#aperture discourse

[bremser]

Diane Arbus sources and books 

Spent a few hours at the Los Angeles version of "cataclysm" ( also in NYC in 2022, both based on the 1972 MOMA exhibit) and naturally went back down the Arbus rabbit hole. If you are in New York this summer, a must-see is the "Constellation" exhibit, until August 17, for which this will also be useful background information. 

Sources

The Met  The museum acquired the Arbus archive from the estate in 2007. Their collection page has 303 photographs. Quality of scans and jpegs on the site are extremely poor, some of these even look like they are shot through glass. Crops sometimes obscure the borders Arbus / Selkirk made while printing. There's not even a "introduction to Diane Arbus collection" or biography page. They have objects like her Rolleiflex. In 2016 they mounted an exhibition of early work.

MOMA   84 works online, photographs are full-size of the print paper, good quality and match toning.

Exhibition page for 1972 "Diane Arbus." Includes installation shots and a checklist PDF. Exhibit was the most popular single artist show up to that point and traveled widely, millions of people attended.

Exhibition page for 1967 "New Documents" (including 32 Arbus photographs, according to the PDF checklist). One of the most influential photography exhibits of the second half of the 20th century, remarkably didn’t have a catalog until 2017.

Zwirner Gallery  Zwirner and Fraenkel jointly represent the estate. Zwirner site includes handful of large, high quality photographs that closely match the prints when viewed on a 27" Apple display. Various exhibition pages include related videos.

Fraenkel Gallery Artist page and Arbus CV PDF, current to 2025

Christie's The top auction results for an Arbus is a photograph of the twins that sold for $1.2M and a box of 10 photographs for $1M.

1972 Documentary 29 minutes. Features interviews with daughter Doon, Lisette Model, John Szarkowski. Arbus’ lecture notes are read over a slideshow.

Books

The Zwirner “cataclysm” exhibit had a reading table with a handful of currently available Arbus books. I paged through the various books minutes after looking at the actual prints to compare reproduction quality. Arbus cared deeply about resolution and detail in her prints, part of why she went from making 35mm negatives to 6x6cm (and then at the end of her life to 6x7), so it's unfortunate there aren't more volumes focused on reproduction. (If anyone at Zwirner books comes across this post, here's the pitch: "cataclysm," but printed in the same size and resolution as "Box of Ten Photographs")

Aperture monograph, 1972 One of the most popular photobooks of all time, it was created at the same time as the 1972 exhibit (using Selkirk’s prints) and is the de facto catalog for the exhibit. It has 80 photographs versus 115 in the MOMA exhibit. After seeing the actual prints, the size of the photos and reproduction quality are underwhelming.

Magazine Work, 1984  Compilation of portraits made for magazine assignments, some have captions and longer text written by Arbus. Some scans of the magazine features for context. (archive.org scan, requires login)

Untitled, 1995 Third Aperture publication, focused on a single project, portraits and group portraits made at a New Jersey mental institution and residence. Edited by Doon Arbus. Perhaps the most discussed part of the Arbus' oeuvre, the edit and design of this book certainly influenced the trajectory of discourse. (archive.org scan)

Box of Ten Photographs, 2018 A facsimile of the only Arbus-edited work. This is the closest experience to the actual prints, large 11x14 book with great quality printing. The photos resemble the smaller 9-something-inch prints Arbus was making before moving to 14-inch. Features Arbus’ handwritten captions on transparent vellum-like paper. Book-flip through video.

Revelations, 2003 Exhibition catalog for a massive traveling retrospective organized by SFMOMA that relied heavily on biographical sources, diaries, letters, her datebook. (archive.org scan)

In the Beginning, 2016 Large hardcover catalog for Met exhibition looking at work from 1956-62, from using 35mm to her earliest use of 6x6. The 35mm work is street with an edge, in the vein of William Klein, Helen Levitt and Robert Frank. Reproduction of grainy, motion blurred, pushed film is close to the prints. There's an interesting chapter called "Notes from the Archives," where specialist Karan Rinaldo explains the process of precisely dating a handful of the photos with other sources. Must have been a large print run, because used copies are going for $13.

Chronology, 2011 Primarily text, diary, letters, offers exactly what the title promises. Somewhat overlaps with the "Revelations" catalog, but with less photography.

Documents, 2022 A compilation of criticism featuring reproduction of the actual magazine and newspaper layouts, with a scrapbook design vibe. Video trailer by Zwirner.

Family Albums, 2003 Exhibit catalog around the theme of the family album, related to portrait sessions in the home or group portraits. (archive.org scan)

Jeu de Paume exhibit (catalog en français), 2012 (archive.org scan)

Biographies

These are all available as ebooks (including library / Libby)

"Portrait of a Photographer" 2016 Arthur Lubow (exhaustive and widely considered definitive)

"A Biography" 1984 Patricia Bosworth

"An Emergency in Slow Motion" 2011 William Todd Schultz

[srbachchan]

DAY 5844

Jalsa, Mumbai Feb 17/18, 2024 Sat/Sun 1:47 AM

🪔 ,

February 18 .. birthday greetings to Ef Sriskandan SK from Sydney, Australia 🇦🇺 .. love from the Ef Family always .. 🙏🏻🚩❤️

... mixed up in the creative designing of an animal kingdom and declaring the impossibility of being able to manufacture something in this sphere with relative ease ..

.. communication utensils - if one can take the liberty of addressing them thus - have given answers to all and sundry in various all and sundry apertures ..

the era of not knowing .. of seeking with some deliberation, has vanished .. the question mark that invaded our psychological and mental disposition does not have any relevance .. indeed the only usage of the question mark now lies in the singular domain of the media .. they need it, for they are the ones that advantage themselves, in putting the questions to the World .. seeking answers .. and thereby debate on each response ..

" In a relentless quest for engagement and interrogation, the media adopts a unique approach by framing responses with question marks. This stylistic choice adds an element of curiosity and prompts critical thinking. Journalists, armed with the power of inquiry, transform statements into thought-provoking queries, inviting audiences to explore various perspectives. This technique not only challenges assumptions but also fosters a dynamic discourse. The media's pursuit of truth becomes an ongoing dialogue, as each response evolves into an interrogative exploration. This method not only captures attention but also encourages a deeper understanding of complex issues, transforming news consumption into an interactive and participatory experience. "

good night ..

😴

Amitabh Bachchan

[altarfates]

finally kissing the person you’ve been pining for .

or

an abrupt , heated kiss during the middle of a fight .

// for haitham. go ham!!!

finally kissing the person you’ve been pining for .

The captain could effortlessly weave an evocative tale, inviting an arbitrarily chosen spectator to sit, share a drink, savor the finesse with which he wielded his tongue. There was never a moment immersed in monotony when his voice was carried by the fabled winds of his nation’s god, filling every aperture the tavern afforded him. Their encounter had been similarly fortuitous, an evening where the drudgery of authorizing proposals and perusing documentation left him wanting for a moment of peace. Some may call it an aberrant choice to ensconce himself in a secluded corner unperturbed by the cacophony of voices as the exultant crowds celebrated their extrication from a week's worth of working days. Alhaitham’s noise canceling ear pieces transpose the tumultuous voices of strangers into a placid silence. There, whilst the world surges and swells, colors coalescing into nebulous silhouettes, he finds solace. It is the very place that he encounters the cavalry captain for the first time. Not many could declare that their paths had converged with the eminent acting grand-sage and come out unscathed, finding his mordant humor and tendency to be candid to be unpalatable. Alhaitham’s disinterest was unequivocable, which led to further discourse and inevitable avoidance, all of which he had meticulously orchestrated. To most the scribe was an enigma, tactless and arrogant, circumventing interactions with him a preferable outcome. Kaeya, who had ventured to the most populated tavern in sumeru to sample their selection of alcohol, dismantled that sedulously constructed silence with a practiced grace. He was compelling from the moment he nonchalantly eased into the seat beside him, conversation a skill he utilized effortlessly, to entice the notoriously antisocial scribe to engage with him a feat all its own. Kaeya thrived beneath Alhaitham’s terse commentary, where others may have withered into themselves, he flourished. To be captivated by the cavalry captain’s tales was to envisage oneself as an intrinsic part of it, the verdant, undulating hills of mondstadt familiar for their winds chorused in his voice. It became a habitual rendezvous, the tavern’s warm ambience accentuating the glint in Kaeya’s eye, the gradients of blue in his hair, Alhaitham, on more than one occasion, had found his gaze lingering. It was an inexplicable feeling, to voluntarily share excerpts from the life he had preserved in perpetual solitude and be met, sometimes half-way, sometimes closer by someone else.

It was that which they foster across those considerable encounters that compelled him to lean in that close, precariously so. Kaeya’s laughter was mellifluous, a note seldom heard in sincerity but a tone he had come to differentiate from his confident, assured one. He had not dedicated proper thought to it when his hand reached out, a rebellious strand of hair tucked behind his ear. How still the world became in that moment, as if the noise had been filtered out, only the raucous beat of his heart conveyed the anticipation that coiled within him. There was a pregnant pause, as if his mind belatedly decided that it had wanted to kiss him, for a long time it had wanted to kiss him, which was dispelled when Kaeya kissed him first. It wasn’t fervent but neither tentative, a kiss which imbued every ounce of yearning he harbored for Kaeya, the benevolent act of returning that stray hair into place transposed with easing his fingers into his slightly tousled hair. When they part it is his breath which is a traitor to his composure, not quite prepared to withdraw fully.

❝ You knew.❞ it wasn’t an accusation, it was a fact, Kaeya had known Alhaitham had wanted to kiss him, how long he had known was still a mystery. ❝ Yet you did nothing about it.❞ He appraises him quietly, as if deciding if the captain had been waiting for him to do something about it - a forbearance which had no doubt thinned as he conserved that practiced distance. Kaeya, his smile genuine and irresistibly contagious, broke into laughter, it may have been the most pleasing sound Alhaitham had ever known. 

[cnvisualart]

(Installation photo credit: Hai Zhang)

Exhibition | Ah New Riddim: A Marked (Black) Axiological Shift at Cuchifritos Gallery + Project Space

Can the axiologies and stories oscillating at the margins mark the discourse of Western logic positioned at the center, and how might this marking register in visual representations of the urban?

Ah New Riddim (2023) is the third and final iteration of the multimedia series Constructs and Context Relativity (2019-2023) by interdisciplinary artist Christie Neptune. The installation and interactive documentary examines the spatial-temporal relationship of memory and place embedded within the implosion of dancehall culture in East Flatbush. The film utilizes 80’s dancehall archival footage, the quiet of black subjectivity, and concentric interactive storytelling to expound the relationship between black globality and dancehall in the American urban. In a pivot around her embodied experience as a black Caribbean American, Neptune considers the potential of black popular culture in marking space.

In Ah New Riddim, concentric storytelling registers a cacophony of black perspectives. Neptune’s subjective experience in the American urban and the migration stories of community members in East Flatbush pivot around dancehall home video of Neptune’s father. Research, writing, and art produced from this series work to frame an artistic intelligence around Marked Axiological Shifts, a concept introduced by Neptune in a recent essay that defines a new language in visual culture grounded in African world-making cosmologies.

Marked Axiological Shifts are nonlinear and interactive artistic approaches that register a perpetual reimagining of black futures across space and time. It marks the decorum of modern cinema and visual culture with the conventions of African temporality to foster multiple planes of perspectives and fields of movement within concentric forward moving narratives mapped across moving images, sculpture, performance art, and print. In this exhibition, six channels of video interface with scaffolded speakers made of mirror, LED monitors, and wood. The speakers, a re-articulation of the Caribbean Sound System tradition, add further nuance to the filmic encounter in space. As material, screen, haptic surface, and sculptural unit, the sound system transmits information that doubles the spectator’s spatial perception. Upon contact, the spectator experiences temporal disjuncture caused by the collapse of their point of view, embodied form, and projected media upon the unit’s reflective surface. The gesture fosters multiple fields of viewing within a single expressive form, an element integral to African frameworks of temporality.

Ah New Riddim demonstrates the potential of black popular culture within representational practices that speaks across both dominant and marginal spatialities. This new framework of understanding considers the agency of marked axiological shifts within discursive urban space, an intervention that superimposes a wide aperture of black subjectivity(s) upon the narrow plane of the American urban.

This exhibition draws from Christie Neptune’s research paper “Ah New Riddim: A Marked (Black) Axiological Shift Across Space and Time” [READ HERE]

August 04, 2023 to September 16, 2023 Cuchifritos Gallery and Project Space Inside Essex Market, 88 Essex St #21, New York, NY 10002

Exhibition Link: https://www.artistsallianceinc.org/exhibitions/

Thank you to every supporter who contributed to make this exhibition happen:

Foundation of Contemporary Art, MIT Council of the Arts, MIT Art, Culture, and Technology program, Artist Alliance Inc., Cecile Chong, Emily B. Yang, Tariku Shiferaw, Larry Cook, Ayesha Charles, Jenna Charles, Terence Washington, David Freedman, Claire Watson, Mike Tan, Jodi Waynberg, Micaela Martegani, Jeff Swinton, Carl Hazelwood, Aisha White, Milk Spawn, Cari Sarel, Vivian Chui, Paul So, Camilo Alvarez, Kelsey Scott, Mike Brown, Darla Migan and Mary Lee Hodgens.

[contradictal]

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Writers and contributors bear full responsibility for the content they produce. Every published article under Contradictal carries the potential to influence public thought and shape discourse within the community. As such, it is imperative that all contributors exercise discernment, accuracy, and ethical intention in their work.

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Principles

Content Integrity

All content published underContradictal must fulfill a meaningful and legitimate purpose—primarily to inform, provoke thought, and engage in critical discourse, rather than to merely attract attention or stir controversy. Writers and contributors are expected to challenge dominant narratives with intellectual honesty, ensuring that opposing views are represented accurately and never distorted for personal leverage or provocation.

We remain grounded in factual context when questioning issues and uphold our commitment to writing with purpose. Each piece must stem from sincere inquiry, well-considered requests, or genuine interest in the topic. As a publication, we are bound by the very ethos of Contradictal: to confront, not for conflict—but for clarity, truth, and thoughtful rebellion.

Accountability

Writers and contributors bear full responsibility for the content they produce. Every published article under Contradictal carries the potential to influence public thought and shape discourse within the community. As such, it is imperative that all contributors exercise discernment, accuracy, and ethical intention in their work.

Publishing false, misleading, or intentionally inflammatory content that incites outrage or escalates conflict will not be tolerated. In instances of error, Contradictal upholds a policy of transparency: corrective actions shall be taken through public acknowledgment of the lapse and immediate removal of the content in question.

In this publication, accountability is not shared blindly—it is carried individually. The weight of one’s words is their own to bear. As we challenge the mainstream, we must also hold ourselves to higher standards, understanding that one misstep may compromise the integrity of all.

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[shallowseeker]

Someone (@4c-aperture) asked me which post I got cancelled for early in my Tumblr days. When I wrote this post, I didn't know what vogueing was. Or discourse. Or even that ppl primarily left commentary in the #hashtags. (I'm still forever ashamed, previous gif-makers.) Also, ppl assumed that because I was southern and because I wrote this, that I was a Republican who hated homeless people, which was... funny and wild.

But looking at this mutated thing also makes me very nostalgic, because I'm pretty sure this is where I first started following @ilarual @ironworked @silver-stake-through-the-heart @bogwitchatrois @ahundredbillionheavens and others! In a way, I got very lucky!

I have nothing to add to this post except that it's still extremely funny to me that in that conversation with Dean they seem to acknowledge that they both know it's a temporary separation.

CASTIEL: (clears throat, dropping the act) I, um, I noticed you look… kind of uncomfortable whenever Sam mentions my leaving. Doesn’t he know that you told me to leave? DEAN: Here’s the deal. When Sam was doing the trials to seal up Hell, it messed him up. Okay? The third one nearly killed him. If I’d let him finish, it would have. He’s still messed up, bad. CASTIEL: You said the angel, Ezekiel, helped heal him. DEAN: (looks down, avoiding the question) Look, I got to do anything I can to get him back. Now, if that means that we keep our distance from you for a little while, then… Then I don’t have a choice. I don’t feel good about it, but I don’t have a choice. It’s great to have your help, Cas. Okay, but we just can’t work together. CAS looks sad.

The most hilarious part about this conversation is that it slips that the distance they’re keeping is for what? A LITTLE WHILE.

9x09

Hot takes: Cas completely understands why he couldn't stay in the Bunker and he holds no real grudge about it. He actually understands and grasps the entirety of the between-a-rock-and-a-hard-place situation the angelic imposter put them in. He even gets it INSTANTLY upon being told about it. Because in canon, Cas actually has functioning emotional intelligence, even if some corners of fanon want to deprive him of it. If anything, he's ashamed of his angelic family for being manipulative and brutish...again.

Futhermore, Cas's tendency to rely on himself is a Cas thing (often, he waits till shit hits the fan to go for help). It's as much about his wartime situations as it is his upbringing. It's not JUST the tragic fallout of having different ideas about battle tactics than his human fam. It's also about having no parent in his life. (More on Cas psychology as it pertains to Chuck and Cas here.)

Anyway, Cas may have grudges and anger, but the being kicked out of the bunker thing...just isn't one of them!

And #2: If Cas had stayed in the bunker, Gadreel would've totally found a way to disappear him, and Dean isn't stupid enough NOT to see that.

And #3: We don't really know HOW much support was provided to Cas, or how much Cas refused. Cas has been shown handling public transportation since he cut off the finger of Pestilence, and I wouldn't put it past him to stubbornly hitchhike outta dodge after the rejection. I also wouldn't be surprised if he mishandled his money, and I wouldn't put it past him to stubbornly refuse help, either. Stoically shunning help until it gets really bad is a Cas thing.

[mywifeleftme]

129: Paul Simon // Graceland

Graceland Paul Simon 1986, Warner Bros.

I found myself tonight outside a rave rhapsodizing to a new Montrealer I’ll never see again about a sandwich whose principal interest is that it has maintained a reasonable price point despite a general economic bubble in the neighbourhood that has put the bar for a replacement-level edible somewhere north of the $8 range. Just going on and on about it. If I were to try to write out the extemporaneous ode I delivered on this humble egg BLT, there’d be a commotion in front of each noun where I’d scribbled over all the adjectives that make it sound like I'm trying to fuck the lettuce. It’d be nice to be the sort of person who can be this jazzed about the sensual world without waking up with a sore jaw in the morning, but my aperture is puckered. Still, sitting at a picnic table on this incredibly violet morning that has literally hung a rainbow over my neck, feeling a genuine wistfulness watching an empty can of mango White Claw roll into a gutter, I can admit I want to fuck the lettuce. I am a lettuce-fucker.

Writing a record review is like giving someone a tour of a sandwich they haven't ordered yet. It has no material impact on me whether you end up ordering the sandwich (listening to the record) or not, but in some sense I want the emcee’s pride in being a link in the chain that’s brought you to pleasure. So, on account of the puckered aperture I mentioned earlier, it takes a good deal of sweat to make my case. I read the label on the lettuce package and rephrase it in a way that suggests I know the grand dramas of its family, and the wars that were fought for the right to primp it just so. I train myself to tell when a tomato will give a visceral gush when bitten into, and when you should gossip vindictively about it in a back channel. I mention hintingly that the bacon has “been around the block a few times,” refer to the “experimental” qualities of the egg, argue that while American cheese is an abomination, its ability to adhere to this specific tabula rasa white toast is as essential as the generous globs of mayo. It takes considerably longer than love as a recommending strategy, but it’s what I have.

Anyway, Paul Simon's Graceland is a real good listen with a real complicated discourse, and I wish you luck with that, but that purple sky is looming in and if I'm not careful I'll be alive soon, and I am not ready for that.

129/365

[aperture-science-official]

my email inbox when one of my old discourse posts blows up

[lemon-3ds]

Aperture Science Pride Logos!

Please do not start any discourse on this post! Free to use with credit!

[vale-priestess]

Iamblichus, “The Oracles”

Another mode of entheastic divining, that of Oracles, is famous, and very plain in many ways, concerning which thou declarest such things as these, namely: "Others are inspired when drinking water, like the priest of the Klarian Apollo at Kolophon; others when sitting over cavities in the earth, like the women who deliver the oracles at Delphi; others when overpowered by vapors from the water, like the prophetesses at Branchidæ."

Thou hast mentioned these three oracles by name, not be-cause there are only these, for there are many more which thou hast passed over in silence; but since these take rank before the others, and on account of which are more sought, thou art sufficiently instructed in respect to the mode of divining. I will now, because thou hast enough of these things, speak of the oracular art which has been sent down to human beings from the gods. We will, therefore, make our discourse in relation to these three, and not let a word fall respecting the many other oracles.

It is acknowledged by everybody that the oracle at Kolophon gives its responses through the medium of water. There is a spring in a house underground, and from this the prophet drinks. On certain appointed nights, many sacred ceremonies having taken place beforehand, he drinks, and delivers oracles, but he is not seen by the beholders who are present. It is manifest from this, therefore, that that water possesses an oracular quality; but how this is so not every man, as the saying is, may know. For it seems as though a mantic spirit extended through it; but this is not true. For the divine being does not go about among its participants, thus divided and apportioned; but, on the contrary, it shines upon the fountain as though giving of itself from without, and fills it with the mantic power from itself. The inspiration which the water imparts is by no means all of it from the god, but it causes an adaptedness alone and a purification of the light-like spirit in us, through which we become able to contain the divinity; but the presence of the god is different from this, and prior to it, and it flashes in from above like the lightning. Indeed, this presence forsakes no one of those who, through kindred nature, are in intimate union to it; but it is immediately present, and employs the prophet as an instrument, he neither being normally himself, nor aware of what he is saying or where on the earth he is. Hence, after giving the oracles, he recovers control of himself at a later moment with difficulty. Indeed, before drinking the water he fasts an entire day and night, and as he begins to become entheast he withdraws by himself into certain sacred retreats. Thus, by this withdrawing and separating from human affairs, he makes himself pure, and prepared for the receiving of the divinity; and through this means he has the inspiration of the divinity illuminating the pure sanctuary of his own soul, and he likewise effects by himself, unobstructed, the possession and divine presence complete and without impediment.

The prophetess at Delphi, however, whether she gives oracles to human beings from a tenuous and fire-like spirit brought up from somewhere through an aperture, or vaticinates sitting in the inner shrine, upon the bronze chair with three feet or upon the four-footed chair sacred to the divinities, gives herself up entirely to the divine spirit and is shined upon by the ray of the fire. In fact, when the fiery mist coming up from the aperture, dense and abundant, encompasses her on every side in a circle, she becomes filled by it with a divine luminance, and when she sits down in the seat of the god she comes into harmony with the unwavering oracular power of the divinity, and from these two preparatory operations she becomes entirely the medium of the god. Then truly is the god present, shining upon her separately, being himself other than the fire, the spirit, their peculiar seats and all the visible apparatus about the place, physical, and sacred.  The woman also who delivers the oracles in verse at Branchidal, whether she is holding the staff which was first presented by a divinity and becomes filled with the divine luminance, or whether she sits upon a wheel and predicts what is to occur, or whether she dips her feet or the border of her robe in the water, or receives the god by inhaling vapor from the water, she becomes by all these ways prepared for the reception, and partakes of him from without.

{ Theurgia, Chapter 7. }

[fennelrabbit]

I'm not really sure I understand the current discourse in the portal fandom right now tbh. Like, all of this 'GLaDOS is better than Wheatley' or 'Wheatley is better than GLaDOS' I mean like??? Can't you just like both? Why does there need to be a competition over who is the 'superior' character or whatever, almost every character in the Portal series is complex and morally grey and that's what so fun about it!

I like Wheatley but I don't think he's a 'soft innocent robot uwu' and I like GLaDOS but I also LOVE that she's not a one-dimensional 'girlboss' villain.

But anyway, I digress. As long as the Internet exists there'll always be arguments I guess.

....

Also the real villain is Aperture. Thank you for reading, bye!

[orthodoxydaily]

Saints&Reading: Fri., Apr. 9, 2021

 March 27/April 9

The Holy Martyre Matrona of Soluneia (4th c.)

     The Holy Martyress Matrona of Soluneia (Thessalonika) suffered in the III or IV Century. She was a slave of the Jewish Pautila, wife of one of the military-commanders of Soluneia. Pautila forced her slave into apostasy and conversion to Judaism, but Saint Matrona, having her faith in Christ since her youthful years, still firmly believed in Christ and went to church secretly unbeknownst to her vengeful mistress.      One time Pautila, having learned that Blessed Matrona had been in church, asked: "Why hast thou not come to our synagogue, but instead did walk to the Christian church?" Saint Matrona boldly answered: "Because in the Christian church God is present, but He is gone away from the Jewish synagogue". Pautila went into a rage and mercilessly beat Saint Matrona, and having tied her shut her into a dark closet. In the morning Pautila discovered, that Saint Matrona had been freed of her bonds by an unknown Power. In a rage Pautila beat the martyress almost to death, then tied her again even more tightly and locked her in the closet, having sealed the door, so that no one might offer help to the sufferer. The holy martyre was there over the course of four days without food or water, and when Pautila opened the door, she again beheld Saint Matrona out of her bonds standing at prayer. In a fierce rage Pautila began to beat the holy martyress with a stout cane and, when the saint was barely breathing, the fierce woman locked her in the room, wherein also the Martyre Matrona gave up her spirit to God.      The body of the holy martyress was thrown from the city wall, by order of Pautila. Christians took up the much-suffered body of the holy martyre and reverently gave it over to burial. And later on, the bishop of Soluneia, Alexander, built a church in the name of the holy martyre, in which they put her holy relics, glorified by miracles.      The judgement of God soon overtook the tormentor Pautila at that very place, where the body of Saint Matrona had been throw from the high wall, – she herself stumbled, fell off it and was smashed, having received her just reward.

© 1996-2001 by translator Fr. S. Janos.

The Monk John the Perspicacious of Egypt (394)

     The Monk John the Perspicacious of Egypt was born at the beginning of the IV Century. He lived in the city of Likopolis (Middle Egypt) and was a carpenter. At the age of twenty-five he went off to a monastery, where he accepted monastic tonsure. Over the course of twenty-five years the Monk John asceticised at various monasteries, and then wanting complete solitude, he withdrew into the Thebaid onto Mount Bolcha. Saint John then spent twenty-five years in solitude, never leaving the spot. He conversed with people coming to him through a small aperture, through which he also accepted frugal amounts of food brought him. The Monk John already after thirty years in seclusion was granted by God the graced gift of perspicacious foresight. Thus, he predicted to the emperor Theodosius the Great (379-395) the victory over his adversaries Maximus and Eugenius, and a military victory over the Gauls. For many visiting him he foretold events in their lives and gave them guidance. The holy ascetic distributed blessed oil to the sick visiting him, and anointing with it he healed them from various illness.      The Monk John predicted to the monk Palladios, who wrote down his life, that he would become a bishop. The prediction of the seer was fulfilled, and Palladios was made bishop of Bithynia (Asia Minor).      The Monk John in his directives commanded first of all to have humility: "Imitate in the measure of your strength the virtuous life of the holy fathers and, if ye fulfill everything, then hope not upon yourself nor praise yourself. For there are many such people, which, having reached perfection in virtue and becoming puffed up with pride, plunge from the heights into the abyss. Observe carefully: is your prayer fervent? your purity of heart not transgressed? your mind undisturbed by extraneous thoughts during time of prayer? observe, do you reject the world with all your soul? or go about to spy out the virtues of others, in vain then with your own particular virtues? Are ye concerned to put forth your good example before other people? Take heed, art ye become conceited in your own righteousness, puffed up with pride somehow by your good deed? Take heed, that during time of prayer thoughts about worldly things do not enter your head, since there is nothing more silly, than to converse with the lips to God, while in thought to be far off from Him. This often happens with those, which not so much renounce the world, as rather that they are concerned to comply with the world. A man, thinking about many things, is given over to cares about things worldly and perishable, but being subjected to concern about things worldly, a man cannot yet with his spiritual eyes behold God. For a man, meditating always about God, extraneous thoughts ought to be all in vain. For this man, who has attained to a certain knowledge of God (full knowledge of God no one can attain to), the mysteries of God are revealed to him, and he sees the future as the present, and like a saint he works miracles and receives through his prayer everything that he beseeches of God...      Love silence, child, dwelling always in Divine-meditation and praying God always, that He grant you a pure mind, free from sinful thoughts. Worthy of praise certainly is that ascetic who, living in the world, practises the virtues, rendering kindliness to strangers or distributing alms, or aiding in the work of others, or dwelling constantly without anger. Such a man is praiseworthy, since he dwelleth in virtue, fulfilling the commands of God, while yet not leaving off from earthly affairs. But better than this and more worthy of praise would be that one who, dwelling constantly in Divine-meditation, would ascend from the corporeal to the incorporeal, letting go of the care and concern of others, himself striving towards the Heavenly, constantly standing before God, having relinquished everything worldly and being not still attached to the world by earthly cares. Such a man is in proximity to God, Whom he doth glorify in prayers and psalmody".      With these and similar salvific instructions, and with directive discourse and example of like-angelic life, the monk brought much spiritual benefit to people.      The Monk John of Egypt survived into old age and expired to the Lord in the year 395, at the age of ninety.

© 1996-2001 by translator Fr. S. Janos.

Isaiah 29:13-23

13 Therefore the Lord said: “Inasmuch as these people draw near with their mouths And honor Me with their lips, But have removed their hearts far from Me, And their fear toward Me is taught by the commandment of men,

14 Therefore, behold, I will again do a marvelous work Among this people, A marvelous work and a wonder; For the wisdom of their wise men shall perish, And the understanding of their prudent men shall be hidden.”

15 Woe to those who seek deep to hide their counsel far from the Lord, And their works are in the dark; They say, “Who sees us?” and, “Who knows us?”

16 Surely you have things turned around! Shall the potter be esteemed as the clay; For shall the thing made say of him who made it, “He did not make me”? Or shall the thing formed say of him who formed it, “He has no understanding”?

17 Is it not yet a very little while Till Lebanon shall be turned into a fruitful field, And the fruitful field be esteemed as a forest?

18 In that day the deaf shall hear the words of the book, And the eyes of the blind shall see out of obscurity and out of darkness.

19 The humble also shall increase their joy in the Lord, And the poor among men shall rejoice In the Holy One of Israel.

20 For the terrible one is brought to nothing, The scornful one is consumed, And all who watch for iniquity are cut off—

21 Who make a man an offender by a word, And lay a snare for him who reproves in the gate, And turn aside the just by empty words.

22 Therefore thus says the Lord, who redeemed Abraham, concerning the house of Jacob: “Jacob shall not now be ashamed, Nor shall his face now grow pale;

23 But when he sees his children, The work of My hands, in his midst, They will hallow My name, And hallow the Holy One of Jacob, And fear the God of Israel.

Proverbs 14:15-26 

15The simple believes every word, But the prudent considers well his steps.

16 A wise man fears and departs from evil, But a fool rages and is self-confident.

17 A quick-tempered man acts foolishly, And a man of wicked intentions is hated.

18 The simple inherit folly, But the prudent are crowned with knowledge.

19 The evil will bow before the good, And the wicked at the gates of the righteous.

20 The poor man is hated even by his own neighbor, But the rich has many friends.

21 He who despises his neighbor sins;

22 Do they not go astray who devise evil? But mercy and truth belong to those who devise good.

23 In all labor there is profit, But idle chatter leads only to poverty.

24 The crown of the wise is their riches, But the foolishness of fools is folly.

25 A true witness delivers souls, But a deceitful witness speaks lies.

26 In the fear of the Lord there is strong confidence, And His children will have a place of refuge.

[hydralisk98]

Servitor (ideas dump)

[.]

[..]

Characters

From Olive to Klara

Constans

Maya

Anya

Sasha

Iwa

Nil

Symbol

Places

Video rental store

Cyber cafe

Cafe

Mall

Witch home

D&D basement

Library

Bookstore

Time periods

Intrigues

RL storytime inspirations:

YMCA Summer Student Exchange 2015 aka Kelowna and Kamloops

Jean-Baptiste-Meilleur

College Maisonneuve

2020

CFP des Riverains

Mashups of genres

Mystery + alternate history

Western adventure + roguelike simulation

Fantastical/fantasy adventure + low magick setting

Exploration + nostalgia + time travel

What if-s

You unraveled a old portal fantasy dungeon

You discovered Aperture Science facilities underground

You had retrocognition (and later chronokinesis)

You could influence reality with audio over your subconscious (p.s: true story ahead)

Wilsonism never took hold of USA politics (and lots more intricate details so to make a full TL out of it)

Nazis won the Second World War but does withhold only for a generation (up to ~1963 before collapsing entirely)

Several Earth ppl migrated towards alternate timelines/worlds

A far far future society meet modern Earth

Resistance Fall of Man but instead of the Chimera it is a far far future set of civilizationa that invades Earth

different realities had to brand and sell themselves online to attract themselves some smart people?

Catholic christianity split off significantly further once again?

Venus was being successfully terraformed and colonized by humanity ever since the 1970s as Earth simply ecologically collapses

Pflaummen was founded in 1910 and revolutionized technology forever ever since (IBM time + DEC innovation)

Apocalypse but it is both fast and no fantasy

Alternative path for FPS derivated from BUILD

Alternative development of rogue servitor machines except they actually balance out their benevolence with versatility

Alternative medecine and knowledge keeping development ever since the late 15th century (think index card libraries, DIY slide box toys, gender/shape transformation spells, human computers and sapient constructs)

Arian christianity survives well into the 21st century alongside Hussite faith, coptics and several more early dialects of Abrahamic religions

Scenes to reverse-engineer

Orators' discourse

Some walk in a park

Parsing some code text in a office

Syndicalist riot

Fanfiction derivations

Half-Life 3, but the Combine is utterly defeated (from both outside and from within, so it goes out of relevancy by then)

Portal 2 sequel aka GLaDOS has new and old unexpected comrades to test by and to work alongside

Quake 1 but it's a toybox world to explore and interact with

Hypnospace Outlaw but it's a entirely different world that is portrayed here

SEGA Sonic Racing + SEGA Micro Machines but it's a custom fork of mine

BUILD1+1.5+2 engine game (Duke Nukem + Ion Fury) but it's a entirely different narrative

Bioshock (originals, Infinite, Burial at Sea) + System Shock 2 but the narrative is way more wholesome than the expected dark tone

Zelda 1 but it has a entirely different theme and levels of non-player agents factionalism (think a bit like Mercenaries Playground of Destruction but 2D)

Alien the 8th passenger, but instead of the Alien it is simply a Greater German political and military regulation unit shutting down a underground dungeon a bit like in XCOM Ennemy Unknown as the Nazi victory world simply is collapsing around them

Terminator ~1+3+5, but all the machine killers are all reprogrammed to kill Woodrow Wilson just before the election starts in 1912 by a autistic Zerg overmind

Multimedia assets

Animals

Humans

Constructs

Demons

Angels

Buildings

Vehicles

Generic symbols

Specific use symbols

Programming symbols

Latin letters

Arabic numerals

Terrain

Cyrillic letters

Greek letters

Furniture

Stationery

Books

Pawns

Furries

Electric props

Military units

Overhead worldmap symbols

Mechnical props

Decoration material

Blocks and curved things

Retro computing stuff

Computing stuff

Sci-Fi stuff

Fantasy stuff

Clothes

Accessories

Pseudo-graphics

[horribletestsubject]

FLASHBURN: A Star Wars Portal Story

(^ my ongoing fancomic, now on WEBTOON)

General Blog & Admin Info

Hello, and welcome to the enrichment center. You can call me Cinna or Chell and you’ve stumbled upon the corner of tumblr where I post and reblog content about the Portal games. This post is here to give you a run-down of the kind of content you’ll see here, and a little bit about me as well.

General blog details:

- This is a sideblog so I won’t be following people from here. My main blog will remain undisclosed for personal reasons.

- Like and reblog anything you want to! Tag with anything you want, including kin tags, ship tags, etc. I don’t mind at all. What other people believe or ship is no concern of mine.

- All races, ethnicities, sexualities, gender identities, religions, etc. are welcome here. MAPs and apologists, racists, transphobes, homophobes, and all other bigots dni.

- On this blog, you’ll find my original artwork, fan fiction, and headcanon and meta posts, as well as reblogged content. All original content will be tagged “original” and all reblogged content tagged “reblog.” In addition, you can further filter out my posts by using the tags “art” “edit” “fanfiction” “headcanon” “meta” and “crack,” or by searching for a relationship or character. All ships are tagged! Anything that doesn’t have to do with portal is tagged “out of aperture”

- I strive to respect other people’s headcanons, and hope they will do the same for me. If you’re going to come in here calling your headcanon canon and getting upset over me headcanoning something else, please save yourself the trouble and don’t. This is why I have separate tags for headcanon and meta. Headcanons are my own personal things which at times may contradict canon. If you like them, feel free to borrow, but I’m by no means saying they apply to all interpretations, so don’t approach me as if they are. Meta, on the other hand, is for analysis on strictly canon material, including any evaluation of fan theories I might engage in.

- On that note, do not draw white Chell.

About Me:

- You can call me Cinna.

- I’m over 21 years old, and a film/video game composer.

- I’m afab intersex and identify as nonbinary. Please use they/them pronouns for me, or just my name.

- Ace Demiro. Married.

- I’m ethnically ambiguous/mixed race and currently live in the eastern United States (EST). I speak both English and Spanish.

- Unreligious but a believer in the supernatural.

- Autistic af and I’ve got Borderline-Avoidant, PTSD, Anxiety, Social Anxiety, Depression, and Chronic Pain and tremors so my life is a cocktail of fun.

- I got into Portal really late, but fell head over heels and quickly reached terminal velocity so here I am and I hope you like my stuff. Thanks to my partner for introducing me to the best game in the known universe.

- Please keep discourse away from me. Far, far away. Let me do my thing. You can do yours. Chill. I’m too anxious and have been on the Internet too long to deal with it.

- I‘ve also played all of the half life games except for Alyx, bc I can’t do VR. So you can yell at me about Alyx Vance too because I love her.

[thenewnio]

The Statement of Randolph Carter

I repeat to you, gentlemen, that your inquisition is fruitless. Detain me here forever if you will; confine or execute me if you must have a victim to propitiate the illusion you call justice; but I can say no more than I have said already. Everything that I can remember, I have told with perfect candour. Nothing has been distorted or concealed, and if anything remains vague, it is only because of the dark cloud which has come over my mind—that cloud and the nebulous nature of the horrors which brought it upon me.

Again I say, I do not know what has become of Harley Warren; though I think—almost hope—that he is in peaceful oblivion, if there be anywhere so blessed a thing. It is true that I have for five years been his closest friend, and a partial sharer of his terrible researches into the unknown. I will not deny, though my memory is uncertain and indistinct, that this witness of yours may have seen us together as he says, on the Gainesville pike, walking toward Big Cypress Swamp, at half past eleven on that awful night. That we bore electric lanterns, spades, and a curious coil of wire with attached instruments, I will even affirm; for these things all played a part in the single hideous scene which remains burned into my shaken recollection. But of what followed, and of the reason I was found alone and dazed on the edge of the swamp next morning, I must insist that I know nothing save what I have told you over and over again. You say to me that there is nothing in the swamp or near it which could form the setting of that frightful episode. I reply that I know nothing beyond what I saw. Vision or nightmare it may have been—vision or nightmare I fervently hope it was—yet it is all that my mind retains of what took place in those shocking hours after we left the sight of men. And why Harley Warren did not return, he or his shade—or some nameless thing I cannot describe—alone can tell.

As I have said before, the weird studies of Harley Warren were well known to me, and to some extent shared by me. Of his vast collection of strange, rare books on forbidden subjects I have read all that are written in the languages of which I am master; but these are few as compared with those in languages I cannot understand. Most, I believe, are in Arabic; and the fiend-inspired book which brought on the end—the book which he carried in his pocket out of the world—was written in characters whose like I never saw elsewhere. Warren would never tell me just what was in that book. As to the nature of our studies—must I say again that I no longer retain full comprehension? It seems to me rather merciful that I do not, for they were terrible studies, which I pursued more through reluctant fascination than through actual inclination. Warren always dominated me, and sometimes I feared him. I remember how I shuddered at his facial expression on the night before the awful happening, when he talked so incessantly of his theory, why certain corpses never decay, but rest firm and fat in their tombs for a thousand years. But I do not fear him now, for I suspect that he has known horrors beyond my ken. Now I fear for him.

Once more I say that I have no clear idea of our object on that night. Certainly, it had much to do with something in the book which Warren carried with him—that ancient book in undecipherable characters which had come to him from India a month before—but I swear I do not know what it was that we expected to find. Your witness says he saw us at half past eleven on the Gainesville pike, headed for Big Cypress Swamp. This is probably true, but I have no distinct memory of it. The picture seared into my soul is of one scene only, and the hour must have been long after midnight; for a waning crescent moon was high in the vaporous heavens.

The place was an ancient cemetery; so ancient that I trembled at the manifold signs of immemorial years. It was in a deep, damp hollow, overgrown with rank grass, moss, and curious creeping weeds, and filled with a vague stench which my idle fancy associated absurdly with rotting stone. On every hand were the signs of neglect and decrepitude, and I seemed haunted by the notion that Warren and I were the first living creatures to invade a lethal silence of centuries. Over the valley’s rim a wan, waning crescent moon peered through the noisome vapours that seemed to emanate from unheard-of catacombs, and by its feeble, wavering beams I could distinguish a repellent array of antique slabs, urns, cenotaphs, and mausolean facades; all crumbling, moss-grown, and moisture-stained, and partly concealed by the gross luxuriance of the unhealthy vegetation. My first vivid impression of my own presence in this terrible necropolis concerns the act of pausing with Warren before a certain half-obliterated sepulchre, and of throwing down some burdens which we seemed to have been carrying. I now observed that I had with me an electric lantern and two spades, whilst my companion was supplied with a similar lantern and a portable telephone outfit. No word was uttered, for the spot and the task seemed known to us; and without delay we seized our spades and commenced to clear away the grass, weeds, and drifted earth from the flat, archaic mortuary. After uncovering the entire surface, which consisted of three immense granite slabs, we stepped back some distance to survey the charnel scene; and Warren appeared to make some mental calculations. Then he returned to the sepulchre, and using his spade as a lever, sought to pry up the slab lying nearest to a stony ruin which may have been a monument in its day. He did not succeed, and motioned to me to come to his assistance. Finally our combined strength loosened the stone, which we raised and tipped to one side.

The removal of the slab revealed a black aperture, from which rushed an effluence of miasmal gases so nauseous that we started back in horror. After an interval, however, we approached the pit again, and found the exhalations less unbearable. Our lanterns disclosed the top of a flight of stone steps, dripping with some detestable ichor of the inner earth, and bordered by moist walls encrusted with nitre. And now for the first time my memory records verbal discourse, Warren addressing me at length in his mellow tenor voice; a voice singularly unperturbed by our awesome surroundings.

“I’m sorry to have to ask you to stay on the surface,” he said, “but it would be a crime to let anyone with your frail nerves go down there. You can’t imagine, even from what you have read and from what I’ve told you, the things I shall have to see and do. It’s fiendish work, Carter, and I doubt if any man without ironclad sensibilities could ever see it through and come up alive and sane. I don’t wish to offend you, and heaven knows I’d be glad enough to have you with me; but the responsibility is in a certain sense mine, and I couldn’t drag a bundle of nerves like you down to probable death or madness. I tell you, you can’t imagine what the thing is really like! But I promise to keep you informed over the telephone of every move—you see I’ve enough wire here to reach to the centre of the earth and back!”

I can still hear, in memory, those coolly spoken words; and I can still remember my remonstrances. I seemed desperately anxious to accompany my friend into those sepulchral depths, yet he proved inflexibly obdurate. At one time he threatened to abandon the expedition if I remained insistent; a threat which proved effective, since he alone held the key to the thing. All this I can still remember, though I no longer know what manner of thing we sought. After he had secured my reluctant acquiescence in his design, Warren picked up the reel of wire and adjusted the instruments. At his nod I took one of the latter and seated myself upon an aged, discoloured gravestone close by the newly uncovered aperture. Then he shook my hand, shouldered the coil of wire, and disappeared within that indescribable ossuary. For a moment I kept sight of the glow of his lantern, and heard the rustle of the wire as he laid it down after him; but the glow soon disappeared abruptly, as if a turn in the stone staircase had been encountered, and the sound died away almost as quickly. I was alone, yet bound to the unknown depths by those magic strands whose insulated surface lay green beneath the struggling beams of that waning crescent moon.

In the lone silence of that hoary and deserted city of the dead, my mind conceived the most ghastly phantasies and illusions; and the grotesque shrines and monoliths seemed to assume a hideous personality—a half-sentience. Amorphous shadows seemed to lurk in the darker recesses of the weed-choked hollow and to flit as in some blasphemous ceremonial procession past the portals of the mouldering tombs in the hillside; shadows which could not have been cast by that pallid, peering crescent moon. I constantly consulted my watch by the light of my electric lantern, and listened with feverish anxiety at the receiver of the telephone; but for more than a quarter of an hour heard nothing. Then a faint clicking came from the instrument, and I called down to my friend in a tense voice. Apprehensive as I was, I was nevertheless unprepared for the words which came up from that uncanny vault in accents more alarmed and quivering than any I had heard before from Harley Warren. He who had so calmly left me a little while previously, now called from below in a shaky whisper more portentous than the loudest shriek:

“God! If you could see what I am seeing!”

I could not answer. Speechless, I could only wait. Then came the frenzied tones again:

“Carter, it’s terrible—monstrous—unbelievable!”

This time my voice did not fail me, and I poured into the transmitter a flood of excited questions. Terrified, I continued to repeat, “Warren, what is it? What is it?”

Once more came the voice of my friend, still hoarse with fear, and now apparently tinged with despair:

“I can’t tell you, Carter! It’s too utterly beyond thought—I dare not tell you—no man could know it and live—Great God! I never dreamed of THIS!” Stillness again, save for my now incoherent torrent of shuddering inquiry. Then the voice of Warren in a pitch of wilder consternation:

“Carter! for the love of God, put back the slab and get out of this if you can! Quick!—leave everything else and make for the outside—it’s your only chance! Do as I say, and don’t ask me to explain!”

I heard, yet was able only to repeat my frantic questions. Around me were the tombs and the darkness and the shadows; below me, some peril beyond the radius of the human imagination. But my friend was in greater danger than I, and through my fear I felt a vague resentment that he should deem me capable of deserting him under such circumstances. More clicking, and after a pause a piteous cry from Warren:

“Beat it! For God’s sake, put back the slab and beat it, Carter!”

Something in the boyish slang of my evidently stricken companion unleashed my faculties. I formed and shouted a resolution, “Warren, brace up! I’m coming down!” But at this offer the tone of my auditor changed to a scream of utter despair:

“Don’t! You can’t understand! It’s too late—and my own fault. Put back the slab and run—there’s nothing else you or anyone can do now!” The tone changed again, this time acquiring a softer quality, as of hopeless resignation. Yet it remained tense through anxiety for me.

“Quick—before it’s too late!” I tried not to heed him; tried to break through the paralysis which held me, and to fulfil my vow to rush down to his aid. But his next whisper found me still held inert in the chains of stark horror.

“Carter—hurry! It’s no use—you must go—better one than two—the slab—” A pause, more clicking, then the faint voice of Warren:

“Nearly over now—don’t make it harder—cover up those damned steps and run for your life—you’re losing time— So long, Carter—won’t see you again.” Here Warren’s whisper swelled into a cry; a cry that gradually rose to a shriek fraught with all the horror of the ages—

“Curse these hellish things—legions— My God! Beat it! Beat it! Beat it!”

After that was silence. I know not how many interminable aeons I sat stupefied; whispering, muttering, calling, screaming into that telephone. Over and over again through those aeons I whispered and muttered, called, shouted, and screamed, “Warren! Warren! Answer me—are you there?”

And then there came to me the crowning horror of all—the unbelievable, unthinkable, almost unmentionable thing. I have said that aeons seemed to elapse after Warren shrieked forth his last despairing warning, and that only my own cries now broke the hideous silence. But after a while there was a further clicking in the receiver, and I strained my ears to listen. Again I called down, “Warren, are you there?”, and in answer heard the thing which has brought this cloud over my mind. I do not try, gentlemen, to account for that thing—that voice—nor can I venture to describe it in detail, since the first words took away my consciousness and created a mental blank which reaches to the time of my awakening in the hospital. Shall I say that the voice was deep; hollow; gelatinous; remote; unearthly; inhuman; disembodied? What shall I say? It was the end of my experience, and is the end of my story. I heard it, and knew no more. Heard it as I sat petrified in that unknown cemetery in the hollow, amidst the crumbling stones and the falling tombs, the rank vegetation and the miasmal vapours. Heard it well up from the innermost depths of that damnable open sepulchre as I watched amorphous, necrophagous shadows dance beneath an accursed waning moon. And this is what it said:

“YOU FOOL, WARREN IS DEAD!”

[aperture-science-official]

“Ugh those white gays :/// so boring” says the girl who thinks that wearing purple hair and throwing around buzzwords that make no literal sense make her “q*eer” or oppressed meanwhile actual gay men and lesbians and etc. are murdered or treated like fucking shit just for trying to live their lives across the world lmao this timeline is a trip