Just get you comfortable with a cup of tea, you look like you need one.”

“I-“, Gwil is surprised by Ben’s sudden resolve and determination. “That’d be nice, thanks.”

 Ben knows Gwil’s flat, technically. He’s been inside multiple times; he knows the cracks on the ceiling of his bedroom and the feeling of his sheets. The dark blue towels are familiar to him and he knows that there’s a toothbrush in the mirror cabinet if he wants to use one.

But being in Gwil’s kitchen in daylight, looking for tea and mugs, it’s something else entirely. Somehow it fleshes Gwil more out, makes him more of a person, a real person. Not that he hasn’t been before, but there is a difference between knowing someone as the person that ties you to the bedpost and seeing the person’s collection of destination mugs.

It takes a bit of the mystery away, but Ben really doesn’t mind that. It may paint a whole other picture of Gwil, but he’d be lying if he didn’t find it endearing.

When the tea is done, Ben returns to Gwil who’s sitting on his sofa and looking uncomfortable.

“Here’s your tea. I’m not sure how you like it.”

“Thanks.” His smile is tight and there are some lines around his eyes that betray how much he’s hurting sitting up like this. Before Gwil’s struggle to reach the milk on the coffee table draws out, Ben intervenes.

“Here, let me.”

He adds a splash of milk and hands the tea over to Gwil.

“You know, you really don’t need to do this. I can get by on my own, there’s no reason you should feel obligated to take care of me, I don’t expect this from our relationship”, Gwil says after some quiet minutes where they just sipped their drinks. On second thought he adds: “And I’m not sure if that came up during the negotiation, but I’m not really a fan this playing doctor thing, or up for it, so-“

“Jeez, Gwil, it’s not like that!”, Ben cuts in before Gwil has the chance to make this even more awkward. It hurts bit to know that Gwil sees their relationship just as sex and not more of a personal connection, but Ben deems that his own fault. He wanted sex without the added trouble of a relationship, and he got just that.

“Am I not allowed to be a decent human being and to make sure you’re alright?”, Gwil doesn’t seem convinced at all, so Ben decides, in a moment of some sort of mental blackout obviously, to go all in.

“I like you, okay? As a person with a character and not just with a great dick. And I don’t like the thought of you hurting and being on your own. You’ve taken great care of me these last weeks, I don’t think I’ve thanked you for that, so just let me take care you! Even if it’s in a different way.”

Gwilym says nothing to that. For some minutes that might as well stretch out into hours he just stares as Ben as if he just declared that the earth is flat and is breaking apart. It makes Ben so uncomfortable that he considers to either wave a hand in front of Gwil’s face to make sure he hasn’t checked out mentally or to just leave, this apartment, the city, the country, change his name, grow a beard and work as goat farmer on an isolated island in Greece.

“You do.”

“What?”

“You do thank me. Every time you orgasm. It’s a bit weird, actually.”

Ben blushes, honest to god blushes and the plans for the goat farm seem to be a really good idea.

“I, uh- I’m sorry? I didn’t know that. I just… yeah.”

“It’s sweet. And I’m sorry if I offended you, it’s just- I’ve been doing this a while now and the anonymity of the app lets some people forget their manners. Or decency. It’s…”, he sighs, and Ben can feel it in every inch of his body. “It’s generally safer not to expect anything. I’m beginning to think I might be the wrong person for ‘just sex’ after all.”

Okay, no. Ben’s gotta put a stop to this, it’s not fair to the both of them. They need to have this talk when they’re both in full possession of their mental capabilities and not doped up and/or in pain.

“Hey, we don’t need to talk about this right now. How about I’ll help you out of these clothes and into something more comfortable so you can rest?”

 Gwil is soft and pliable, which makes changing his clothes easy, although his pants are a bit tricky. Ben needs to remove the brace, get the tight running pants off, the brace back on and only then he can stick Gwil’s ridiculously long legs into a pair of soft pyjama pants.

“You’re good at this”, Gwil remarks once they’re done in the bathroom and hobbling to his bedroom. He’s panting and a drop of sweat makes it slowly down his temple.

“I was training to be a nurse.”

Ben grunts a little when Gwil has to lean almost his whole on Ben in order to lower himself down on his bed.

“Why did you stop?”

“I couldn’t draw the line between the person and the patient”, Ben shrugs and rearranges Gwil’s pillows for him to lay down comfortably. “It was so hard to draw blood from kids. Even harder when someone didn’t make it. I loved it but I figured my job shouldn’t leave me crying almost every night.”

“Mhh”, Gwil hums, his eyes already closed when Ben covers him with the blanket. “Thanks, Ben.”

“Get some rest, Gwil.”

 Upon waking, Gwil isn’t too sure of his surroundings. He’s in his own bed, yes, but there are noises outside, some clanking and a rushing. It takes some time until he realizes it’s someone in his kitchen making tea. But-

Ben.

Oh shit.

Oh no.

Gwil shoots up and doubles over immediately when his body screams at him in pain by the sudden movement. His groan is guttural, but that’s not even on the forefront of his mind, there’s Ben. Ben, who stumbled over him at the hospital, took him home and put him to bed. Ben, who, apparently, is currently in his kitchen making tea.

This is not okay, far from it, really. This goes against everything they agreed upon in their contract.

“You’re up!”

“Ben!”

The blonde needs only a second before he knows what’s going on.

“When I made the tea, I noticed your cupboards were pretty empty, so I went out to get some groceries. Just the essentials”, he holds up his hands, well, the one hand not holding a mug.

“You didn’t need to do that.”

“I know”, Ben sits down on his bed and looks at Gwil, a steely resolve in his eyes that Gwil hasn’t seen before, “But a thank you should be enough to make up for it.”

“Thank you.”

It’s more of a mechanic response, because what Gwil actually wants to do is insisting that he’s fine, that Ben really didn’t need to get him groceries, that he can get by on his own. But Ben seems to have another idea.

“Listen, I know what you want to say. Me being here with you like this is violating the contract and not the nature of our agreement. But I don’t fucking care. If me taking care of you means we can’t have sex anymore, fine. Well, not fine, obviously, but okay, I’ll take it. There’s nothing that could make me just leave you alone like this. If you’ll have me, of course.”

“I…”

Gwil is not sure what to say. Ben just said a lot of words and his sleep- and pain-addled brain is a bit slow on the uptake.

“Is there anyone you could call? Who’d come over for bit?”, Ben asks softly.

“No, not really”, Gwil doesn’t know why he’s ashamed of that but he can’t bring himself to meet Ben’s eyes. “My family doesn’t live here, and my friends, I don’t really- I wouldn’t want-“

“To bother them? You’re a moron, Gwilym Lee”, despite his words, Ben smiles at him. He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair out Gwil’s face. He can’t help but lean into the soft touch.

“Are you okay with me staying here with you?”

“Yes.”

And he really is, much to his own surprise. He likes Ben like this. In a soft sweater, with a mug in his hands. He might like him like this even more than he likes him naked.

“Do you want some painkillers?”

“Yes, please.”

Ben places the mug on the bedside table and opens the drawer to pull out a bottle of pills. He smirks at Gwil.

“I might not know how where you keep your sugar, but I do know where your painkillers are. And I’m okay with learning that other stuff.”

#harlee #ben hardy #gwilym lee #borhap cast #hurt/comfort #appreciation post #painkillers #accident

[bubmyg]

twice bitten - myg

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre/warnings: vampire!yoongi, again...so much fluff, blood mention, told mostly from yoongi’s pov, non-chronological and a part of my vampire yoongi drabble series (listed as “midnight angels” on my masterlist!)

word count: 2,455

summary: the one where yoongi, the two hundred year old vampire, thinks of using a bat as a defensive mechanism before anything else or where yoongi is really creative with names. 

One foot on the first stair and Yoongi hesitated, gaze flitting back to the glinting object propped up meticulously behind the giant banner and various figurines littering his desk space. Another rustle beyond the flimsy door at the top of the staircase and his hesitation became action, rushed footsteps carrying him back into the depth of his basement to retrieve the metal bat. 

He was delicate with it at first, turning the barrel in massive palms a few times, pink lips fished as he considered the worn logo on the fattest part of the bat, a company that hadn’t been in business for decades. With a huff, he squared his shoulders, settling the bat over one side of his body as he began to take the stairs two creaking ascends at a time. 

The groan of the door as he peeled it open left the deserted house in an eerie silence, all aside from the refrigerator humming in the kitchen down the hall. Sun spots peaked out from where his blackout curtains didn’t cover, particles of dust flicking through the rays but otherwise, there was no movement except for the gentle rise and fall of Yoongi’s chest as he garnered enough courage to place both feet on the ground level of his house. 

He tried to appear nonchalant even though there was, again, no one around to observe his jumpy actions, bat bumping against his thigh as he strolled down the hall for the kitchen. The pockets of sun made him shiver, but it wasn’t enough to hinder his ability to make it into the kitchen, a room enclosed in the middle of the house, especially not when he flattened the bat to the countertop and pulled something akin to a juice box of blood from within the whirring appliance. He took a delicate sip, lips rested on the edge of the bent straw as his eyes surveyed over into the next set of halls and rooms, again, finding nothing. 

The house was void of what he’d heard in the basement, sounds of the wind curling dead leaves into the brick and glass outside sure, but nothing like the strange crackling rustles he’d heard, something similar to when it stormed and the oak tree in the backyard landscaping craned enough to brush it’s limbs over the bedroom window. 

Yoongi had called for them to be trimmed after the third night of having to calm you down when you woke in a tremor, clinging to him like a wet leaf as the branches cackled outside. 

He finished off the box with a loud slurping noise and puffed cheeks, quickly depositing the trash before daring to curl around the countertop without quick reach to his bat. He relaxed instead when he spotted some tufts of fabric draped over one of the reclining chairs in the adjacent sitting room. Couples costumes for the Halloween party you were going to attend later, jerseys you’d spent hours customizing in typical Space Jam fashion, complete with a headband of grey, fuzzy bunny ears to sit through the stark black of Yoongi’s head. A tiny smile graced his lips as his index finger trailed over the painted lettering on the back, your voice ringing in his head with the threat of wearing a collection of cotton balls on his ass as a tail if he so much as poked you while you were trying to complete the costumes. 

His fingernail had so much as scraped over the paint, making a visible noise, when something, the sound, occurred, louder than before and complete with a soft thump just beside the towering front door of the house. 

Yoongi nearly dove headfirst into the cut edge of the marble countertop to retrieve the bat, barely feeling the nerve endings in his legs as he slunk forward, ignoring the nausea that erupted in his stomach as the sunlight peeking out from the tiny, stained glass windows on either side of door curled goosebumps into his bare arms. 

Shaking fingers fiddled at the lock, managing to fumble it open and the door in the same moment, forcing him to stumble over the lip of the front door. A deep, onset shiver ran through his entire being as the sun fully touched him now but he ignored it, head whipping to the sound of the rustling as it continued. 

A massive holly bush just to the left of the tiny front porch shook violently, its leaves repeatedly scratching into the window just beyond it but periodically tilting so much that the weight of two or three branches catapulted into the glass like snapping a rubber band into a solid surface. Yoongi frowned, catching a stabilizing hand on the railing as socked feet brushed against the mulch, carrying him toward the bush. 

The closer he got, the less it shook, until finally when he was crouched next to it, it ceased any movement, not so much as breathing even as the wind continued to whirl dying blades of grass in the front yard. He swallowed the string of bile rising upward into his throat, making the sting of hunger that struck suddenly ten times worse, as he reached crooked knuckles of his free hand to push aside some of the branches to peer inside. 

Yoongi felt it before he heard it, the swat of something sharp but fuzzy on the end against his hand, but it was the heard part that had him stumbling backward onto his ass, one, loud, continuous mrow! jumping through the spaces in the bush. 

Two, beaded yellow eyes seemed to laugh at his fallen figure, head quirking to the side before another, softer bleat of greeting poured from the bush, followed by the graceful hop of a tiny black kitten into Yoongi’s lap. 

His mouth had barely parted to question the animal that couldn’t answer him anyway when there was another, more distinct meow, deeper and a bit crackly. The kitten already perched on the apex of his knee turned at the sound too, just in time for its counterpart of the orange tabby variety to join it between the part of Yoongi’s splayed out legs. 

They each stared at him, as if anticipating his response, and when neither got one, the black one began to rub it’s cheek against the denim of Yoongi’s jeans while the orange one swiped an indifferent paw over the long fur coating it’s tiny face. 

“It was you two making all that noise?” He chastised weakly, and suddenly he felt overwhelming embarrassed about the bat now rolled up against the side of the front porch. Now he understood the strange hunger in his throat, one not quite the same as what he felt toward you but different, attuned to the different taste that was animal blood, but it was easier to fight when he hadn’t tasted animal in centuries. 

And when they began to search for his hands, meeting him halfway by nudging their tiny heads into the clammy palms he stretched for them. 

The kittens came with Yoongi as he stood, mewls of protest as they were lifted into the air in separate hands as he began to take shaky steps back for the house. He addressed the black one first as he pulled them against his chest, the one who’d ceased making noises of protest first. 

“Not a word about this.”

Yoongi barely blinked at the business logo plastered to the glass of the front door to your building, the only thing reminding him that this was the Bureau of Vampiric Affairs being the small keypad that required him to flash a specially acquired ID card shoved in the front of his wallet. He gripped the over the shoulder bag slung so it was centered to his stomach as he pressed the plastic into the chip reader, foot tapping both in wait and with the exhaustion still bubbling in his being from being in the sun too much, body not recovered from the afternoon excursion let alone from his car ride over and walk through the city to get to your office. 

His usual formality with the front receptionist was forgotten when the door finally allowed him entrance, turning curtly on his heel down the long, carpeted hallway that contained your office. The door was shut and he forgot to knock but he was thankful that you were munching on an apple with your phone in your palm when he stumbled inside, both items you dropped in favor of startling toward him. 

“Yoongi,” You scolded, moving to reach for him first but trading for yanking your curtains shut first, the human layer first and then the blackout layer second you had for client appointments. Then your hands were on his cheeks, stern in tugging upward on the black mask that covered the bottom half of his face to assure as little skin as possible was susceptible to sunlight. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t think we can go out tonight,” Yoongi mumbled, muffled in the fabric, “I, uh, don’t feel too great.”

“No kidding, you’re outside during peak sunlight hours,” You kept a hand curled around his elbow as you reached behind him to drag a chair over, weakly pushing until he collapsed into it. “Answer my initial question.”

“I needed to come into town to get food.”

Your features scrunched at the center of your face, hip falling against the outer edge of your desk. “Food? You just went to the bank the other day. You’re not supposed to feed for another—” You glanced at the smart watch on your wrist, “—twelve days—”

“Not for me.”

You stared at each other for several passing seconds, ones that had a smile creeping onto Yoongi’s features underneath his mask, one that only grew when you, in a higher pitch, inquired, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

His fingers fumbled for the zipper on his bag, gradual in drawing open the zipper until one, then two, fuzzy heads appeared, meows full force at both light and the new figure in front of them. You were cooing over his explanation, shooting up off the side of your desk to reach inside to gather both of them into your grasp. “These little girls were causing a ruckus out front earlier,” He reached to scratch behind the orange one’s ears while blinking innocently at you, “They don’t like any of your human food and I certainly can’t feed them yours. We’re we going to go to the market next but...they wanted to come visit you.”

“Oh yeah, did they?” There was still a root of concern at your core but you softened at the way Yoongi was fondly assessing the two kittens in your grasp, entirely gentle in the way he let them rub up against his fingers. “So does this mean we’re keeping them?”

You could only see in the way Yoongi’s cheeks jumped that his mouth was fishing open and closed, and you reached to touch his wrist when he was finally, bashfully, shrugging, “I mean...I thought maybe. We don’t have any neighbors so I bet someone just dropped them off and it’s about to get cold and they’re a little skinny so I’m sure no one has been taking proper care of them anyway and—”

His rambles died off when your lips gently touched his cheek, careful in passing the kittens back to him. “Sounds like we definitely need to keep them,” You smiled, warm all over when dark brown eyes flicked to yours amongst another chaotic round of protesting mewls as they were plopped unceremoniously into his lap. “Take the girls home. I’ll get food and some other things for them after work.”

Yoongi’s gloved hands enveloped yours, nudging his fabric covered nose to your cheek. “Don’t you want to hear their names?”

“Oh?” You crouched in front of the kittens to sate their cries with ear scratches, “Tell me.”

He lifted the orange one first, gentle in working her back into the bag at his tummy. “Abra—” He said shortly, nodding, “Or just Abby.”

The black one came with slightly more protest, trying to dig her claws into his thigh to stay rooted where she was receiving pets but she settled once nestled next to her friend again, “And Cadabra—” He was beaming behind his mask again, shown in the way the bridge of his nose and the corners of his eyes crinkles, “Or Caddy.”

Your forever rooted concern washed away for a second as you leaned forward to hook a finger into the top of his mask, tugging it down to plant your lips on his for a chaste moment, trailing those affections back up his warmed cheeks as you secured his mask back to its original position, speaking to his wide, shiny eyes that inspected you, shellshocked. 

“They’re perfect.”

Also…

You tripped through the front door with the weight of the plastic bags in your hands, bags filled with beds (yes, multiple), toys, and three different varieties of hard and soft foods, ones they could eat now as kittens and ones labeled for young cats, all of which you were sure Yoongi had consulted on his office computer after you’d sent him home. You tossed them all in a sad heap next to the tiny end table as you began to work your shoes off your heels. Furrowed eyebrows paired with your loud call into the house, “Hey, Yoongi?”

He heard you first try this time, an echo down the open door to the staircase of his study and you heard the tell tale signs of his ascend now that the sun had began to curl beyond the treeline, “Yes? What’s wrong?”

You waited until you could see Yoongi’s face, something that peered at you from the top stair of the basement with an expectant eyebrow and two tiny kittens on either side of the front pocket of his hoodie. 

“Why is there a baseball bat in the landscaping?”

Yoongi blanched, not budging from his position. “Uh—”

“Open your mouth for me.”

“What?”

“Open your mouth.”

He begrudgingly complied, fangs sliding out from his gums and he glared at your as his cheeks flared a deep set pink. 

You beamed nonetheless, pointing to your mouth where something similar would be if you were of the same, immortal variety. 

“You do know you’re a vampire, right?”

Yoongi plucked the kittens from his pocket, settling them onto the floor to let them scamper off into the house before taking a few, semi-threatening steps toward you with a playful smirk wrinkled to the dimples in his cheeks. 

“I do. Do you need a reminder?”

#bts reactions #bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts fluff #bts x reader #yoongi imagines #yoongi x reader #yoongi fluff #yoongi fic #bts fic #fic: vampire yoongi #FINALLY!!!! i won't say why finally so i don't spoil it just read it owo

[huckstersandhoaxes]

In August of 1835, an article claiming to be from the Edinburgh Journal of Science, reprinted by The New York Sun, took the city of New York by storm. This fantastic account of life on the moon, from bipedal beavers to bat-winged humanoids, was largely embraced as true. Though the thought seems ludicrous to us today, scholar David Copeland offers several plausible explanations, including the popular interest in astronomy sparked by the passing of Halley’s comet in 1835 and the widespread religious acceptance of life on the moon (Copeland 141-142). I’d like to offer one more factor alongside that perfect storm of cultural touchstones: The moon, as presented by Richard Adams Locke, was a purer world which blended 19th century wishes for the present with hopes for the future.

Locke’s moon is a frontier world; a peaceful, idealized version of the American West. Its vast, forested plains are inhabited by a creature “having all the external characteristics of the bison...[and] a remarkable fleshy appendage over the eyes,” (Locke 10) which may well be hunted by a species of bipedal beavers, with “huts...constructed better and higher than those of many tribes of human savages.” (Locke 12) To the modern eye a moon full of bison and furry Native American analogues seems quite jarring. But in the age of manifest destiny the West, like the moon, was an unexplored territory full of awe and potential.

In contrast to the beavers, who are merely noted as having discovered fire, Locke characterizes his man-bats as “rational beings...capable of producing works of art and contrivance.” (Locke 15) Together with this observation, their similarity with humans seems to earn the man-bats the title of dominant species on the moon. But they don’t exert this dominance over other species by hunting, as humans- who hunted the American bison to near extinction in the 19th century- would do. In fact, a sort of white stag grazes near the man-bats “without the least manifestation of fear on his part or notice on their.” (Locke 21) The beauty and awe of the Lunar frontier is unmarred by violence, either against nature or, so far as Locke recounts, against the more ‘primitive’ Native peoples.

In spite of the simple innocence demonstrated by the man-bats, or perhaps because of it, they maintain what a 19th century reader might find an enviable degree of racial purity. There are three races of man-bats: Those with a “yellowish” face, “a slight improvement upon that of the large orang outang,” (Locke 15), those “of larger stature than the former specimens, less dark in color, and in every respect an improved variety of the race,” (Locke 20), and “the very superior species”, who are “scarcely less lovely than...angels,” (Locke 22). The darker-skinned individuals are compared to orangutans, whereas those who resemble the painted ideal of an angel are presumably akin to a White human. Each race seems to naturally inhabit different flocks, for lack of a better word, despite at least two of them inhabiting the same continent.

This sort of racial separation was an ideal for White 19th century society. James O’Sullivan, the very man who, in 1845, coined the term ‘manifest destiny’ to describe the American mindset with regards to the West, considered the ideal result for Black Americans to be “[emancipating them] from slavery...to remove [them] from the midst of our own.” (O’Sullivan 7) Locke’s vision of the moon presents a world which his contemporaries might have hoped the widespread acceptance of phrenology and other racial pseudosciences would spark; one in which racial divisions require no effort or legal enforcement, but are simply accepted as laws of nature.

The religious practices of the moon’s inhabitants, or perhaps their ancestors, also demonstrate the long-term conclusion of certain 19th century trends. Although the temples seen by the narrator no longer seem to be active places of worship, they’re described as “a fane of devotion, or of science, which, when consecrated to the Creator is devotion of the loftiest order; for it exhibits his attributes purely free fromthe masquerade, attire, and blasphemous caricature of controversial creeds,” given that it’s free of any carvings or obvious marks of sectarianism, made only of a beautiful blue stone and some sort of yellow metal (Locke 18).

This simply constructed, light, airy temple brings to mind the simple, personal, passionate religion that was sweeping the country in the 19th century, manifesting in séances, spirit photography, and other ways of directly interacting with ghosts and the afterlife. Those phenomenon were part of what David Copeland terms “a ‘scientific’ theology that could be used to explain and rationalize all elements of faith.” (Copeland 143) While the temple itself offers no scientific justifications for faith, its apparent absence of sectarianism or subjective imagery offers the hope for a universal faith— something pure, simple, and understood by all. Although the Lunarians might no longer worship at the temple, it could serve as beacon of hope for the future for any watching humans.

Ultimately, Locke’s moon hoax was a story that didn’t need to be true; it only needed to be beautiful. It offered the hope and awe of a scientific discovery of epic proportions, alongside a sort of fable that promised an alternative to strife and a remedy for societal ills. It earns the moniker of early science fiction not only by its speculative nature, but by the ways in which it appeals to a sense of inevitable progress and the idea of a fundamental morality possessed by all sentient species.

Copeland, David A. “A Series of Fortunate Events: Why People Believed Richard Adams Locke’s Moon Hoax.” Journalism History, vol. 33, no. 3, 2007, pp. 140–150., doi:https://doi.org/10.1080/00947679.2007.12062738.

Locke, Richard Adams. “GREAT ASTRONOMICAL DISCOVERIES LATELY MADE BY SIR JOHN HERSCHEL, L.L.D. F.R.S. &amp;c. At the Cape of Good Hope [From Supplement to the Edinburgh Journal of Science].” The New York Sun, 25 Aug. 1835.

O’Sullivan, J.L. “Annexation.” The United States Magazine and Democratic Review, vol. 17, 1845, pp. 5–10. Google Books, play.google.com/books/reader?id=JvE7AQAAMAAJ&amp;hl=en&amp;pg=GBS.PA5.

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Around the city, Pannu is best accepted for her mural art. She has created over 80 mural art projects which accept adorned the walls of doctor’s offices and restaurants as able-bodied as clandestine residences. “In the beginning, I was mostly aloof accomplishing nurseries,” Pannu said of her home commissions.

“But in the accomplished two years there has been a lot of appeal for bodies attractive to accept added murals throughout their homes … staircases, emphasis walls and absorbing areas. It’s absolutely alive from article allegorical and child-focused to article that’s added adult and upscale.”

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Compared to blind art or photographs, the abidingness and above calibration of mural art can accept a added abstruse appulse on your autogenous design. Pannu’s residential mural commissions bulk anywhere from $500 to $5,000, depending on the admeasurement of the activity and the complication of the design.

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Dialects of Glossolalia?

 Dialects of Glossolalia?

Andrea Belag, "Cave" - oil on wood

Joanne Freeman, "Covers Cobalt" - etching

Deborah Freedman, "Oaks and Oleandrs #1" - acrylic on polyester

Joseph Haske, "Asterion #5" - acrylic on canvas

Mark Saltz, Untitled - oil, resin, pigment on linen

Marjorie VanDyke, "Ides #1" - oil on canvas

By Tom Wachunas

   “Abstract art is a fundamental distrust of the theory of reality concocted by the eyes.” – Robert Brault

   “One of the most striking of abstract art’s appearances is her nakedness, an art stripped bare.” – Robert Motherwell

   “Abstract literally means to draw from or separate. In this sense every artist is abstract... a realistic or non-objective approach makes no difference. The result is what counts.”  - Richard Diebenkorn

EXHIBIT: Painters Prints/ works by Andrea Belag, Deborah Freedman, Joanne Freeman, Joseph Haske, Mark Saltz, Marjorie VanDyke / at The Lemmon Gallery, located inside the Kent Stark Fine Arts Building, 6000 Frank Avenue, North Canton, Ohio / THROUGH APRIL 6, 2019 / Gallery viewing hours are Monday – Friday 11 a.m. to 5 p.m.

Gallery Talk: April 4, 3:30 p.m. / Artist Reception: April 4, 5–7p.m.

   Aesthetics 101: Two-dimensional art is a language of myriad dialects, both learned and intuited. When we say that an artwork “speaks” to us, we affirm its capacity to take us into some quiet state of perception that resonates with our own experience of existence.  Mindful looking, or listening, if you will, requires slowness, and begins with a surrender, founded upon our intentionality, our willingness to be transported, perhaps even transformed.  What theartist makes becomes all the more compelling when it prompts us, the viewers, to look at our world in a deeper way.

   Now stretch your imagination to consider the possibility that this highly captivating exhibition of abstract prints and paintings by six accomplished New York City-based artists could be a variation of the phenomenon known as glossolalia (glôs-ō-lā’- lēə). Here’s the Collins English Dictionary definition of the term: 1. ecstatic or apparently ecstatic utterance of usually unintelligible speechlike sounds, as in a religious assembly, viewed by some as a manifestation of deep religious experience / 2. gift of tongues.  

   Glossolalia, or speaking in tongues, is known in many cultures, most of them ancient. In Christianity, for example, it is regarded as a mystical language coming directly from God, and spontaneously voiced by entranced worshippers. A communing with the divine. To the uninitiated or insensitive, such utterances might well sound like gibberish.

   Similarly, it’s no secret that there are viewers who, in their passing rush to identify the meaning of what they see only with their eyes, consider abstract art, particularly of the non-objective sort, as the strictly proprietary language of artists engaged in iconoclastic nonsense. Those who hold such a dismissive view are probably looking too fast.

   This is certainly not to say that we should consider all artists as either the dispensers of mystical experiences or the sole recipients of cryptic messages from on high. It’s not entirely unreasonable, however, to regard artists such as those presented in this marvelously diversified fete of abstractions as somehow akin to shamans, or spirit-catchers. Think of them in a larger sense as curious gatherers of energies and essences. As all visual artists do, the individuals in this exhibit have made symbols, allegories, metaphors. These particular artists, however, have channeled their personal encounters with corporeal realities and personal memories into varying dialects that depart from conventional naturalism to arrive at intriguing if not transcendent distillations.

   Back to mindful looking for a moment. Yes, there is a substantial presence of rarefied quirkiness in this exhibit. So slow down. Let your intuition do the deciphering. Here’s where the ordinary and the predictable get wrecked. It’s viewer-friendly glossolalia.  

Dialects of Glossolalia? syndicated post

[minnievirizarry]

How to use social media personas to boost brand engagement

Do you know what your ideal customer on social media looks like – literally?

In day and age where people crave personalization from businesses online, it pays to get as specific as possible when it comes to defining your target audience.

But when you’re targeting hundreds or thousands of followers, how can you possibly guarantee that your message is on point?

Welcome the world of social media personas.

Marketing personas put a proverbial face to your customer base, allowing you to better define and market to your most profitable customers.

And thanks to the sheer amount of data we can gather via social media, doing so is arguably easier than ever.

Why marketers need social media personas

For starters, let’s quickly break down what personas are.

Social media personas are fictional representations of your ideal customers. Taking into account factors such as demographics, desires and pain points, personas paint a picture of the individuals you’re trying to sell to.

In other words, a profile of your perfect customer.

Maybe you’re trying to reach the millennial crowd. Perhaps you’re marketing toward baby boomers. Either way, creating a persona can help you hone in on a more focused, actionable social strategy.

How so? Consider the benefits of social media personas below.

Improve your content strategy

From finding your brand voice to publishing relevant pieces, social media personas help you tap into content that speaks to different members of your audience.

For example, Denny’s is a brand that’s infamous for it’s meme-heavy Instagram and bizarre Twitter. These feeds are favorites of millennials who are hungry for humor rather than traditional restaurant marketing fare.

View this post on Instagram

Stability meets taste with the new Waffle Speed III cross training shoe. A breathable mesh upper, a cushioned waffle sole and the patented syrUP™ tread combine for the ultimate shock absorption during an intense workout.

A post shared by dennysdiner (@dennysdiner) on Sep 30, 2018 at 5:43pm PDT

However, the brand’s Facebook page takes a totally different approach. Publishing “safer,” more traditional content, Denny’s Facebook speaks to an older crowd and their posts still get a ton of love.

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It may be cooling down outside but it’s warming up at Denny’s! Bundle up with the new America’s Diner Burger and treat…

Posted by Denny's on Monday, October 1, 2018

The brand is clearly targeting different social media personas based on their platforms rather than taking a one-size-fits-all approach. This sort of segmentation allows them to speak to multiple customer bases and interact with these audiences using the content styles and platforms they prefer.

Run more compelling ad campaigns

It’s no secret that ad campaigns on Facebook and Instagram are killing it right now for brands concerned about organic reach.

And most of these ads’ success boils down to granular audience data.

By having your social media personas defined, you can zero in on ad targeting that’s tailored for your brand’s best customers.

When ad platforms allow brands to target based on everything from age and location to related interests, having personas handy makes for more compelling ads that speak to specific wants and needs.

Tap into a profitable target audience

No matter who your target audience might be, competition in the social space is undoubtedly fierce.

That’s why it pays to tap into niche markets and customers sooner rather than later.

Instead of taking a “trickle down” approach, brands should consider going after specific sections of their audience rather than blindly chasing anyone and everyone.

And your personas can teach you exactly who those customers are and where they hang out.

Brands like Overtone absolutely crush it with their color-crazy customer base rather than presenting themselves as a generic beauty brand. Their loud feed featuring primarily millennial women is no accident, nor is the high level of engagement the brand gets on any given post.

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@evalam_ created this blush color melt on @lo.rean with a custom blend of oVertone.

A post shared by oVertone (@overtonecolor) on Sep 30, 2018 at 8:58am PDT

What does a social media persona look like, anyway?

Although there is no “right” way for a persona to look, a rule of thumb is that the more specific you can define your social media personas, the better.

Here are some sample personas from a sporting brand looking to create an audience-aligned social strategy:

Although these personas are a solid starting point, they could definitely go much more in-depth.

Consider how many brands quite literally craft narratives for their social media personas. Highlighting specifics such as fictional biographies, motivations and personality traits, such personas are akin to real flesh-and-blood people. For example, Xtensio offers blank templates which highlight what a more “complete” persona looks like:

And here’s what the “finished product” of a customer persona look like:

Excessive?

Not at all.

Again, any given audience is incredibly nuanced. Having these points highlighted makes it much easier not only to craft appropriate brand messages but also attract customers that are likely to convert.

And if nothing else, creating social media personas is a smart exercise to ensure that your social strategy isn’t just copying your competition’s.

Regardless of how in-depth you decide to get, below are some baseline metrics and points to consider when coming up with your social media personas:

Age

Location

Gender

Income/spending power

Pain points/frustrations

Personality traits

Goals

Objections

Brands they support

Seems like a lot to take in, right? At a glance, sure.

The good news? Everything from audience metrics to qualitative data such as your customers’ frustrations is all readily available via social media – read on to find out how to tap into this wealth of information.

How to define your social media personas

You might already have a big-picture idea of what your personas might look like.

And hey, that’s a good start.

However, defining your personas means spending some time both looking at data and picking your customers’ brains.

Dig into your social data

If you want to break down your demographics by the numbers, look no further than your social data.

For example, Sprout’s social analytics suite provides a comprehensive look at how your audience stacks up based on many of the metrics highlighted above. Aggregating data from your social presence across platforms, there’s no second-guessing what your personas should look like.

Sprout has a number of other features that can give you the insight you need to fill in the gaps of your persona profiles. Social monitoring & listening let you tap into what your audience is interested, possibly even uncovering shared interests and concerns you wouldn’t have immediately connected with your target market. Identifying your top-performing posts and the best times to publish can help you figure out how your audience prefers to engage on social. You can also mine your social data via Facebook Insights, Twitter and LinkedIn. Looking at the individual profiles of brand advocates and customers can likewise illustrate what your personas might look like.

Look at your non-social analytics

Social media isn’t the only place to gather information for your social media personas.

For example, you should understand on-site behaviors that could ultimately influence your social strategy. This data includes:

Shopping data

CRM data

Google Analytics

For example, you might notice that a particular product or whitepaper is driving the bulk of your traffic. Ask yourself: what aspects of your customers’ wants or needs are your top-performers speaking to? These can be valuable data points for your persona profiles.

Similarly, you can also figure out which social sites are most relevant to your personas. Rather than spread yourself thin, you can focus your future efforts based on where your customers are currently hanging out.

Ask plenty of questions

Analytics aren’t the be-all, end-all of your social media personas.

Never neglect the simple act of asking questions concerning what your customers’ wants or needs might be. Whether it’s through a survey, poll or a simple social post, your audience’s responses provide valuable insight into their struggles. There’s a reason why so many brands make asking questions a staple of their content strategies.

What do you look for? #SproutChat pic.twitter.com/zcXkvLgVgP

— Sprout Social (@SproutSocial) September 26, 2018

Turning your social media personas into action

Alright, so let’s say your personas are squared away.

Now, what do you do with all of this data?

Fair question. Given what it takes to come up with a social media persona, it’s obviously a priority to turn all of that legwork into action.

For starters, here are some starting points for what to do once you’ve established your social media personas.

Segment your audience

While going through the process of creating personas, you’ll likely learn that your customers have many “faces.”

This is totally fine. Few businesses have a single, uniform persona they’re marketing toward.

Segmenting your audience by persona can influence everything from your content calendar to your ad strategies. For example,  Facebook ads allow you to create ad sets based on variations of your audience. Meanwhile, you’ll want to make sure that you fill your content calendar with posts that don’t overlook any part of your customer base.

Adapt your brand voice

Once you know your social media personas, it’s much easier to adapt your brand voice and have more authentic conversations with customers.

After all, brands rely on different tones of voice. Based on your demographics, knowing which tone to take seems much less daunting.

Want to crack some jokes? Present yourself as a helping hand?

Go for it. Brand voice influences your social captions, ad copy and anything else you might use to speak to customers

Brands like Chewy have mastered a distinct, playful brand voice for their pet-friendly audience.

View this post on Instagram

This fierce feline has mastered resting cat face. 🐱 👀#FanFriday #ChewyBoxLove #FridayNightBoxPawty 📷 @brooklyn_london_tales

A post shared by Chewy (@chewy) on Sep 7, 2018 at 3:00pm PDT

However, they also know how to put on a serious face without being totally gloom and doom.

View this post on Instagram

If you think your pet is battling an autoimmune disease, check in with your vet. Give your pet the bolster it needs to tackle its sickness fast through Chewy Pharmacy's prescription immune support.

A post shared by Chewy (@chewy) on Sep 17, 2018 at 2:00pm PDT

Finding your voice based on your social media personas might take some time, but it’s a critical piece of making your presence stand out from the crowd.

Tweak your content strategy

Finally, consider how social personas are instrumental to your content strategy.

Ask yourself: are you producing content that speaks to your personas’ motivations and frustrations? How are you helping your customers reach their goals?

Whether it’s your next blog post or live video, you need to have a pulse on what your personas might be buzzing about today to stay topical.

This also means that fine-tuning your personas is an ongoing process. As you track trends and continue to ask questions, social listening and attention to detail will constantly keep you in the loop with what your personas want.

What do your brand’s social personas look like?

The takeaway here? The more you know about your target audience, the better.

Creating social media personas allows you to reflect on everything you need to know about your ideal customers. This ultimately allows you to uncover a more meaningful social strategy and produce messages that resonate with your prospects.

And with so much data at our fingertips via social media and tools like Sprout, defining your personas is easier than ever.

We want to hear from you, though. Have you outlined personas for your social media campaigns? Do you prefer something more general or in-depth when it comes to customer profiles? Let us know in the comments below!

This post How to use social media personas to boost brand engagement originally appeared on Sprout Social.

from SM Tips By Minnie https://sproutsocial.com/insights/social-media-personas/

[clusterassets]

New world news from Time: Cricket Hero Imran Khan Set to Lead Pakistan as Rival Parties Cry Foul

When TIME sat down with Imran Khan last October, the cricketer-turned politician was adamant that he would only seek power through fair means. After all, he said, he’d turned down many offers in the past. In 1988, Military dictator General Zia-ul-Haq offered Khan a cabinet role. As did fellow strongman General Pervez Musharif in the 2000s.

“To get into power there are much easier ways [than winning an election],” Khan told TIME on the balcony of his home in Islamabad, as the Maghrib call to prayer fought through the roar of cicadas and snarl of feral dogs. “But I came into politics specifically because corruption destroys a country.”

It is thus unfortunate that Khan’s July 25 election as Pakistan’s likely next prime minister has been marred by allegations of exactly that, with Pakistan’s powerful military — which has ruled the nuclear-armed South Asian nation for more than half its history — accused of playing nefarious kingmaker. Khan claimed victory Thursday with his PTI party projected to win between 105 and 120 of the 272 contested seats, putting him in a clear lead though likely needing a coalition to reach an outright majority of 137.

In a televised address, Khan, 65, hailed the “cleanest election” in the 208 million-strong nation’s history. However, six other parties running all rejected the result long before the count had finished, citing “serious irregularities” such as the ejection of their observers. Some in the media have decried a “silent coup” by the generals, while one noted activist called it Pakistan’s “dirtiest election.”

That’s quite a statement. If politics anywhere is a dirty game, it’s a putrid sewer in Pakistan. Assassinations are common, including former Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto in 2007, and, more recently, senior figures of Khan’s PTI. Wednesday’s vote was marred by bombings in the restive city of Quetta that claimed more than 30 lives. As many as 800,000 police and soldiers were deployed across 85,000 polling stations to oversee what promised to be only the second civilian-to-civilian handover of power in the nation’s history.

But alleged interference by the military — which backed Khan and loathed the political machine of former Prime Minister Nawaz Sharif, who has been jailed for corruption — threatens to append an asterisk to that claim. Even before polling day, pro-Sharif media and activists had complained of strong-arm tactics by the establishment. “It is sheer rigging,” Shahbaz Sharif, who led the incumbent PML-N party on behalf of his brother, told reporters Thursday. “The way the people’s mandate has been insulted, it is intolerable.”

By any measure it was a divisive ballot. For any chance of victory, Khan needed to divide the support-base of Sharif, whose PML-N held a 13-point lead as early as May. Sharif has been sentenced to 10 years for corruption and banned from politics for life after Panama Papers leaks revealed he’d purchased lavish apartments in London through shell companies. Khan led that charge. But the PML-N remains strong in populous Punjab province owing to an entrenched patronage system and lingering feudal networks.

Aamir Qureshi—AFP/Getty Images Supporters of Shahbaz Sharif, the younger brother of former Pakistani Prime Minister Nawaz Sharif and head of the Pakistan Muslim League-Nawaz (PML-N), at a campaign meeting ahead of the election in Rawalpindi on July 23, 2018.

Khan sought to peel off Sharif supporters by courting the Islamist right, painting the U.S.- and India-friendly mogul as inadequately pious or patriotic. This also set the groundwork for a possible parliamentary coalition with radical fringe parties to form a government (though in the end the Islamic right made little headway on polling day.) Sharif went on the counter-offensive, accusing the military of abetting the 2008 Mumbai terrorist attack that claimed 166 lives. In an interview with Pakistani newspaper Dawn, he decried the nation’s “parallel governments.”

That isn’t news to Washington. Pakistan is a lynchpin in the 16-year-old war in Afghanistan as a key supply route and intelligence partner in the strategic nexus between Afghanistan, Iran, India, China and the Arabian Sea. But Pakistan’s fearsome intelligence services have long been suspected of protecting radical clerics who serve its strategic goals. And not just any radicals: 9/11 architect Osama bin Laden was killed in 2011 at his compound less half a mile from the elite Kakul Military Academy in Abbottabad, considered Pakistan’s West Point, where he had spent nearly six years. “We think that there had to be some sort of support network for bin Laden inside of Pakistan,” then U.S. President Barack Obama told CBS News shortly afterward.

Bilateral relations have grown more fractious since the election of U.S. President Donald Trump, who has withheld $2 billion in security aid to Pakistan, decrying the $33 billion in aid that, he tweeted in January, had been “foolishly” provided in the past in exchange for “nothing but lies & deceit.”

Meanwhile, Pakistan’s ties with rival superpower China have strengthened. The new $62 billion China-Pakistan Economic Corridor includes ports, pipelines, railway and power plants snaking through the country. Khan has been courted by China before; prior to the 2013 election, during which he polled in third place, he received a rare invitation to Beijing despite having no government position. “We want to learn from China how they brought 700 million people out of poverty,” Khan said in his victory speech.

Read more: Cricket Hero Imran Khan Led Pakistan’s Team to Victory. As a Politician, He’s Riding a Populist Wave

For Khan, Islamabad’s role in the U.S.-led war in Afghanistan has been an unmitigated disaster that has cost 70,000 Pakistani lives, enfeebled the domestic security situation and cost its struggling economy more than $100 billion. He has repeatedly advocated greater trade with Afghanistan, an end to a “one-sided” relationship with the U.S. and negotiations with the Taliban.

“I find it bizarre that anyone would just rely on a one-dimensional military strategy,” he told TIME. “The military should only be part of a political strategy.”

Khan’s own politics have hardened as his still handsome countenance has lined and leathered. His halcyon pomp may have been spent charming supermodels under the paparazzi glare of London’s sybaritic nightspots, but his recent campaign included an “electoral alliance” with radical Islamist Maulana Sami ul Haq, dubbed the “Father of the Taliban.” In January, a top PTI official shared a campaign rally stage with U.S.-sanctioned terrorist Abdul Rehman Makki, according to local media. In November, Khan backed anti-blasphemy riots that erupted across Pakistan in response to a draft new oath for lawmakers that omitted any mention of the Prophet Muhammad. Just this month, he launched a vociferous defense of Pakistan’s draconian blasphemy law.

Most galling has been his steadfast defense of the Pakistani Taliban, whose 2014 massacre at a school in the city of Peshawar — killing 149, including 132 schoolchildren — was a red line even for hardened Islamists. His detractors have propagated the snide nickname, “Taliban Khan.”

“Any party that uses violence should not be allowed,” Khan told TIME carefully. “But if you make an extreme party run it’s not a bad thing because you always move them into the center and towards moderation. It’s much better to assimilate people, integrate them, contest elections, bring them into the mainstream.”

But Khan’s attempts to “moderate” radicals are akin to playing with fire in the world’s ultimate radical tinderbox. In Khan’s eyes, only 5% of Taliban are true extremists, with the overwhelming majority simply reacting to American drone attacks, air strikes, night raids and other collateral damage. Others are just opportunist thugs who exploited the lawlessness of the borderlands to make a quick buck.

It’s a view that garners support. “In my village, the people who had nothing to do became Taliban,” Aamir Rassool, 28, a call center worker from Orakzai Agency in the Federally Administered Tribal Areas, or FATA, by the Afghan border, told TIME late last year. “Seriously, they just grew their hair and beard and went to wealthy homes and demanded money. They were not Taliban, they were gangsters.”

Still, engagement with the group’s leadership legitimizes its message: one of stone age misogyny, ignorance and brutal oppression. And Khan’s contention that terrorist activity in Pakistan has decreased as American operations have wound down is specious. In fact, it’s only since a full Pakistani military offensive into previously Taliban-controlled FATA in mid-2014 that the security situation has truly improved. “And the offensive went against what Imran Khan for many years was calling for, which was peace talks and not the use of force,” says Michael Kugelman, the senior associate for South Asia at the Woodrow Wilson Center.

Khan is an unlikely radical apologist. The only boy of five children, he was born Oct. 5, 1952, to an affluent Pashtun family in the former colonial capital of Lahore. After school he studied Politics, Philosophy and Economics at Oxford University, and it was also in the U.K. that he first played cricket for Pakistan, aged 18. He retains superstar status for turning his nation into an international cricketing force, crowned by leading an unfancied team to its only Cricket World Cup victory in 1992.

“Sports teaches you to struggle, above everything, and you learn how to take the knocks,” says Khan. “When you win your feet stay on the ground, but when you lose you don’t get demoralized. You pick yourself up again.”

Athit Perawongmetha—Reuters Supporters of cricket star-turned-politician Imran Khan, chairman of Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf (PTI), wait outside his residence, a day after the general election in Islamabad, Pakistan, July 26, 2018.

Khan retired from cricket soon after that triumph. In 1994, he opened the Shaukat Khanum Cancer Hospital in Lahore in memory of his mother, who succumbed to the disease. It remains the largest cancer hospital serving Pakistan’s impoverished. Its quality of care and ruddy finances silenced doubters who scoffed such an ambitious project wasn’t feasible, boosting Khan’s administrative credentials. He founded his PTI political party two years later, though found detractors quick to take aim at his private life.

Khan’s first wife was British journalist and society heiress Jemima Khan, née Goldsmith, a close friend of Diana, Princess of Wales. She converted to Islam for their wedding, though the pair divorced in 2004 after nine years of marriage, and her family’s Jewish heritage was political dynamite in the world’s largest Islamic state. (The couple’s two sons live in London with their mother.) Khan’s second marriage to British-Pakistani journalist Reham Khan lasted only months in 2015. In February, he married Bushra Maneka, who acted as his “spiritual guide.”

Now Khan guides the nation. He will be keen to turn focus away from allegations of rigging toward fixing governance problems. Some 29.5% of Pakistanis wallow below the poverty line, according to its Ministry of Planning Development and Reforms, with literacy rates at just 58%. Pakistan’s current account gap has soared by almost 50% to $16 billion, while its trade deficit has reached $3.7 billion. The country’s external debt and liabilities stand at a six-year high of 31% of GDP. Khan’s first job will be to ask the IMF for another bailout — less than two years since its last one of $6.6 billion.

How will he take to government? Khan is no stranger to transformation: he’s the debonair playboy who grew devout; the humanist who stands with the bloodthirsty; the anti-graft campaigner who will now lead under a cloud. “Pakistan’s policies won’t be for the few rich people, it will be for the poor, for our women, for our minorities, whose rights are not respected,�� Khan told the nation Thursday.

But with legal objections to his win looming, and unrest on the streets all too possible, Khan might be facing the toughest transformation of them all.

July 27, 2018 at 08:47AM ClusterAssets Inc., https://ClusterAssets.wordpress.com

#Time #world #news #ClusterAssets #ClusterAsset #Cluster Asset Inc. #ClusterAssets Inc.

[tuthillscopes-blog]

Henry Greens Party Going: an eccentric portrait of the idle rich

check it out @ https://tuthillscopes.com/henry-greens-party-going-an-eccentric-portrait-of-the-idle-rich/

Henry Greens Party Going: an eccentric portrait of the idle rich

Amit Chaudhuri revisits a masterful tale of revellers stranded in a hotel, which recalls Joyce and Woolf but resembles neither

In the late 1980s, after i would be a graduate student in Oxford, I purchased a amount of three novels by a writer I hadnt heard about, Henry Eco-friendly. The Eco-friendly everyone was speaking about then had an e in the finish of his surname, and the name was Graham. He was almost a precise contemporary of Henrys: born in 1904, annually before Eco-friendly, he resided considerably longer. Both belonged to well-to-do families, but Eco-friendly was particularly affluent. His father was an industrialist. Id attempted studying Graham Greene, but had not made much headway. Then Henry Eco-friendly arrived, and Graham quickly grew to become, for me personally, another Greene, after which not really that. About Henry Eco-friendly, however, theres an irreducible, longstanding excitement one of the couple of who’ve read him.

I have to have purchased the 3-novel amount of Loving, Living, Party Going because John Updike had, in the summary of the amount, not just given Eco-friendly centrality like a precursor, but known as him a saint from the mundane. The religious example was excessive, what had helped me admire Updike to begin with was the means by which hed deliberately made room for that mundane, for that banality that fills our way of life and means they are truly interesting. But I discovered Eco-friendly to become a different of author, with almost no chroniclers impulse that every so often directed Updikes decade-lengthy projects, with no abiding curiosity about realism, despite his remarkable eye and ear and the gift for recording character. Replying to some question offer him by Terry Southern for that Paris Review in 1958 Youve described your novels as nonrepresentational. I question if youd mind defining that term? Eco-friendly stated:

Nonrepresentational was designed to represent an image that was not really a photograph, nor a painting on the photograph, nor, in dialogue, a tape recording. For example, the deaf, like me, hear probably the most astounding things over-all them that have not actually been stated. This enlivens my replies until, through mishearing, a brand new degree of communication is arrived at. My figures do not understand one another greater than people do in tangible existence, yet they are doing so under I. Thus, when writing, I represent very carefully things i see (and I am not seeing very well now) and just what I hear (that is little) however i express it is nonrepresentational since it is not always what others hear and see.

Eco-friendly actually stands approximately James Joyce, in the inclination to become intolerant of ordinary British syntax and punctuation, and Virginia Woolf, in the feeling of how narrative could be formed by things outdoors of event. But, out of the box obvious from his remarks to Southern, Eco-friendly further conflates his aesthetic with disability and eccentricity. (Right at the beginning of the job interview, he will not field an inconvenient question for the reason he cant hear the interviewer, although it rapidly becomes apparent the deafness is opportunistic.) Greater than Joyce and Woolf or other author I’m able to consider, Vegetables contribution towards the modern novel may be the imprimatur of the unapologetic eccentricity and, through it, a reconfiguring of the thought of singularity.

IMG 2 TT

Communicated joy and delight Henry Yorke AKA Henry Green

I have seen that Picador omnibus edition in the hands of readers and teachers, creased, carried with a degree of protectiveness. But, by all accounts, it didnt do well and soon went out of print. Since then, Greens nine novels have had spasmodic resurrections, come and gone and come back again. What will it take for Green to penetrate the general consciousness? His writing went out of view after he died in 1973 (and he hadnt written a book for 20 years before that), though more recently a handful of influential literary champions made him something of a cause. But maybe its to do with what Ezra Pound known as age. Most likely the recent decades havent been receptive to some novelist whose sole purpose appears to become to fashion a language that to speak pleasure. Woolf was shockingly neglected her present status owes less to literary critics regarding feminism. Jean Rhys was absolutely forgotten until her last work, Wide Sargasso Sea, permitted her to become annexed later by postcolonialists. Joyces mythic scaffold and verbal play identified him to academia to be essential both to modernism and also to the work of hermeneutics. I mention these authors not just due to their ability to transform and delight but additionally because some facet of their writing continues to be converted advantageously into some terms which are vital that you particular literary historic moments. With Eco-friendly, were given one type of artist who, such as the poets of ancient India and A holiday in greece, is not to provide us but delight. We dont get sound advice with your a author.

I hesitate to Party Going a modernist work because its sui generis, stands by itself, and it has not given itself to the modernism industry. However it has something that is similar to standard modernist texts, through which I am talking about not just what Frank Kermode known as its mythic structure, or its mythic punctuation of dead pigeons and bathing women, or its purgatorial fogbound atmosphere, or even the periodic abnormality of their syntax, but the truth that its thinking about and not the journey however the waiting, and not the event however the interruption. Dense fog working in london causes all trains to become cancelled. Traffic on the highway reaches a dead stop some people enroute towards the station need to abandon their cars and walk a minute of both liberation from, and lack of, class privilege. Among throngs of frustrated but jubilant commuters several wealthy people has convened they expect to go to the south of France as visitors from the qualified Max Adey. Two women especially are in search of Max: Julia Wray and Amabel. Max continues to be intending to escape Amabel, but she tracks him lower. Meanwhile, the entire group continues to be gone to live in the station hotel and given rooms with baths the shutters towards the station happen to be introduced lower. Amabel in some way finds her way inside, and Max reaches once ashamed, trapped, and temporarily disarmed by her immense beauty. It appears to Julia, whom Max have been courting inside a room not lengthy ago, that her putative romantic holiday with Max isn’t to become.

The simultaneity from the narrative causes it to be less just like a text supervised by an omniscient narrator than the usual particular type of cinema, a cinema less invested in one protagonist as with whats happening at the same time in a number of rooms and also the spaces around them. The fabric continues to be organised by an auteur akin, in the method, to some film editor, like a montage of quickly intercut scenes that produces a fantasy of unity and continuity. The restricted but unique locale and also the limited time period of the experience stimulate Jean Renoirs The Rules of the Game, which depicting several upper-class individuals with conflicting love interests who end up stranded with their servants inside a manor house on the country estate throughout the weekend too constitutes a narrative from nothing. Released, like Party Going, in 1939, the show isnt about either belonging somewhere or just being in exile it’s about inhabiting a transient, busy condition of unfinishedness. The aesthetic of these two works is remarkably congruent. Both also appear before the destruction from the worlds contained within them, and both possess a strange indestructibility. Renoirs film was trashed by the best and also the left because of its pointless portrayal from the inefficient wealthy, simply to be recognised in later decades like a landmark of cinema.

Self-absorbed upper classes Satyajit Sun rays Kanchenjungha.

Kanchenjungha (1962) by Renoirs most gifted student, Satyajit Ray is known as following the mountain peak the films upper-class holidaymakers are advised of because they mill round the hill station of Darjeeling. They’re completely self-absorbed, as the Kanchenjungha provides an opening right into a world beyond that will not present itself. Are you able to believe this area was only a Lepcha village prior to the British switched it into the town? states the insufferable patriarch Mister Indranath for the finish from the film. Empire! It had been insubstantial by 1962, such as the mist. Its becoming intangible in Party Going too, but not really much. Its there, within the global allusions, the truly amazing railways.

Sun rays film is instantly. The expertise of studying Party Going approximates this a feeling of getting joined, through the sentence, a particular continuum and time period. The 4 or 5 hrs it requires to complete the novel can also be the time where the fog rolls in after which begins to lift. The spell lifts too, so we understand weve joined a global we cant possess. This conflation from the figures time using the readers suggests the authors preoccupation with and mastery of form, that is a different type of reality towards the one the novel is depicting the result of his abstract nonrepresentational method.

Party Going isnt a singular within the usual feeling of the word. It provides us a superbly comic account of their figures, but it’s also an assemblage of moments, as well as different types of awareness around the globe as well as of writing. Eco-friendly is certainly not otherwise mindful of his literary context: when Julia walks towards the station and registers the procession of headlights at nighttime, the narrator points to the novels antecedents: These lights will come like ideas in darkness, inside a stream There are the epic similes, signalling to all of us that Eco-friendly resided currently once the British authors inheritance went beyond European modernism. Here the narrator describes a couple in Maxs party browsing the station to place their host:

Like two lilies inside a pond, romantically some of it but infinitely remote, encircled, supported, floating inside it for a moment, but forecasted when you are different onto another plane, even though there am much water you can avoid seeing these flowers or were prone to miss them, was Miss Crevy and her youthful man, apparently peaceful, envied for his or her clearly easy conditions and Angela coveted on her looks by all individuals water beetles if you want, by individuals people standing round.

Eco-friendly makes them vivid, semi-ironical comparisons frequently. Here, the simile concerns the station masters look at crowds of smokers, every third person smoking it could have the ability to looked to Mr Roberts, ensconced in the office away above, like November sun striking through mist rising off water. As Max and Amabel talk on the telephone before he heads off and away to the station (he’s laying to her about his intentions), her observation that here i am like a few old washerwomen slanging away at one another sounds more striking of computer should, as though Amabel were unwittingly situating the storyline inside a world good reputation for the epic. Two pages on, as Alex proceeds with the fog inside a taxi, it appears the [s]treets he experienced were wet as if that fog 20 feet up had deposited water, and glare which lights slapped within the roadways recommended to him he may well be a Zulu, within the Zulus hell of ice, sitting down in the taxi in negligence Umslopogaas together with his axe, skin beating within the hole in the temple …. And Robert Hignam, because he presses with the crowd within the station, remembers:

When small he’d found patches of bamboo in the parents garden also it was his romance in those days to pressure through them they increased so thick you can avoid seeing what temple might lie in ruins just beyond. It had been now, these physiques so thick they may have been an outlet of tailors dummies, water heated. These were so stiff they may as well happen to be soft, inflamed bamboos in groves only while he had once pressed with these, moist and warm.

The shutters are soon likely to come lower within the station, keeping new commuters out Maxs group will probably be at the same time nervously and luxuriously ensconced within the station hotel. Regardless of the feeling of enclosure and jail time (we’re simply inside a condition of siege you realize), the narrative has ramified and been placed on the planet: Party Going is both a comedy along with a cosmology. It is not about being hemmed in or trapped, or about being British. It enacts a fluidity of perception where it is also about being Zulu, about people being when compared with branches, to household servants inside a princes service, where Amabel is famous not just in London however in northern England and Hyderabad, in which the a large number of Smiths, a large number of Alberts, countless Marys seen collected below from the hotel window appear woven tight just like any office carpet or, more stylishly made, the holy Kaaba soon to create out for Mecca. Party Going is partially art-house movie, having a unique soundtrack, and partially certainly one of individuals remarkable British texts, like Basil Buntings Briggflatts, by which locality, eccentricity as well as class flow interior and exterior other cultures. Its this flow that’s envisaged here with regards to the noise, the murmurs, the silences, the laughter and also the courtships that occur as the trains have stopped, to ensure that any time things might open within an unlikely way.

A brand new edition of Henry Vegetables Party Going is printed by NYRB Classics.

Find out more: https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/mar/18/henry-green-party-going-amit-chaudhuri

#Books #Culture

[symbianosgames]

This interview is part of our Road to the IGF series. You can find the rest by clicking here.

Blendo Games' cyberpunk heist adventure Quadrilateral Cowboy has proven to be a bit of a hit, winning nominations for both the Excellence in Design and Seamus McNally Grand Prize awards at this year's Independent Games Festival.

Quadrilateral Cowby is also an honorable mention for this year's Nuovo Award, and together the three honors paint a decent picture of what makes creator Brendon Chung's latest release worth studying.

The game shares its charming "blockhead" aesthetic with his previous works, Thirty Flights of Loving and Gravity Bone, but puts it to use in service of a game that's longer and more challenging than either.

By reaching back to the days of analog computers for inspiration in designing Quadriteral Cowboy's blocky vision of a cyberpunk future, Chung has built a puzzle game with an utterly unique aesthetic.

What it asks of players is equally unique: master Cowboy's own (approachable) scripting language, along with its odd array of gray-market gadgets, to play the hacker in a series of filmic heist missions.

Here, Chung speaks briefly with Gamasutra about the nuts and bolts of Quadrilateral Cowboy's road to the 2017 IGF. 

What's your background in making games?

Prior to going independent with Blendo Games, I worked in the AAA game space for a handful of years. Before that, I made games in a hobby capacity for about a decade.

What development tools were used to build Quadrilateral Cowboy?

Quadrilateral Cowboy uses id Software's Doom 3 engine (id Tech 4). The editor I used was DarkRadiant, a fan-made toolset. Art assets were made with Blender and Photoshop. Audio work was done in Audacity.

How much time have you spent working on the game, all told?

Quadrilateral Cowboy's development time was roughly four years.

How did you come up with the concept?

I grew up using command-line interfaces. Nowadays we mostly use graphical interfaces, so I felt revisiting the world of command-lines now would create a particularly timely contrast.

What inspirations influence the unique look and sound of Cowboy?

I was one of those kids who liked to take things apart and (attempt to) put them back together. Quadrilateral Cowboy is partly about my fondness for those old analog things. In the game, your crew uses big, clunky, mechanical machines -- back when buttons were tactile things that clicked and resisted.

What is cyberpunk?

To me, cyberpunk is a magnifying glass of the current day.

Do you consider this game to be cyberpunk(ish) at all? Does it feel at all in line with any other genres of fiction, or do you think of it as akin to nothing but your own work and ideas?

Everything I do is built on top of other people's shoulders. Quadrilateral Cowboy takes a lot of inspiration from existing works, cyberpunk and otherwise.

How do you sustain yourself as a dev? Specifically, how did you do it during Cowboy's 4-year development cycle?

I have a catalog of previous Blendo titles, and was fortunate enough to have them generate income during Quadrilateral Cowboy's development time.

What do you think are the biggest hurdles and opportunities for indies today?

Sustainability has always been challenging. If you dig deep into how developers sustain themselves, you'll often find that luck plays a tremendous part. This includes myself. I'd like to believe there's a better way.

Have you played any of the other IGF finalists? Any games you've particularly enjoyed?

I played a handful of them, and they're all great. I was particularly taken with Event[0]. It delivers some absolutely wonderful narrative.

#IFTTT #Blogger

[dawnajaynes32]

Dialects of Glossolalia?

 Dialects of Glossolalia?

Andrea Belag, "Cave" - oil on wood

Joanne Freeman, "Covers Cobalt" - etching

Deborah Freedman, "Oaks and Oleandrs #1" - acrylic on polyester

Joseph Haske, "Asterion #5" - acrylic on canvas

Mark Saltz, Untitled - oil, resin, pigment on linen

Marjorie VanDyke, "Ides #1" - oil on canvas

By Tom Wachunas

   “Abstract art is a fundamental distrust of the theory of reality concocted by the eyes.” – Robert Brault

   “One of the most striking of abstract art’s appearances is her nakedness, an art stripped bare.” – Robert Motherwell

   “Abstract literally means to draw from or separate. In this sense every artist is abstract... a realistic or non-objective approach makes no difference. The result is what counts.”  - Richard Diebenkorn

EXHIBIT: Painters Prints/ works by Andrea Belag, Deborah Freedman, Joanne Freeman, Joseph Haske, Mark Saltz, Marjorie VanDyke / at The Lemmon Gallery, located inside the Kent Stark Fine Arts Building, 6000 Frank Avenue, North Canton, Ohio / THROUGH APRIL 6, 2019 / Gallery viewing hours are Monday – Friday 11 a.m. to 5 p.m.

Gallery Talk: April 4, 3:30 p.m. / Artist Reception: April 4, 5–7p.m.

   Aesthetics 101: Two-dimensional art is a language of myriad dialects, both learned and intuited. When we say that an artwork “speaks” to us, we affirm its capacity to take us into some quiet state of perception that resonates with our own experience of existence.  Mindful looking, or listening, if you will, requires slowness, and begins with a surrender, founded upon our intentionality, our willingness to be transported, perhaps even transformed.  What theartist makes becomes all the more compelling when it prompts us, the viewers, to look at our world in a deeper way.

   Now stretch your imagination to consider the possibility that this highly captivating exhibition of abstract prints and paintings by six accomplished New York City-based artists could be a variation of the phenomenon known as glossolalia (glôs-ō-lā’- lēə). Here’s the Collins English Dictionary definition of the term: 1. ecstatic or apparently ecstatic utterance of usually unintelligible speechlike sounds, as in a religious assembly, viewed by some as a manifestation of deep religious experience / 2. gift of tongues.  

   Glossolalia, or speaking in tongues, is known in many cultures, most of them ancient. In Christianity, for example, it is regarded as a mystical language coming directly from God, and spontaneously voiced by entranced worshippers. A communing with the divine. To the uninitiated or insensitive, such utterances might well sound like gibberish.

   Similarly, it’s no secret that there are viewers who, in their passing rush to identify the meaning of what they see only with their eyes, consider abstract art, particularly of the non-objective sort, as the strictly proprietary language of artists engaged in iconoclastic nonsense. Those who hold such a dismissive view are probably looking too fast.

   This is certainly not to say that we should consider all artists as either the dispensers of mystical experiences or the sole recipients of cryptic messages from on high. It’s not entirely unreasonable, however, to regard artists such as those presented in this marvelously diversified fete of abstractions as somehow akin to shamans, or spirit-catchers. Think of them in a larger sense as curious gatherers of energies and essences. As all visual artists do, the individuals in this exhibit have made symbols, allegories, metaphors. These particular artists, however, have channeled their personal encounters with corporeal realities and personal memories into varying dialects that depart from conventional naturalism to arrive at intriguing if not transcendent distillations.

   Back to mindful looking for a moment. Yes, there is a substantial presence of rarefied quirkiness in this exhibit. So slow down. Let your intuition do the deciphering. Here’s where the ordinary and the predictable get wrecked. It’s viewer-friendly glossolalia.  

Dialects of Glossolalia? syndicated post