#title: strokes of brilliance

[ataureanmood]

karen elson by steven meisel (1997)

[zairas-realm-gateway]

Sometimes I lay awake at night and think about Arcane!Jayce and LoL!Jayce being so fundamentally different that they're literally different characters. And yet, Arcane Jayce does not feel out of character (at least to me). They both feel like two halves of a single soul.

For me, it's because Arcane!Jayce is what LoL!Jayce would have been if even a single person in his life had fucking cared about him.

LoL!Jayce doesn't have a loving mother, no family, no last name. All he is is a brilliant mind and a mouth with no filter.

The clans of Piltover don't care about Jayce. Buying his apprenticeship like he's a piece of meat to be used and discarded. They only care about what he can create. They feed his ego until there is only the Brilliant Inventor and no more Jayce. They stroke his ego until he becomes insufferable and then he's even more alone but now they've corrupted and molded him into something else. cruelly morphing him into an egotistical monster so that he doesn't even realize he's lonely. He tells himself it's good no one likes him because he doesn't fucking need them! They'll only slow him down.

And then comes Viktor, a young man who's so alluring because he's brilliant just like Jayce. And then Viktor becomes his whole world. They do everything together. Jayce's ego and loud mouth don't scare Viktor away, not like the others. They work in tandem so well, moving as one. Jayce doesn't need people or love or attention or a family because he has Viktor.

And then they fight.

Viktor, perfect brilliant Viktor, has gray morals. He wants to help people by hurting them, by taking their agency away. Jayce can't let that happen. Agency is all some people have. It's a human right.

So they fight and they fight.

And now Viktor is gone. The only person in Jayce's life is gone. But Jayce can't let him go. Especially not after Viktor steals from him. He has to get his research back so he fights back. Crushed when Viktor tries to actually kill him.

Jayce doesn't want to kill Viktor. Viktor's all he has!

So he destroys Viktor's lab. Has to stop him. Get's the crystal back.

He gets home and Piltover sinks her claws into him once more. Creeping, crawling, corrupting tendrils curling under his bruised skin. They whisper in his ear and stoke his ego higher and higher until it towers above all else. They call him the Defender of Tomorrow and he believes them. He wears the title with pride. It's his duty to help others.

...but he wants Viktor...

So, they fight. They fight and fight and fight. For years on end they fight.

Because only in those moments can he see Viktor, can touch him, can hear his ever changing voice, and bask in his brilliance once again.

[muiitoloko]

It's me... Hi, I'm the problem it's me... ok, it's only fun if you like Taylor Swift haha If you have inspiration, do you think you could write a very, very, veryyyyy fluffy story ? I let you choose the character, the oc just need a lot of comfort, love and support haha

Title: Soft Spot

Summary: Sinclair Bryant has one for you and you’re starting to suspect you’ve got one for him too. Especially when he brings you tea, calls it a potion, and kisses your forehead like it’s sacred ground.

Pairing: Sinclair Bryant × Fem! Reader

Warnings: None

Author's Notes: Sorry for taking so long to respond to this request.

Also read on Ao3

It all started with a sneeze. A small one, barely there. Then another, and another. You’d tried to hide it, of course—you always did. You tucked your face into your sleeve, turned away from the barn door as if the cold wind was to blame. But Sinclair Bryant noticed.

He always noticed.

Even when he pretended not to. Even when his mouth kept moving with some ramble about wool quality or rainfall percentages or the way sheep could recognize up to fifty different faces—“scientifically proven, love, I read it somewhere, probably in New Sheep Weekly or the Lancet, not sure which.” Even then, he’d noticed.

And by that afternoon, you'd been banished.

Well—not quite banished. Relocated. Relocated firmly to the old wooden porch swing wrapped in at least three layers of patchwork quilts, a mug of scalding tea in your hands (ginger, lemon, honey—he’d quadruple-checked the ratios), and orders not to move.

“Sinclair,” you croaked from under the wool blanket fortress, “this is ridiculous. I just sneezed.”

“Six times,” he said pointedly, head popping up from behind a small herd of lambs like a disapproving meerkat. His blond hair glinted under the late sun, a straw hat pushed too far back on his head. “Eight if we count the ones you tried to stifle in the hayloft.”

You sighed, nursing your tea. “I work here, remember? You don’t have to do my job and lecture me.”

He was already herding the fluffiest of the ewes toward the pen, still talking. “You used to work here. Now you’re my girlfriend. Entirely different category. No sick days when you’re just an employee, but when you’re someone’s treasured, beloved companion in life’s brief and chaotic adventure—”

“Clair.”

“—you get tea, and blankets, and an absurd number of nose kisses if you’ll ever let me near your face again.”

Your lips twitched.

“You’re doing my job,” you called out after a beat, quieter this time.

“And loving it,” Sinclair chirped back. “Marigold and the twins told me I’m doing splendidly. Didn’t you, sweet girl?” He bent down to stroke one of the ewes, cooing softly. “She says I’ve got a natural herder’s soul.”

“You paid me to do that. You shouldn’t be out there—”

“Nonsense,” he said, waving a hand. “I’d pay double for the privilege of chasing these woolly creatures about if it meant you’d stay put and let me take care of you. Honestly, you’ve been here months, and this is the first time I’ve had an excuse to fuss.”

You tried to suppress a smile, cheeks warming. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“I know,” he beamed, already knee-deep in mud, one trouser leg caught in a fence. “Isn’t it grand?”

You sipped your tea, watching him gently scoop up a stubborn lamb and cradle it against his chest like it was made of glass. There was a gentleness to Sinclair that never quite matched his brilliance. He could talk for hours about economic fluctuations, quote poetry from memory, and then trip over his own shoelaces because he got distracted by a particularly soft-looking cloud.

But his eyes—those ever-changing hazel eyes—were always on you when it mattered.

Ever since Natalie. Ever since that betrayal, Sinclair had been cautious. Wary, yes, but watchful. Not possessive—never that—but attuned. Even when he rambled about the chemical structure of lanolin or how sheep recognized pitch in human voices, you knew he was watching your fingers tremble around the tea mug. Clocking the flush in your cheeks. The tired slouch of your shoulders.

And now here you were, bundled up and warm, doing absolutely nothing but basking in the golden hour light, watching your reclusive, sheep-obsessed, softly brilliant boyfriend whisper secrets to his flock while you got to fall in love with him all over again.

“You’re gonna catch a cold too,” you warned, sniffling.

Sinclair paused mid-step, glanced up, and grinned. “Then you’ll have to take care of me. And I quite like the sound of that, actually.”

You rolled your eyes, but the fondness in your chest bloomed like spring through frost. You looked around, letting your eyes sweep across the familiar sprawl of land now bathed in the warm blush of late afternoon. The farm had changed—more than you’d ever admit aloud. Two years ago, it had been barely hanging on, a sheep farm in its final wheezing stretch of breath. The fences were half-rotted, the barns crumbling, the staff overworked and underpaid.

And then Sinclair Bryant had arrived.

He’d driven up in an ancient Volvo and a coat too expensive for mud, stepped out onto gravel in gleaming brogues, and declared—with the sort of breezy finality only a man with millions could afford—that he was buying the place.

You hadn’t believed him. None of you had.

But he had. Bought it outright. Kept the staff—every last one, including you. He didn’t fire anyone, didn’t tear it down to build a wellness resort or some corporate retreat center like everyone feared. No, Sinclair had just... moved in.

The first few weeks were strange. He barely left the main house—some grand, creaky Victorian heap with ivy strangling the brickwork and chimneys that coughed when it rained. He kept odd hours, wandered at dawn in robes and slippers like some misplaced philosopher, and spent most of his time pacing the fields or sitting in the barn with a lamb in his lap and talking.

God, the way he talked.

Not just to the animals—which was bizarre enough, considering he held full-blown one-sided debates with a sheep named Lord Baa-bington—but to you, to the others, to himself. Endlessly. Passionately. One minute it was Greek stoicism, the next it was whether or not sheep experienced envy. You’d learned more about pasture rotation and planetary retrogrades in a week than you had in all your years on the job.

At first, you dismissed it. Chalked it up to rich-people eccentricity. Maybe he’d lost a bet. Maybe it was a tax shelter. You tried not to think about it too much.

But then weeks passed. And he stayed.

He fixed the fencing himself. Badly, but with conviction. Painted the front gate a shade of blue he called optimistic periwinkle. Donated money to the local school, hosted an accidental sheep yoga class (you still didn’t know how that had happened), and learned all the animals’ names by heart. He brought books for the break room. Memorized everyone’s birthdays. Hired a therapist for the overanxious border collie.

And slowly—painfully slowly—you began to understand.

He hadn’t come here to turn a profit. He hadn’t come for prestige or because it made sense. He’d come here to stay.

You’d watched from a distance, wary at first. Always quiet. Always withdrawn. You’d never been the kind of person who filled silences. You didn’t like being noticed, didn’t trust ease. But Sinclair... Sinclair made space.

He talked and talked and talked—and never once asked you to match him. He just... filled the room with his gentle, earnest noise, and let you breathe in it. Let you exist beside it. He didn’t demand conversation. He offered it like bread.

And, somehow, you found yourself changing. Without even realizing it.

Now, as you sat beneath the porch awning, watching him wander through the field with a crooked fence post tucked under one arm and a paperback stuffed in the back of his jeans, you let the moment wash over you.

Sinclair paused halfway through the pasture, his blond hair lit up like a halo in the evening light, and turned suddenly as if sensing your gaze.

“You’re thinking again,” he called, grinning. “Don’t deny it, your face always does this thing when you’re thinking too hard—it’s very serious. Very noble. Also slightly terrifying.”

You raised your brows. “It’s my face.”

“Yes, and I adore it,” he called back. “Even when you’re giving me that look like I’ve just asked if sheep should vote. Which, by the way, not the worst idea—”

“Clair.”

“Yes, love?”

You smiled. “Nothing.”

He beamed at you from across the pasture, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun, the other absentmindedly petting a lamb that had ambled up to his side. The wind caught the hem of his jumper, tugged it just enough to show the ridiculous sheep-print boxers he insisted on wearing for luck.

And somehow, in that absurdly perfect moment, you realized something simple and true:

You weren’t just grateful he’d saved the farm.

You were grateful he’d saved you, too. Just by being exactly who he was.

Soft. Brilliant. Rambly. And yours.

Later that night, with the sheep finally tucked away in their pens and the sky spilling stars across the quiet countryside, Sinclair Bryant was still fussing.

You sat curled on the battered old sofa in the sunroom, one of his oversized cardigans swallowing you whole, a book open on your lap—though you hadn’t turned the page in fifteen minutes. Not with him pacing the floor like a man preparing for battle.

“Okay,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, voice low and distracted as he examined the tray he’d brought in. “Chamomile or peppermint? Wait—what did the book say again? Something about antihistamines and natural oils—bugger it, where’s the ginger?”

You sneezed.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Just a small, exhausted, perfectly average sneeze.

Sinclair’s head snapped up like someone had just set off a flare in the room.

“There it is again!” he declared, hazel eyes wide with alarm. “You’re not better. I knew it.”

You groaned softly, burrowing deeper into the cardigan. “Clair, I’m fine. People sneeze. It’s a normal bodily function.”

“Not when I’m responsible for your wellbeing, it isn’t,” he replied, rushing over with the urgency of someone delivering an antidote, a fluffy pair of socks clutched in one hand. “Feet. Give them.”

“I already have socks.”

“Yes, but do you have these socks?” He held them up like a magician unveiling a rare treasure. “Cashmere. Purple. Warm enough to trick your toes into thinking it’s July.”

You stared at him, utterly defeated by the glint in his eye. “I love you,” you mumbled, sliding your feet into his lap.

He beamed. “I know.”

As he tugged the socks over your toes—gently, reverently, like you were some recovering Victorian invalid—he started to ramble again. “I read this thing once—well, skimmed it really, I was in a queue and it was printed on the back of a cereal box—but it said colds thrive when people are stressed, so really, your recovery is directly linked to how thoroughly I can pamper you.”

“That’s not science.”

“Could be. If we believe hard enough.”

You sneezed again. He froze.

“Right, that’s it,” Sinclair said, standing so suddenly your feet bounced off his lap. “I’m making the lemon potion again.”

You blinked. “Please stop calling it that.”

“Potion,” he insisted, already disappearing into the kitchen, “because elixir sounded too dramatic, and tonic made me feel like I should be wearing suspenders and selling it off the back of a wagon.”

You could hear him rattling in drawers, humming something that suspiciously resembled the theme song from The Muppet Show. Despite your sniffles and the persistent tickle in your throat, you smiled. He was ridiculous. He was overbearing. He was utterly relentless.

But God, he was yours.

Five minutes later, he returned—triumphantly balancing a steaming mug, a plate of biscuits, and a hot water bottle shaped like a cartoon sheep. “Name’s Fergus,” he said, plopping it beside you with pride. “He’ll watch over you while you rest.”

“I’m not dying, Clair,” you laughed, but you snuggled Fergus anyway.

“I know,” he said softly, settling beside you with a sigh, tugging you gently against his chest. “But every time you sneeze, it’s like my whole nervous system goes into alert mode. You know those ducklings that imprint on the first thing they see and follow it forever?”

“…Are you the duckling in this scenario?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation, wrapping his arms around you. “And you keep sneezing, so my instincts are screaming tend! protect! administer honey-based liquids!”

You snorted into his jumper.

His voice dropped to a murmur, breath warm against your temple. “Let me take care of you. Just for tonight. No sheep. No chores. Just you. Me. Fergus the hot water bottle. I’ll even read to you.”

You tilted your head, eyeing him suspiciously. “From what?”

He grinned, already reaching into the pocket of his cardigan. “The thrilling and highly underrated classic ‘The Secret Lives of Sheep.’”

You groaned. “Clair, no—”

“Hush,” he said, flipping it open, clearing his throat with exaggerated pomp. “Chapter Eight: Social Hierarchies in Ewe Groups. ‘Though often underestimated, sheep display a wide array of social—’”

You laughed until you coughed, and he immediately paused, rubbing slow circles on your back.

“Alright,” he said gently, voice still warm with amusement but laced with concern. “That’s enough academic seduction for tonight.”

You leaned against him, the sheep book abandoned on the armrest, your fingers twisting into the wool of his sleeve.

“I really am okay,” you whispered.

“I know,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your hair. “But you don’t have to prove it.”

You closed your eyes, the sound of his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek. The farmhouse creaked softly around you, the scent of lemon and ginger in the air, and the warmth of Sinclair’s arms wrapped around you like a second quilt.

Maybe you were a little sick.

Maybe the sneeze would come back in a few minutes and he’d spring to life like a golden-haired butler hopped up on Victorian medicine ads.

But for now, you were safe.

You were warm.

And Sinclair Bryant—rambling, over-attentive, hopelessly endearing Sinclair Bryant—was exactly where you wanted him to be.

[fwoopersongs]

光亮 - Silver Linings; Let Your Light Shine

Note: Turn on the closed captions by clicking in the rectangle [cc]! You can drag and drop to put them wherever you like.

These are words both about the song and expressing her support for Zhou Shen by the lyricist, 苟璘 Gou Lin, on her Weibo:

This is a song of praise dedicated to tiny lives amidst the vast sweep of history. In the face of the grandeur of the Forbidden City’s six hundred years, there are far too many individual lives that can feel so very insignificant. However, the most crushing kind of smallness doesn’t come just from time or space, it comes from that deep and helpless frustration we’ve all felt at some point when the world overlooks or scorns us. And yet, even throughout all of time and the infinite vastness of the universe, even if our utmost effort only amounted to a brief spark in the end—here for a moment, then gone without a trace, what matters is that in that moment, we saw our own passion. We heard the voice in our heart. Maybe this is what it truly means to have lived? You are an angel sent to this world with the power to heal. So, keep blissfully singing. Keep shining with your purity and warmth. Keep lighting the way for those who need your light @Kabu_Zhou Shen. Tonight, the Forbidden City shines for you.

/I love this song so so so much. Ahhhhhhhhh. Started translating this on the 29th of January 2022 (I know bc all my translation project file titles start with the initiation date xD) and even TLed Su Shi’s poem, 定风波·莫听穿林打叶声 to prepare! But in the end, I had to put it on indefinite hiatus partially because I couldn’t decide what ‘光亮你自己’ vibed like to me, but also because I wanted to watch the show it was made for. Posting now because I finally did get around to watching it, and also because inspiration struck*! \o/

*Cough. Technically halfway through one night in 2023 if memory serves… Yes, it took me two years to write it down…

Background

This is one of twelve theme songs for 紫禁城 Forbidden City, the 12 episode 2021 documentary jointly produced by Beijing Radio & Television Station (BRTV) and The Palace Museum, which, as its name suggests, is centered on the history of and history that unfolded around the Forbidden Palace in Beijing, built in the Ming Dynasty and that still stands today. 

Every episode had its own ending song. Zhou Shen’s 光亮 / Silver Linings was the ending song for Episode 6 余晖 | Afterglow.

(Rockster929 has subtitled a short interview with the director of this documentary from China Documentary Festival here where he talks a bit about the background of the song, and some words from Zhou Shen about it and what he wants to convey with it.)

The ‘afterglow’ here refers to the meteorological phenomenon in which an arc of light can still be seen on the horizon after sunset or twilight. It’s the perfect word for this episode, which mainly covers the late Ming Dynasty in broad strokes, from the reign period of the Wanli Emperor, Emperor Shenzhong of Ming, to the fall of the dynasty with its last Emperor Chongzhen. If that sounds cliched to you, I thought so too… and boy was I happy to be wrong!

紫禁城 Forbidden City, Episode 6 余晖 | Afterglow and its theme, 光亮 Silver Linings

Some rambles about it (and a link to the show) for you all because I couldn’t find an English subbed version. If you can understand Chinese though, I highly recommend watching it because the MV version feels SO different when you have that context, and it’s no longer just a collection of pretty backgrounds, antiques and strangers that don’t mean anything to you.

In this episode, late Ming history is presented as one of fading grandeur and deepening shadow, with moments of inspiring resilience and tragic but admirable brilliance. 

It opens with an ominous rare winter thunderstorm in 1610, on the 24th day of the twelfth lunar month, marking the birth of Zhu Youjian, the future Emperor Chongzhen. With hindsight from what we know now, it seems almost symbolic (or so the documentary narration went xD). His life, like the dynasty he would one day inherit and then lose, would be similarly marked by turbulence and tragedy.

Use this: Handy list of Ming Dynasty Emperors.

We then jumped back a little ways in time (there was a lot of jumping back and forth… I had to consult the wikipedia timeline of Ming emperors) to the reign of the Longqing Emperor, Zhu Zaiji (1537 to 1572), who, upon ascending the throne in 1567, lifted a longstanding maritime ban and reopened Ming’s doors to overseas trade. This short lived yet forward-looking policy that later became known as the Longqing Opening was what brought new vitality into a flagging economy and rule. It also laid the economic foundation for the comprehensive reforms of the ‘light in the darkness’, Zhang Juzheng (1525 to 1582), initially Grand Secretary and basically prime minister under Emperor Wanli (1563 to 1620)—which turned things for the better in terms of both economy and efficient governance.

(If you love political cdramas PLEASE come check out Zhang Juzheng’s wiki page. He also wrote child!Emperor Wanli the illustrated book, 帝鉴图说 Illustrated Study of Emperors, which was featured in the documentary.)

Possibly due in part to the way his hand was forced over the investiture of a less favoured son as Crown Prince, in the later part of his rule, Emperor Wanli withdrew from court life citing illness, and state machinery began to grind down. Beneath the appearance of upheld rituals and grandeur, Ming had begun to hollow out. Factional infighting, court intrigue, and rigid, inefficient bureaucracy weakened the dynasty from within, even as natural disasters (and bad management of them), rebellions, and global shifts pressed in from without.

There was more about Emperor Taichang, Zhu Changluo (1582 to 1620) and Emperor Tainqi, Zhu Youjiao (1605 to 1627) before circling back to Emperor Chongzhen whom we started off with, and their ultimately futile attempts to turn back the tide (of the gradual decline of Ming). But beyond emperors, ministers and the suffering people, what stood out and became clear as I watched this episode was how very human they all were. The quiet heroism and tragic flaws of those who tried in their own ways to hold the center together. Sometimes the same ones who accelerated its end. The nobility and the failures, the integrity and short-sightedness, the earnest reformers and bitter rivals—sometimes all in one messy tangled ball. History, shaped by people in all their fragility and complexity, against forces they could not control.

Ah, I may have made it all sound very bleak! But really the heart of 余晖 is not a story of collapse and things falling apart, but of endurance and resilience. Of little matches keeping a glimmer of light in the darkness.

Which then leads us seamlessly to the next section ~

This Song and How I See it

(But in the meantime, lemme plug a couple of the versions I’ve enjoyed as well. Here (Illumination) from tumblr user six-sticks with awesome word effects that add to the vibe, and this 2023 CCTV New Year’s Gala version (The Light), which is not as literal and probably had to conform to some sort of word count guideline, but still the interpretation is so clear!)

Upon the sea, a gust of wind begins to blow, white clouds roll toward the land [1]. the monsoon carrying away grains of sand. Four seasons: Cycles of cold and warmth. Look, it’s the effervescence of life, and here again, traces of decay [2]. Be it the sudden wind and rain in your face as you race, or the illuminating light of a single burning match against the darkness [3], perhaps you will never guess where ineffable fate leads you [4] like the shooting stars that fly without knowing where they go [5]. But ah, and yet I… I am willing believe in the smallest, the weakest, the gentlest and bravest of all, you. Reaching out with all your strength and all you have [6]. No matter how fathomless, endless, unsolvable, always, there’s a sliver of hope [7]. Be your own light [8a]. Heed not the sound cutting through the forest, battering leaves; straw-draped, weathering a lifetime's storms unchecked by fog or rain [9]. At Changyin Hall in the end, we are all just stories taking the stage [10]; a grain of sand to six hundred years, and all that once was, a dream [11]. But oh, and yet I…I am willing to believe in the smallest, the weakest, the gentlest and bravest of all, you. Reaching out with all your strength and all you have. No matter how fathomless, endless, unsolvable, always, there’s a sliver of hope. Let your light shine [8b]. Heed not the sound cutting through the forest, battering leaves. Straw-draped, weathering a lifetime's storms unchecked by fog or rain. At Changyin Hall in the end, we are all just stories taking the stage; a grain of sand to six hundred years, and all that once was, a dream. Unwavering despite the outcome [12a]. Being your bravest self. Undeterred by fate [12b]. The bravest you can be.

Notes

[1] 一阵风吹起 / 白云涌向陆地 / 季风带走沙粒 a gust of wind begins to blow / white clouds roll toward the land / the monsoon carrying away grains of sand.

Honestly, translating this line was like all my secondary school physical geography nonsense coming back to haunt my soul. Monsoon winds are regional wind patterns that reverse direction seasonally due to the Coriolis Effect produced by the rotation of the earth etc. etc. xD It's a very lively and lovely way to set the scene for this song because it calls ocean and sunlight dappled beach imagery to mind immediately, tying in to the natural cycles of nature, the storm and the sea that are mentioned later on in the song. 

I had great fun choosing a word for 涌 because it’s like a rising, surging sort of motion right? But the vibes are a smidge gentler in this sentence because of the descriptions that sandwich it. Since rolling clouds are a stunning thing and since these seem to herald a storm, that’s what I went with!

[2]  多鲜活的生命 / 又枯萎的痕迹 Look, it’s the effervescence of life / and here again, traces of decay

The 多 in this sentence is of ‘多么’ (duō me) | how, frequently shortened to just 多 alone. And then ‘effervescence’ was the first word that popped into my head at 鲜活 - vivid and vibrant and bursting with vitality, and I am fond enough to keep it so, even if a closer match to the sentence might have been ‘how effervescent life is!’ xD I think one of the versions I recced earlier uses 'a vivid life with marks from withering', which is also super valid.

With 枯萎’s association with plant life, perfectly tying in to the previous line about the interchanging of seasons, perhaps wither might have been a more suitable choice than decay? But I couldn’t figure out a sentence that sounded right with ‘wither’ in it, so… oh well!

[3] 是奔跑中突然袭来的风雨 / 是黑暗中一根火柴燃烧的光明 Be it the sudden wind and rain in your face as you race / or the illuminating light of a single burning match against the darkness

This structure of ‘Be it the / or the’ comes from my perceiving the lines as ‘是 / (还)是’ and these two with the next two lines conveying this: Whether it’s the storm that hits you unexpectedly, or being the fragile strength-giving light in the darkness, maybe you can’t tell what your purpose is or if your effort will even make a difference at the end of it all… 

Like, omg I really love the sudden rain in your face here, because this is what sets up for the opening of the opera singing later on! Will explain in [9].

[4] 也许你猜不透未知的宿命 perhaps you will never guess where ineffable fate leads you

Predestined is the typical translation of 宿命, which is also literally [movement of the constellations] [determined by command]. Meanwhile, typically, we hear ‘fate written in the stars’ in english. So… fate it is!

[5] 像流星飞翔着它却不知目的 like the shooting stars that fly without knowing where they go

‘Where they go’ is because 目的 can also be direction as well as purpose. When we add a 地 at the end, it becomes 目的地 (mù dì dì) destination. I went with a slightly anthropomorphic rendition here to reflect the tone that’s implied about the shooting stars* that don’t 不知 *know* their purpose. 

The way it is phrased in the Chinese, the pronoun 它 is for non-human beings and objects similar to ‘it’. However when pronounced, 它 (tā) is indistinguishable from what you use for a human, 他 (tā). Combining that with the image in the MV that has the magnificent time-exposure shot of the trajectory of stars above 太和殿 (tài hé diàn) | Hall of Supreme Harmony, I used ‘shooting stars’—plural and ‘they’ for this line.

If I were prepping for a lyric video without the context of the MV, I’d probably change it to something along the lines of ‘like a shooting star that flies without knowing where to go’.

[6] 用尽了全力 努力地回应 Reaching out with all your strength and all you have 

Hmmmmmm I let go of 回应’s responding / replying shade of meaning in favour of reaching because I couldn’t tease out the unwieldy sentence if all remained. xD 

[7] 总有一线生机 always, there’s a sliver of hope

But another aspect of that creative decision (other than laziness) is that I wanted to capture that grasping for the ‘一线生机 single thread of chance at survival’ image.

[8] 光亮你自己 (a) Be your own light / (b) Let your light shine

This line was what had me conflicted and idly racking my brains for literal months xD

Where conventionally 光亮 is shining, bright or light, none of that really fitted in with 你自己. Light yourself, as in illuminate yourself? Make yourself shine? It’s not the same as ‘setting yourself alight’ in the sense of the burning match from the earlier line, but a sort of illuminating quality. The image here is that *you* are giving off the light.

(Also no I didn't see any of the interviews/pre-performance words where he talked about it, or I wouldn't have been stuck for so long!)

And what you see is my conclusion! The first one comes after the verse that is encouragement for ones feeling adrift, out of their depth or purposeless and lost. So the call to ‘be your own light’ feels like something I would say.

The light comes from within yourself.

The second one comes after the opera style verse… well… so maybe let’s leap right into that first!

[9] 莫听穿林打叶声 / 一蓑烟雨任平生 Heed not the sound cutting through the forest, battering leaves / straw-draped, weathering a lifetime's storms unchecked by fog or rain

This sentence is actually made up of two separate lines from the same poem by Su Shi (better known as Su Dongpo - btw it’s not his name but Su of the Eastern Slope xD I’ve explained about how he got it here). The poem is 定风波·莫听穿林打叶声 | To the tune of ‘Still the Wind and Waves’ • (first line) heed not the sound of rain in the forest.

A prominent Song dynasty poet and official, Su Shi wrote this poem during his relegation to Huangzhou around 1080. He had been falsely accused of criticizing government policies in his poetry and was imprisoned before being demoted to a minor post in farway and destitute land. It was a major MAJOR fall, and I don’t have the words to describe what he (and others) went through, but there is an ENTIRE wikipedia page for the whole case. So if interested, here you go: Crow Terrace Poetry Trial. The link is to the conclusion of the case and his sentencing because that’s what directly led to the circumstances under which he wrote the poem we’re interested in, but feel free to scroll up and read from the top.

Su Shi's fall from political favor and relegation deeply impacted him (keep in mind that he was 43 when this happened, remained in Huangzhou for 4 years and passed about 16 years later in 1101), but rather than grow bitter or defeated, his writings from this period show a shift toward embracing reclusion, simplicity, and freedom from official burdens. One day, returning and getting caught in the rain, Su Shi found himself walking calmly while others were flustered. This real-life episode inspired the poem, where the last line reveals his secret to remaining at ease in spite of his circumstances. That same theme is reflected in 光亮’s ending lines.

Something cute (Zhou Shen related) that I came across recently: Since the line was derived from two different parts of this poem which also happens to be a classroom and exam staple, in his concerts, Zhou Shen has tested fans on singing the song 光亮 vs. reciting the poem 顶风波. Here’s one from 811 Nanjing in 2024 (I adore that outfit!!!!!)

Anyway! Can’t say all that without showing you what we’ve been talking about, so here it is:

三月七日，沙湖道中遇雨。雨具先去，同行皆狼狈，余独不觉，已而遂晴，故作此词。 On the seventh day of the third month, midway on Sandylake Road, we met with rain. Those bearing rain gear went on ahead. My traveling companions were all miserable and disheveled, only I did not feel discomfited; shortly after, the skies cleared when the rain ended. This is why I pen these words. 莫听穿林打叶声，何妨吟啸且徐行。竹杖芒鞋轻胜马，谁怕？一蓑烟雨任平生。 Heed not the sound cutting through the forest, battering leaves. Why not keep singing along as you tread? On bamboo staff and wicker sandals light and swift, better suited than a steed. Who’s afraid? Straw-draped, weathering a lifetime's storms unchecked by fog or rain.  料峭春风吹酒醒，微冷，山头斜照却相迎。回首向来萧瑟处，归去，也无风雨也无晴。 A sharp Spring breeze dissipates my drunken haze. It is a little chilly. Yet, welcoming me on the mountaintop are the setting sun’s slanting rays. I look toward the way we came, where leaves rustled in the cold. Toward a return where there is neither storm nor clear skies.

Is he really talking about just the rain in that first line, or does it also apply to the storms in life too? Keep walking forward, unafraid, just as you had before and sing in its face!!!! The secret to being at ease is in finding the silver lining in every dark day and appreciating it. And whether you’re met with storms or clear skies, take them with equanimity and a neutral heart. 

[10] 畅音阁里终一叙 At Changyin Hall in the end, we are all just stories taking the stage

The phrase ‘历史的舞台 history’s stage’ was used a couple of times throughout the documentary which I took inspiration from for the reading of the line. To support this interpretation, I also took 叙 xù in 终一叙 as that of 叙述 which is to record or to narrate. 

Hearing this song for the first time (and every time before actually looking it up xD) though, I did wonder about 畅音阁 (chàng yīn gé), which sounds like a building, a place of music, and why are we recounting stories there. Now, I think it’s sort of meta to use opera style singing to cue a place where opera is performed, while practically saying ‘all the world's a stage‘ xD

For the song, 畅音阁 | Pavilion of Pleasant Sounds is translated as Changyin Hall, transliterating its name as Changyin and the type of building, a ge, as ‘Hall’ for the sake of catchiness. (Hey we call it Langya HALL not Langya Pavillion xD) But for the sake of clarity in the notes because the official name for a 殿 is Hall, let’s call this place Changyin Pavilion.

In Episode 10 of 紫禁城 Forbidden City, in a small segment depicting Empress Cixi’s 60th birthday amidst a tumultus time for Qing, we learn that Changyin Hall is located near to her 宁寿宫 | Ningshou Palace / Palace of Tranquil Longevity, and that it hosts the largest performance stage in all of the Forbidden Palace. 

Here is a map where you can try hunting for it!

I went to look up the page for Changyin Pavilion in The Palace Museum’s website and here it is. You can even go in and click the 360 view to explore it.

Here’s a translation of the short writeup about it on the page.

(Post Translation Draft Edit: 😵 SUPER regret setting out to do this LMAO *coughs blood*. Please take all of it with a pinch of salt!!!!! I’ll leave the Chinese text alongside for people who can read themselves.)

畅音阁位于宁寿宫后区东路南端，座南面北，为清宫内廷演戏楼。乾隆三十七年（1772年）始建，四十一年建成。嘉庆七年（1802年）曾维修，二十二年于阁后（南）接盖卷棚顶扮戏楼。光绪十七年（1891年）维修。现存建筑为嘉庆年间改建后的规制。

Changyin Pavilion sits in the area behind Ningshou Palace at the Southmost end of the East road. North facing with its back to the south, it served as an opera performance stage in the palace during the Qing Dynasty. Construction began in the 37th year of Emperor Qianlong's reign (1772) and was completed in his 41st year (1776). It once had to be maintained and repaired in the 7th year of Emperor Jiaqing’s reign (1802), and in the 22nd year (1817), an annex with a curved-roof, a juanpeng ding, was added to the south of the pavilion as a dressing area. Another round of maintenance took place in the 17th year of Emperor Guangxu's reign (1891). The architecture that remains today reflects the style and modifications made during the Jiaqing period.

畅音阁三重檐，通高20.71m，卷棚歇山式顶，覆绿琉璃瓦黄琉璃瓦剪边，一、二层檐覆黄琉璃瓦。阁面阔3间，进深3间，与南边5开间扮戏楼相接，平面呈凸字形。

Changyin Pavilion has three-tiered eaves with an overall height of 20.71 meters. Its roof features a combination of xieshan (hip-and-gable) and curved eaves, covered with green glazed tiles edged with yellow glazed tiles. The first and second levels are roofed entirely with yellow glazed tiles. Three jians wide and three jians deep (sorry, but I can’t figure out what they mean by ‘jian’, so uhhhhh here’s an entire article for you about it xD), and it connects to the five jian annex dressing area to the south, forming a T-shaped layout.

上层檐下悬“畅音阁”匾，中层檐下悬“导和怡泰”匾，下层檐下悬“壶天宣豫”匾。内有上中下三层戏台，上��称福台，中层称禄台，下层称寿台。寿台面积210㎡，台内不设立柱，采用抹角梁。

Under the eaves of the uppermost level hangs a plaque that reads ‘畅音阁 Changyin Pavilion’, the one on the middle level reads ‘导和怡泰 Guided Harmony and Pleasant Peace’, and the lowest level has ‘壶天宣豫 Spreading Heavenly Joy’ (Chinese blog post explaining the names). Within the building, there are three vertically stacked stages. The upper stage is called 福台 Fortune Stage, the middle one is called 禄台 Prosperity Stage, and the lower one Longevity Stage. The 寿台 Longevity Stage, with an area of 210 square meters is designed without interior columns, using corner-braced beams (video explaining this architectural building technique in Chinese) instead. 

台面后部设有4座楼梯，接平台，上楼梯可抵达禄台。寿台北、东、西三面明间的两柱上方装饰鬼脸卷草纹木雕彩绘匾，惟正（北）面挂联：

At the rear of the stage, there are four staircases leading to a platform that provides access to the Prosperity Stage above. Installed upon the upper part of two front pillars of the open jeans (in this case probably meaning open air area) on the north, east, and west sides of the Longevity Stage are ornately painted wooden plaques with ghostly masks and curly grass patterns. A couplet is hung on the Northern face:

动静叶清音 知水仁山随所会 春秋富佳日 凤歌鸾舞适其机

In motion or stillness, pure melodies resonate; the wise are drawn to flowing waters, the virtuous to steadfast mountains — each finds joy in their own way. Spring and autumn brim with gentle, golden days; the phoenix sings, the luan bird dances, each in harmony with the moment.

台面中部设地井，盖板可开合。台下地面四角各有窨井一眼，南边中间有一眼水井，可为戏中表演喷水提供水源。

A trapdoor above a well in the ground is set in the center of the stage floor, with a cover that can be opened or closed. Each corner beneath the stage has a drainage point, with a freshwater well located at the center of the south side, providing a source of water for stage effects such as spraying fountains of water during performances.

禄台、福台均将前沿（北侧）做为台面，使观戏者抬头便可看到。三层台设天井上下贯通，禄台、福台井口安设辘轳，下边直对寿台地井，根据剧情需要，天井、地井可升降演员、道具等。使用三层台的剧目不多，绝大多数只在寿台上表演。

The northernmost side of both the Prosperity and Fortune stages are used as the downstage, allowing the audience to look upward and enjoy the show. A vertical airwell runs through all three levels, and the Fortune and Prosperity Stage have a winch system installed at the edge of this airwell, with the bottom reaching to the Longevity stage. This setup allowed actors, props, and set pieces to be raised or lowered as needed for dramatic effects. However, few operas required use of all three stages and most performances took place solely on the Longevity Stage.

畅音阁建筑宏丽，京西颐和园内德和园大戏楼即仿畅音阁规制建造。Changyin Pavilion is known for its grand and splendid architecture. The 德和园 dé hé yuán | Garden of Virtue and Harmony at the Summer Palace in western Beijing was modeled after Changyin Pavilion.

[11] 六百年一粟 沧海一梦 a grain of sand to six hundred years, and all that once was, a dream

This line is a… I guess you could say, a crossover of two sayings? They’ve used it to great effect too!

One is an idiom, 沧海一粟 (cāng hǎi yī sù) | a grain of sand in the vast ocean, that originates from another piece of writing by Su Shi, called 《赤壁赋》 On the Red Cliff (maybe this is why they kept his name in as a lyricist too? This whole song has been very thematically resonant with his poem LOL), where 赋 (fù) is a type of poetic exposition, often translated as ‘rhapsody’. 

The other is 浮生一梦 (fú shēng yī mèng) | life, full of its vicissitudes, is like a (brief) dream. And instead of keeping it in as it is exactly, they swapped 浮生 [floating life] for 六百年 [six hundred years], because this song is written for a documentary about the Forbidden City and its six hundred years of history.

(Do you remember the wind that blew over the sea? The monsoon that carried away grains of sand?)

I feel like swapping them over has this amazing effect of enhancing how they feel.

Also! Because I'm just like this about rabbit holes (tragically), I went to read Su Shi's Red Cliff essay, and you know what? It's also very relevant to the topics in this song. Have casually translated it below with randomly interspersed commentary.

On the Red Cliff by Su Shi

In the autumn of the year Renxu, on the sixteenth day of the seventh lunar month, Master (as in Mr… also he’s self referencing in third person to my modern Chinese reading self, so I shall continue in this vein) Su and his companion set out by boat to tour the area at the foot of Red Cliff.

A gentle breeze stirred, and the river lay still and calm. He raised his cup to his companion, reciting poems of the bright moon, singing the verse ‘Moonrise’ from the Book of Songs. Not long after, the moon rose above the mountain to the East and lingered between the constellations of the Dipper and the Ox. White fog rolled across the river, and the light across the water seemed one with the sky. Their tiny reed boat floated wherever the current wished, carried across the boundless mist. It felt as though they were riding the wind through the void, not knowing where they might stop—light and free, as if they had shed the world behind them, transformed and ascending into the Immortal Realm.

And so at the height of his delight at the wine and the night’s beauty, he struck the edge of the boat and began to sing. “Oars of osmanthus wood, paddles of orchid, cutting through rippling light, chasing the glitter of the flowing river. My thoughts adrift toward the one I long for, I look beyond heaven’s edge where the beauty lies.” His companion played their hollowed flute in harmony. The sound was soft and haunting, like bitterness, like longing, like quiet weeping or a lament. And the ending notes were sorrowful, moving and lingering, like strands of a thread that would not break. It could have stirred a jiaolong from its hidden ravine into a dance, or moved the widows drifting alone in their boats into tears.

Master Su sobered and sat up straight at once, asking his companion seriously, “Why is there such sorrow in your music?”

He answered, “‘The moon rises amongst scattered stars and magpies fly south.’ Isn’t that the song of Cao Mengde? Looking westward from here toward Xiakou, eastward toward Wuchang, the rivers and mountains entwined are verdant. Was it not here that Cao Mengde was trapped by Zhou Yu? He who once conquered Jingzhou, took Jiangling, and sailed with the current downriver. His warships stretched for a thousand miles, his banners covered the sky. He poured wine on the river banks, held his spear across his lap and composed poetry, truly a hero in his time. But… what remains of him and his now?

“And you and me, fishing and gathering wood on the river’s edge. With the fish and shrimp keeping us company, the deer and elk our friends, riding in our leaf of a boat, toasting each other with liquor in our cups. We are like mayflies in the vastness of the universe, a grain of sand in sea’s depths. I mourn the fleeting nature of our lives, and I envy the endless flow of the Long River.

“Ah, to fly with the immortals, to hold the moon and never part—though I know such things cannot be attained, so all I can do is to entrust this lingering tune to the sorrowful wind.”

(Oh it’s a mid-life crisis from being in a historic location. RELATABLE my dude.)

Master Su replied, “Do you know of the nature of water and the moon? The river flows on and on, yet it never truly leaves us. The moon waxes and wanes, but it never truly changes or grows lesser. From these, we can observe a pattern—one perspective on this is how easily things change, even Heaven and Earth do not remain unchanged for a single moment. But if we look for what *does not* change, then all things, ourselves included, are endless. What, then, is there to envy?

“Between heaven and earth, all things have their own place. We ought not to desire even a speck that is not ours. And yet, the clear breeze over the river, the bright moon between the mountains—our ears hear them as sound, our eyes see them as light and colour. Nothing forbids us from taking them in, and they are limitless and inexhaustible. These are the boundless treasures of nature, and they belong to both you and me.”

His companion smiled then. They rinsed the cups and filled them again. The dishes were emptied and stood in an awfully messy state. Together they lay side by side in the boat, not realizing that dawn was already breaking in the east.

So, once again from the top! :D

莫听穿林打叶声 一蓑烟雨任平生 畅音阁里终一叙 六百年一粟 沧海一梦 Heed not the sound cutting through the forest, battering leaves. Straw-draped, weathering a lifetime's storms unchecked by fog or rain. At Changyin Hall in the end, we are all just stories taking the stage; a grain of sand to six hundred years, and all that once was, a dream.

How do you feel about these lines now?

(NGL, hearing '畅音阁里终一叙' makes me cry every time.)

The first opera style read of these lines coming in after the first 光亮你自己 / be your own light / illuminate yourself / you'll light up your life is just OOF. Layering it with the background music to make it sound distant just gives it this timeless effect—like it's both about and addressed to all these people, be it 11th century's Su Shi in the midst of his relegations to ever more rural and perilous lands, others in worse straits whose voices we shall never know, or even that person who lost something vaster and heavier than we can ever imagine (it may not be a comfort, but the nature of humanity and history is such that you are not alone in being in that position). The way it twists my heart is just T_T

And then the next verse cutting in with his voice in focus again !!!!!

可是啊 我却 却愿意去相信 最渺小最微弱最柔软最无畏的你 用尽了全力 努力地去回应 再无边再无尽再无解总有一线生机 But oh, and yet I…I am willing to believe in the smallest, the weakest, the gentlest and bravest of all, you. Reaching out with all your strength and all you have. No matter how fathomless, endless, unsolvable, always, there’s a sliver of hope.

光亮你自己 Let your light shine.

It just hits SO different.

[12] (a) 无论目的 / (b) 不问宿命 (a) Unwavering despite the outcome / (b) Undeterred by fate

Literally 无论目的 (wú lùn mù dì) is [no matter] (the) [destination/purpose/goal]. However, it is also a callback to the earlier line about the shooting star that does not know the way. So I’ve extended the metaphor a little bit. If 目的 is the ‘place you mean to reach’ literally/figuratively, then whether you know it or not and whether you reach it or not is the outcome. And if no matter what happens, you’re unaffected by the outcome, then you’re…? Unwavering!

Same idea for 不问宿命 (bù wèn sù mìng). There was a film a few years back called 无问西东 (wú wèn xī dōng) - I translated a maobuyi song for it and had to check it out xD, and there was a line that went roughly like: May you remember how precious you are and resist malice when you are struck down, may you have faith in your worth when you feel lost; love what you love, do what you want to do. Follow your heart, and don’t be distracted by doubts. 

It’s the same idea here. Don’t be pulled back by the thought of what’s ‘fated’.

Let yourself shine, and you'll light up your life.

[regretismyconstantcompanion]

Title: Where the Air is Sweet In a magically veiled corner of Paris, Albus and Gellert reunite for a summer steeped in warmth, wonder, and old affection. But as laughter and magic flow freely, quiet questions linger—can something once broken ever truly be whole again?

++++++++++++ Paris, 1901

The cafe on Rue de l’Abreuvoir seemed to breathe with its own rhythm—slow and languid, like magic left to simmer. Pale sunlight streamed through windows charmed to reflect the golden hour at all times, regardless of the true hour. A violin floated lazily overhead, bowing itself in the corner near the ceiling, playing a quiet waltz no one seemed to have requested. Quills scribbled on floating napkins, taking down orders in elegant copperplate. Some of them wrote poetry when idle.

Albus was seated near the back, beneath a twisting vine of enchanted lavender that bloomed and shimmered faintly overhead. He had left Fawkes behind at Flamels townhouse, perched in the sunroom among alchemical glass and gentle, ancient wards. But one of the phoenixes tail feathers—satin-bright and stubbornly fire-warmed—was tucked into the band of Albus’ wide-brimmed hat, resting on the seat beside him like a quiet ember of loyalty.

He was halfway through a delicate pastry—layers of pear compote, almond cream, and lemon glaze—when Gellert arrived, his robes slightly windblown, eyes sharp with heat and amusement.

He took the seat across from Albus. “Paris suits you. There’s a touch of arrogance in the air—like you.”

“And you,” Albus said coolly, though his voice softened at the end.

Gellert smiled. “You really came here.” “To the cafe? You invited me.” “No, I mean here. To Paris.”

Albus raised an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not. Not really. I always said you belonged here.” He gestured to the cafe with a sweep of his hand. “Books that whisper, tea that brews itself, desserts that defy physics. You were always a romantic beneath all that brilliance.”

“Flamel does have a talent for locating the rare and the charming,” Albus said. “And for assigning endlessly complex metallurgy.”

“I’m certain you complain only when he’s out of earshot.”

Albus didn’t answer, but his smile was enough.

A flutter of heat at Gellerts collar drew his attention downward. From the inner pocket of his cloak, a flickering snout appeared, glowing faintly gold-red in the shadows. Apollo, Gellerts fire salamander familiar, blinked at the cafe lights with bright wide eyes.

“Curious little thing,” Albus murmured, reaching a hand forward.

Apollos shimmering scales flickered with hues of amber and copper. He gave Albus’ extended finger a familiar, dignified sniff, then nuzzled against it with the slow, deliberate fondness of something that remembered warmth.

Albus smiled and ran a gentle stroke along the salamanders narrow spine. Apollo made a pleased sound—something between a crackle and a purr—then nestled further into the curve of Albus’ hand, heat radiating pleasantly through his skin.

“He’s missed you,” Gellert said quietly, drawing a thin biscuit from his pocket. Apollo took it with a practised snap of his teeth and, treat secured, blinked up once more before disappearing with a ripple of flame into the lined warmth of Gellerts coat.

Albus’ hand lingered for a moment where Apollo had been.

“I suspect that’s not just Apollo speaking,” he said, still not looking at him.

Gellert didn’t deny it. His smile was lopsided, unreadable. “He’s always had good taste.”

Albus shook his head, sipping his tea to hide the way his mouth wanted to curve.

“Some things never change,” he murmured.

“You can’t fault me for consistency,” Gellert replied, the glint in his eye unmistakable. “Besides, you’re one to talk. I’d wager you’ve eaten at least four of those glazed pastries this week alone. Still nursing that sweet tooth?”

“Only three,” Albus replied.

Gellert arched a brow.

Albus relented. “Four and a half. Are you quite pleased with yourself?”

“Deeply.”

They sat in companionable quiet, the sounds of the cafe like a lullaby around them: enchanted teaspoons clinking gently in floating cups, a cat-shaped puff of smoke curling from one patron’s pipe and spelling out verses from Les Chants de Maldoror. The lavender above Albus’ head released a soft glow, triggered by proximity or fondness or both. “I thought something would feel different by now,” Albus said softly, watching the last of the tea swirl in his cup. “After a month.”

Gellert tilted his head. “Different how?”

“I don’t know.” Albus smiled faintly. “We haven’t stopped talking. Writing. Seeing each other nearly every day. And yet—”

“And yet,” Gellert finished gently, “it still feels like another beginning.”

Albus met his eyes across the table. “Yes.”

There was a stillness between them then—not silence, but something warmer. A kind of settled understanding that didn’t need filling. The type that only came when time had been well spent, and nothing had been left unsaid. It wasn’t the reckless intoxication of their first summer, the kind that burned too fast. It was something quieter. A different kind of magic now.

“Come,” Gellert said, pushing to his feet. “We’ll walk the Seine. You’ll pretend you don’t enjoy it, and I’ll pretend I’m not proud and pleased that you’re here.”

“I’ve never pretended not to enjoy anything,” Albus replied as he reached for his hat, his fingers brushing the phoenix feather.

Gellert leaned in, close enough to whisper, “You pretend more than you know.”

Outside, the early evening light gilded the narrow alleys of wizarding Paris. Albus stood, tucking the feather in his hat more securely, and followed Gellert into the warmth of the street, where even the stones hummed with magic and memory.

And behind them, the cafe gently exhaled, as if it too knew this kind of peace was rare—and worth holding onto, for as long as it could last.

[ladysomething]

“Where you go, I go, remember?”

you did the thing!! you did the thing!!!! such a nice contrast between the moment when it was an attempt to threaten charles into submission in the very beginning and this one when it became a sweet reassurance of his love for charles. i love them so sooo much i need a gun to protect them myself

and they talked!! oh god they talked! no miscommunication this time!! they talked and they both know what happened and how the other feels about it!! they grow up so fast i might actually tear up

He’d not even realised he was calling him alpha. He hates this. He hates what Fred has done to him, what being an omega has done to him.

oh charles :( i already said it last time but again every reminder of how deeply he’s traumatized hits hard. and now when his relationship with max is good and i don’t have to worry about that, i can finally spiral over it. he had to go from being someone to being barely a person (i mean to the public), and everything he had — his talent, his money, his self worth, his dreams and plans for the future, his whole life basically, — everything he was, became absolutely meaningless overnight. one day he had free will and the next… well we all know what happened. and you can’t just rewire your brain into accepting the new reality, it’s bound to fucking explode. so i guess it will when he (we) hits the lowest low? but!!!! it has to be so fucking over for us to be so fucking back!! so, can’t wait!! (said through tears)

anyway, back to business! i find it so funny how both max and charles at some point go “and fuck those useless betas” lmao 😭 when charles trew lando’s inability to take max’s knot right in his face, and now with max saying he absolutely can kill fred bc he’s just a beta. and they are so right, i wholeheartedly support their every unhinged thought and action 🙏

i know with the way things are going there was no space for pierre in these chapters but i do wonder what is he up to… somehow his absence made me less suspicious of him. will we see him soon?

fred .... has probably slightly less complicated motivations than that.

so he’s not even a properly evil creepy grandpa, he’s just stupid grandpa... that’s even worse!! i could maybe respect (not respect respect obviously, but like give credit where it's due) him for being smart and evil but he’s just delusional 😭 oh god max just kill the guy no one will even notice

the recurring "where you go I go" motif is honestly one of my strokes of brilliance for this fic. I remember when I was trying to come up with the title for this fic, I got that idea (to title it wygig and use the motif), and I was like ........ do I be so bold. the answer was yes, and its honestly one of my favourite elements of the story. I can't WAIT for the final title drops that I have planned, ya'll are gonna be gagged.

no miscommunication! this is what we call *character growth* 😏 of course .... we do still have some tender spots where maybe trust hasn't entirely been restored .............. but we'll see how that plays out later.

also re Charles' trauma .... I know we're all scared about ch 32, but honestly it's one of my favourite things to happen in the fic ENTIRELY BC it catapults Charles into an ACTUAL journey of healing. not just suppressing everything, but finding himself again and dealing with his trauma properly. our poor boy has been through so much, and he really needs to have his breakdown. he deserves it.

AND them saying fuck the betas ......... one of the biggest themes is how us vs them gender dynamics are. like Charles is basically abandoned by the betas in the beginning when it comes out that he's an omega. even jean-luc said "fuck alphas" when it came to Jos. and then Charles has slowly taken this position of "ugh betas." like the divide is not the focus, but it's so clearly there!

and finally fred - we'll finally get to see a resolution with him soon too, though we do have a slight wait ...

[fiftysevenacademics]

I have been fucking around for hours because I have to think of a snappy title for a thing I wrote for work, a task that will take me at most 3 minutes if I would just stop avoiding the fact that I can't really think of anything clever for this one and slap down a few descriptive words and call it a day. But until I commit to that route there's always the possibility I'll have a stroke of brilliance and do something great, so maybe I'll just sit here, being a legend in my own mind, till I really have to move on to the next thing.

[dollarbin]

Dollar Bin #55:

Steeleye Span's Parcel of Rogues

Twenty two years ago, in the depths of the Bush administration's lies and war crimes - which are idyllic in comparison to the bizarre abhorrence of the present moment - I slipped away from parenting my two year old and the adults in my care to weed through my local dollar bin and take a $4 chance on Steeleye Span.

To my ill-informed 27 year old self Steeleye were nothing more than a weak-ass Fairport Convention spin off that RT and the boys had trounced in a surely apocryphal game of footie back in 69. They did not rock and were fronted by someone not named Sandy Denny, so they were not worthy.

But it'd been a rough day and I wanted something to show for my efforts. So buy the record I did.

Thank goodness: Parcel of Rogues gave me an introduction to one of my favorite 70's bands and it contains one of the best three song cycles in my collection.

Side 1, admittedly, is a slog. One Misty Moisty Morning has a hook but desperately needs drums; Alison Gross, with its rockin' refrain about the "ugliest witch in the North Country" kinda rocks but is indeed gross, The Bold Poachers gets your hopes up with its minor chords and doom but it is followed by The Ups and Downs which, as my daughter this afternoon accurately declared, makes her "want to go to her room and shut the door with a bang" on all my terrible music.

But: Side 2! The Wee Wee Man is far less silly than you assume it must be given its Weird Al-worthy title and, after that first track, The Weaver and the Factory Maid plants a bold flag of hope. Indeed, I remember sitting up way back in 2003 and telling my now 23 year old to pay attention, as something exciting was happening.

She ignored me, of course, and continued slobbering on her toys. But she should have listened!

I anticipated the eventually fevered bounce of the track all through its opening stately verse, but when the groove finally arrived, preceded by a doodling electric guitar riff that stands on its own and then is joined by a caustic fiddle, I picked up my kid and high stepped about the house, arms swinging and boots pounding. She liked that. And the closing outro, with Maddy Prior alone, her voice doubled and then tripled masterfully, sealed the deal. Steeleye Span!

Rouges in a Nation follows and it still basically breaks my heart. My life has been one of privilege: I've never been forced to pit myself against another human being in deadly conflict. But I've read plenty of books about those who've done so, men who've had to kill or be killed.

For me, Rogues in a Nation is a fitting soundtrack for such horrors, a Scottish song to be sung by those who've survived but are forever stained.

I don't think you say enough about Prior's harmonizing here. Masterful pathos!

Scotland stands behind the climax to this stirring trilogy as well, offering up another tone altogether on Cam Ye O're Frae France. Drums appear with military brilliance beneath satisfyingly violent guitar strokes. But the real power and greatness comes, once again, from Prior.

As a sophomore in college I earnestly visited my music history professor during his office hours so as to play him Richard and Linda Thompson's The Great Valerio; it just seemed like something worth doing. The teacher, who I see recently retired, was a genius: he taught us to understand the opening movement of Beethoven's 5th by comparing it - stunningly - to the Flintstones' theme song.

Anyway, I'll never forget watching him encounter Linda's voice for the first time: she has zero interest in sounding beautiful or meeting gender norms as she traces the tight rope walker's dangerous paces; rather she just beats the hell out of you; after all, that's what the song calls for.

"Who is this singer?" my teacher demanded, standing up from behind his desk to crank the song up louder than anything I'd ever encountered through a stereo system. "She barely sounds human; it's like she's some kind of God!"

I was brought back to that moment when I first brought home A Parcel of Rogues and heard Maddy Prior's delivery on Cam Ye O're Frae France. She's descended from her place on high and is about to do 5,000 push ups one handed; we should cower.

Prior, like Linda Thompson, is not pop singer, nor is she delicate. Rather, she has come to kick all our asses.

What more could one want outta the dollar bin?

[kmhnsecretexchange]

Title: Just as the sun rises, we’ll meet again

Author: Hipster71elmWeebtrash (1queer-bookworm on tumblr)

For: shinakiham_soup

Pairings/Characters: Hajime Hinata, Nagito Komaeda, Hajime Hinata x Nagito Komaeda

Rating/Warnings: General, no warnings.

Prompt: Fanfic: DR3 despair arc - what-if scenario detailing how Komaeda and Hinata could’ve met in a version of despair arc where Chiaki doesn’t exist

Author’s notes: Here you go! I chose your what-if alternate meeting scenario and may have taken some liberties…it became a little bit more like a meet-cute. But I hope you like it anyway, it was a very fun prompt to play with!

It is an odd time of day: the early hours of the morning.

While it is true that the night has its grasp on the body, burdening the limbs and clouding the head. Thoughts then gain the tendency to sink, allowing the gravity of them to linger and rake over every inch of oneself: leaving only the bright and buoyant to remain unnoticed. This is but a fraction of its grandeur.

For, once the weight of midnight has been thoroughly dusted off and the phantom of dawn is imposed onto the gloomy canvas of the sky: all is well and truly tranquil. At such a time, it’s likely for one to witness those billions of static lights dim as they’re steadily eclipsed by the rise of the glorious sun and its all-consuming brilliance.

And as humanity is wont to do, most miss it all. Catching but a glimpse of what it means to see all fall into despondency, then ascend with the silent constant that accompanies all light.

If one were to witness it as Komaeda has, then perhaps they might genuinely understand the true power of Hope.

-read more line-

Yet, even this despairful fact can be momentarily eclipsed by a stroke of fortune.

One such, is the enviable reality that the academy’s library is open at all hours of the day, allowing Komaeda to have the odd pleasant morning.

This, admittedly, wasn’t the prettiest daybreak. The sky was a firm wall of somber storm clouds that both hid any hint of light and threatened to rain at a moment’s notice. A perfect recipe for the typical melancholic day, the scent of petrichor at one’s doorstep, the chill of a dim sky and the inability to know for certain if the sun had ever risen at all.

It was all for the best, really, although it may superficially appear as a stroke of bad luck. For, Komaeda could have the reassurance that his misfortune could harm no-one but himself, the nonsensical hour and daunting sky detering all reasonable people.

If it were the middle of the day, the simple task of both stepping outside and entering the library would’ve surely wrought disaster. He can picture the dismay as the sunny skies are swallowed by a great wave of cumulonimbus clouds and the panic as the shelves rattled.

Though, nevermind the hypothetical dooms, Komaeda had been given a book recommendation and he was determined to find it. 

It was a collection of papers by a fairly modern astronomer: Nevermind had described it as both a rewarding and engaging read. A suggestion he was inclined to pursue.

Komaeda could admit that his urge was in part duty and curiosity. He wasn’t well-read in matters of physics or cosmologie as it hadn’t been an interest of his Father’s and thus, the closest approximation to it on the shelves of his home had been philosophical texts. 

That all meant that the words of the book’s title meant very little to him, presently. And there was, of course, no staff present that could aid him. As such Komaeda was left with nothing but a title and a vague sense of an author with which to comb the hundreds of shelves.

His dedication eventually leads to a touch of luck, the book appearing in the corner of his left eye, exactly at eye-level. It’s a tome, rather, wrapped in an emerald leather binding and its font appearing a tasteful copper.

Komaeda reaches towards it mindlessly, his body twisting to follow the movement purely as an afterthought and as his fingers graze the spine- his hand jolts as it collides with something notably softer than leather.

There is the briefest moment in which his hand lingers on the spine, his ring finger brushing right against the other’s index and their hands remain still. Another’s hand, just as bruised and just as unsteady and yet- sturdier, calluses and the odd speck of dirt under their alarmingly uneven nails. Nothing but the distant sound of the rumbling sky that often preceded thunder to prove that time hadn’t simply- stopped.

Then, their eyes meet. 

And Komaeda is immediately struck with the thought that this is an idiot.

An idiot with handsome green eyes. An idiot with tousled dark hair, short bangs thrown askew. An idiot who didn’t sleep well -if at all- and was hardly ever awake enough to take notice of the violet under his eyes. An idiot who lacked any sense and threw himself into conflict, seen by the scabs on his chin and the mottling bruise the size of a fist, on his cheek. An idiot who didn’t dress for the weather and left the house in a suit…A black suit. A familiar black suit.

…an idiot reserve course student.

Komaeda quickly snatches the book, slapping the reserve’s greedy hand away in the process.

“Hey- what the hell!” The idiot cradles his hand and has the gall to look offended. “I need that for class!”

“Well, you can’t expect me to really believe that a reserve course student could deserve this more than an Ultimate, someone with the capacity to actually create Hope in the world.” Komaeda answers smartly. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me-” The reserve’s frown forms easily, anger seeping into every crease of his face in an instant. “You’re so full of yourself it’s absurd! You don’t even have a reason! I actually need this book and you just-” He flounders. “Want it!”

Without so much as the decency to surrender his turn to speak, the fool continues with an air of mockery. “And what’s your talent anyway? The Ultimate Astronomer? Oh yeah, I remember now, you’re the luck guy. Well I don’t know how reading Burnell’s observations could help with that” He then stupidly adds, “or hope. So if you think I’m just going to stand here and let you-”

“You reserve course students are nothing but a plague, taking resource after resource without thought-”

“Oh, right.” The reserve interrupts him callously. “The people who actually pay to be here have no right to use anything on Campus-!”

Komaeda scoffs. “How small minded of you, it really is typical of a reserve course student to consider only the selfish option- no thought of sharing or relinquishing it to its rightful-”

 “Well,” The reserve mutters, his eyes widened by the mere thought. “I-I guess we could share it…”

Any and all of Komaeda’s ire is swept away with a single exhale, the reserve’s offer registering in his mind. “…I suppose we could, theoretically, both use it…” Komaeda relents, pressured by the fragile sense of sincerity that occupied the meager space between them. Although he can’t quite muster the ability to imagine what he’s proposing. “…simultaneously.”

The reserve course student simply stares at him in response, his eyes occasionally lowering to the book he supposedly requires. Komaeda breaks the silence. “You do know what simultaneously means, or do I have to explain that to you?” 

The frown is back. “How stupid do you think-” He stops himself and takes a deep breath, his -admittedly dapper- suit rising and falling in sync with the motion. “Okay, sure. That-that works. I shouldn’t need it for more than a few hours, anyway.”

Komaeda, still with a firm grip on the hulky book, starts towards the library’s common area and the reserve course student easily falls into step beside him. Neither rushing or meandering.

Komaeda ventures to ask, the tables not yet in sight. “What exactly do you need this for anyhow…you…” He meets the boy’s eyes, “I wouldn’t have guessed that astronomy would be a hot commodity for people like you.”

“It’s Hinata to you,” He quips, then he begins blabbering on. “And well, if you really want to know, this is for my astronomy thesis. I wanted to reference the initial notes made on the pulsar and compare it to the language used in today’s observational astronomy, maybe cite a few passages if it fits with my outline.”

Hinata then proceeds to give an entire spiel on what Komaeda can only rationalize as the death of stars and the telescopes, using far too many terms without relinquishing their definitions and presumedly with the assumption that Komaeda was well-versed in the subject already.

Hinata finishes with a dramatic sweep of the hands. “This is one of the only copies in the world with Burnell’s actual, unedited thoughts on the whole thing! Even the very first recorded use of the term pulsar! I couldn’t not include it!”

There’s an unmistakable passion underlying his rant, an earnestness that not even his unpleasant attitude could mask. It was clear in the faint flush of his sole pale cheek; the way his pace had started to match his as he’d lost himself in exuberant explanation.

 “So…” Komaeda averts his eyes. “you’re looking to become a researcher?”

There was something agonizing about that image. The image of this boy  -just as brash and just as stubborn-, poring over calculations, agonizing over theories, and spending his nights peering into the night sky through a million lenses. All just for a chance at uncovering the truths of the universe and giving humanity a fighting chance in the unending struggle for purpose.

…an image void of hope (as any featuring a reserve course student would) and yet, inexplicably brimming with it.

Hinata then grows uncharacteristically quiet, his previous enthusiasm suddenly dashed, until at last he says. “…I don’t think I’ve got much of a chance at that…it’s one thing to like the class and another to-”

Hinata stops, sheepishness giving way to a dawning optimism. “Well, I guess I could be, now, in a sense…” He shakes his head. “Whatever, even if it’s a hard class, that’s no reason not to try your best and try to have a little fun with it.”

Then predictably making far too many assumptions, Hinata asks. “What’s so weird about it? Do you Ultimates not write papers?”

“Well of course they do! Ultimate Students are constantly conducting research for the betterment of the world!”

“I don’t need the sermon- it was a rhetorical question you know.”

Komaeda huffs at the pitiful excuse. “Regardless of your intentions, to have the sheer audacity to imply that the Ultimate students could neglect their duties and stoop to a virtue as hopeless as sloth! You forget yourself and- your place!” Hinata’s scowl returns with a vengeance. “Although I don’t necessarily have first hand experience-”

 “Wait, you haven’t written a paper? Not even a memoir- I heard that was all the rage on your side of things!” 

“Well,” Komaeda sputters. “why exactly would anyone write about something as worthless as me?”

“You said your talent was luck, right? Who wouldn’t- of course I’d want to read about that! The fact that you can actually quantify your luck enough to call it a talent is interesting enough.” And he’d seemed so certain of that fact, that Komaeda was forced to agree, although he’d have argued that it wouldn’t be educational or worthwhile, if that were relevant. 

Once the two of them arrive at the muster of tables, Komeada finds himself strangely content with allowing Hinata to pick two chairs and unwilling to voice any protest when they find that to properly share it they must sit chair to chair, thigh to thigh.

Thus, the morning begins not with sunlight, but with the faint glow of the chandeliers overhead and the counterfeit warmth of fingers nearing just enough to turn a page. The hours creep up until it’s nearly time for classes to begin for the day, leaving no room for any further procrastination. 

Just as they’re about to part ways, however, just as Komaeda opens the door- it is only then that it begins to pour. Not the pathetic trickle of hours ago, but a true downpour that could easily drown a rat. Not the kind of rain that either of them could properly see in, nor escape without irremediably drenching every inch of clothing.

There’s a moment in which they both look at one another and realize that neither of them have an umbrella. Komaeda closes the door.

Hinata starts, glancing between him and the entrance. “So…I guess we’ve got to make a run for it…”

 “Well, at least the journey isn’t very far at all.”

Hinata’s expression shares nothing but melancholy. “It’s a ten minute walk. For me…”

“Oh…right.” Luckily, at that very moment there’s a crash and a decent sized umbrella rolls to Komaeda’s feet.

 “Huh, that’s convenient…” Hinata hesitantly suggests, tripping over his words. “I guess we should probably- I mean…” 

“That would be…logical…” 

And so…they do. They walk into the rain, side by side, under an umbrella that happens to be just the right size to shelter them both if they walk exactly shoulder to shoulder. Hinata’s forearm is strangely warm and if Komaeda were to turn his head, he might brush his cheek.

Then, not a minute into the journey, he hears Hinata’s voice. “…I think we will see each other again.”

Suddenly, Komaeda feels terribly self-conscious about the terrible weather. “Hopefully in better circumstances.”

 “Oh, it will be. Everything will be better.”

[nichiclips]

Good thing I in a stroke of brilliance had already titled the ytp "Nichijou Season 3" well over a year ago

[raytm]

         ❝ Akivili !  ❞  Universe's Laughter comes bounding up to their Trailblazing friend. A title bestowed upon fellow Aeon whether or not Akivili agreed with them. What matters to Aha is that they like the other Aeon, think that they're entertaining and their ambitious drive for adventure can make for an enjoyable experience. Not only that but Akivili is incredibly thoughtful !  Oh, how nice !

     Discerning whether or not they themselves are likable matters little for they do as they please. Boredom not allowed to seep into their playpen and seeking to shake up something for a good laugh. Though, they have readily permitted tears to fall, as it is a natural part of the ebb and flow in the universe. Where there is tragedy, there is room for joy. Joy can also be struck down by mood swings. Tugging back and forth is ultimately amusing to watch. It is as simple as that to the Aeon.

     Gloved hands pat at shoulders  —  once, twice, three times. Hard shell of a mask hides what true amusement might lie beneath, but the curved carving of a mouth seems to be accurate enough.  ❝ I've been looking everywhere for you !  It's almost like you've been avoiding me... Ah, but that's okay. I've found you now !  I have a very important question for you. ❞   Hands smooth off Akivili's body as Aha cants their head.  ❝ Can the Astral Express swim ?  You know, like in water ?  ❞  - @smusmaes ( aha )

For those whose journeys were everlasting who is to say which paths may intersect & which may never so much as brush one another. As if they were the coruscating stars illuminating the uncharted cosmos of planets never before seen, each connection left an impression upon the aeon, etched onto them as bright & memorable as each individual star. The Elation is not so different, ripples of a kaleidoscope of colors surging to coalesce as imminent laughter, with each place they touched the echo of joy rang high & strident. Some faces did become weathered by time, until the memories felt like tones of sepia & the voices waning into incomprehensible white noise. Aha was not one to be gradually forgotten, their presence as calamorous & smothering as their chiming voice in their ear. “ You found me.” Akivili says and their tone possesses no aversion, old friends often met upon the Trailblaze, it was an unavoidable reunion no matter the circumstance. Their buoyant step & encircling makes them more akin to a delighted comrade than an omnipotent portent of all of joy’s finest moments & most unbearable ones. Things were never boring upon that endless voyage, partially because Akivili never cared for stagnant tedium & also because eventually there would always be those like Aha who became entirely unforgettable in the aeon’s heart. “ I’ll have to endeavor to make it harder next time, I cannot imagine you find joy in anything that is too easy to obtain.” As if their fortuitous meetings were somewhat of a game, neither should end up bored as long as the other played their delegated role. Gilded eyes adhere to the other as they pat their shoulders, thousands of minute stars flickering in their gaze, it was more difficult to not wear a smile when the infectious traces of joy pressed down upon them with such intensity. Slowly, they cant their head, masked visage appraising their friend with no shortage of anticipation. “ Swim ?” Akivili echos the thought, ruminating upon it, for all the outlandish things the other could ask was this not a stroke of brilliance. They would have taken off their hat & bowed to the other for it was both preposterous an idea & something that could usher in a new possibility for the express, how could they be anything less than elated. In return, Akivili tilts their head, their conductor’s hat almost toppling from atop starry tresses. “ I can’t say that it does, shall I pick your brain, tell me about this express that can traverse even the vastness of the sea.”

[mywifeleftme]

212: Blaze Foley // Live at the Austin Outhouse

Live at the Austin Outhouse Blaze Foley 1999, Lost Art (Bandcamp)

I wept over Blaze Foley’s grave. I didn’t expect to. I was visiting Austin at the beginning of a roadtrip, and my friend asked if there were anything around the city I wanted to see before we set off west toward Big Bend and the Rio Grande. It occurred to me that maybe Townes Van Zandt might be buried somewhere in the area, and I thought it’d be nice to go say my respects. It turned out that Townes rests in Tennessee, but the subject of doomed country singers and their graves brought to mind a story I’d heard about Townes and his friend Blaze, how after Blaze was murdered in 1989 Townes had had him temporarily exhumed in order to get at the front pocket of the suit he’d been buried, where there was a pawn shop ticket for a guitar the dead man had hocked shortly before his passing. I figured I wouldn’t mind seeing the place, so we drove down to the little green cemetery in Manchaca where his small stone faces a pasture of grazing longhorn cattle looking like myths or advertisements, and then I sat there and cried. I cried over the magpie offerings on the stone, earrings and poker chits and an empty beer can (literal trash elsewhere, but respectful in this context and careful placement); I cried at the big cows; I cried over the inscription of Blaze’s face and a guitar with the titles of his best-loved songs; I cried because I was hungover, and because I had done a bunch of fucked up things in the preceding years, and I was so full of shame, overwhelmed by the weight of amends; and I cried because this man had been fucked up and he was dead and people still loved him. I guess at the time I needed a sentimental image of a damaged man who does right more than I’d known. And so, the tears came.

My Blaze fandom has always centered on Live at the Austin Outhouse, the low-slung 1988 two-night stand recorded barely a month before his death that first saw wide release (in excerpted form) on CD in 1999. (The full four-hour-long tapes just hit streaming platforms this year.) Foley’s discography is brief, and all of it worth the listen, but he was never in better voice, or more warmly recorded, than he was at the Outhouse. If you’ve heard Van Zandt’s Live at the Old Quarter, Houston, Texas, the experience is similar: amid clanking bottles and bar chatter, the most desolate, acoustic songs of yearning sit side by side with wry character sketches and a helping of the dumbest, most adorable stage patter yet recorded. The predominantly solo album is a showcase for Blaze’s remarkable abilities as a country blues picker, and that unmistakable worn, lorn baritone of his.

Though Foley lacked Van Zandt’s overtly poetic predilections (e.g. “Lungs”; “Silver Ships of Andilar”), at his best he was Townes’ equal as a romantic and his better as a wit. For my taste, there isn’t a more genuinely moving love song than “Oooh Love,” a song that sounds like an old junkyard dog surprised to find himself being stroked after years in the rain. There’s brilliance in the slow reveal of its opening verse, his lover complimenting this big hairy man on his “pretty blue eyes” rather than the reverse:

Blue eyes She said pretty blue eyes Said I had pretty blue eyes See me again She wants to See me again She's such a pleasant surprise

It puts the masculine speaker immediately in an unfamiliar, vulnerable position, the one feeling the wonder of being unexpectedly chosen. On the other side, there’s “Officer Norris.” Foley does the best job anybody’s done of lambasting the cops since Kristofferson’s “Best of All Possible Worlds,” dressing down the titular officer for everything from cribbing free coffee cakes to chasing after married women to being abandoned by his mother because he was an unlikable baby. Blaze gives us “If I Could Only Fly” too, a quintessential (and rendingly) sad country song, and “Christian Lady Talking on the Bus,” a wholly unsentimental look at faith and self-delusion. And above all, there’s “Clay Pigeons,” a song of disappointment and humour and endurance and crooked optimism that strikes something true in me like almost no other song has. As someone who’s started over quite a few times at this point, it’s become an anthem, and more than anything else, it’s why I convinced my pal to take me out there south of Austin to pay my respects in person. Music has never fixed anybody, but it can bring who you are into focus. Lord knows I needed that.

A note on the versions of this recording

Blaze played nearly 30 songs over the course of his two nights at the Outhouse. I’ve been going through the full tapes today (which contain at least as much audio of the Duct Tape Messiah goofing with his friends in the crowd as it does music). While of the original cassette that was passed around Blaze’s friends and fans in the late ‘80s contained 21 tracks, it’s now clear how much my sense of Austin Outhouse as an “album” comes from the work Lost Art Records did when they put out their condensed 12-song CD edition. Lost Art left in a smattering of the choicer bits of Blaze’s rambles and winnowed the tracklist down, turning what could’ve been a double-live record (or a for-true-maniacs boxed set) into a digestible introduction to the man’s work. In order to keep things on one disc, the 2020 vinyl issue (also from Lost Art) leaves out what stage patter had remained, which makes it a smoother repeat listen for those already well-familiar with Blaze’s bits. Still, the CD/streaming version remains definitive for me because it was how I “met” the man.

All that said, the chance to hear versions of other Foley classics recorded in the same space as the familiar cuts is a thrill. If you’re already a fan, I strongly encourage you to try out the live versions of the two studio cuts from the original, and takes on “Springtime in Uganda,” “Long Time,” “Oval Room,” “Someday” and many more. Be forewarned though; it is beyond eerie hearing Blaze talk with obvious affection about (and even do an impression of) his friend Concho January, the elderly pensioner whose son Carey would shoot Foley dead just a few weeks later. By Concho’s own courtroom testimony, the burly country singer died trying to prevent Carey from yet again robbing the old man of a welfare cheque. It was a squalid, hero’s death, and he deserved better.

212/365

[lordrethandus]

Daily Writing Challenge August 2023 Day 2

Enchanted / Horror ( @daily-writing-challenge @zoronadotatanado )

World: Final Fantasy 14

Theme: Guilhem Desq - Cicatrices

"Yes! Yessss!" Leleni squealed with delight, successfully extracting her very first materia from her spellstaff. It was no larger than a pearl but thrumming with aether, and it glowed with a unique brilliance previously unseen by her bright emerald eyes; and it would be the first of many. 

Her maniacal laughter caught the attention of her loyal knight in the kitchen. He was tasked with keeping the stew from burning on the bottom of the pan by constantly stirring it while it cooked; he couldn’t see what exactly she was doing, but her bewitching glee did bring a smile to his face.

She carefully waddled across the room with her powerful materia floating between her palms. "Now I just need to…" slowly she lowered it over his sword, causing the precious materia to fracture and split into a cloud of shards before liquefying. Then with a soft exhale she spread it over the blade, enchanting it with a bit of magick she handcrafted herself. The glimmering armsword rested still and silent, even as Leleni’s magick coursed through the weapon from edge to hilt. Zoronado's weapon was now self-repairing, so not only would it keep its razor sharp edge during prolonged skirmishes, but he would never need to bother carrying whetstones. At least until the spell wore off. "Perfect. Absolutely perfect." A big grin spread from ear to ear– she was beyond proud of herself. "Zoronado! Come quick!"

He didn't need to be told twice. The halfling hopped down from the stepping stool and waddled into the back of their shared apartment to find her handiwork. "What did you do to it?" He asked, stroking his chin. "A fire enchantment? No no… ice! Maybe lightning?"

"I did none of those!" Leleni wagged her finger at him. "I don't want you hurting yourself with wild magicks… just pick up the sword and stop asking such silly questions!"

Zoronado shrugged before approaching. To an exiled Bulwark Knight such as himself, the arcane arts were lost on him. At first, second, and third glance, the weapon seemed like any other finely crafted tool; but upon wrapping his fingers around the leather-bound hilt and turning it in the light, he could feel the difference. Immediately he could tell it was lighter, with the weight of the armsword seemingly shifting between the base of the blade and the iron ornament at the tail of the hilt when he turned it in his grip. There was something otherworldly going on beneath the surface, of that he was certain; but he wouldn't know the limits of this enchantment without taking it into battle. Zoronado effortlessly twirled the blade in his hand with a flick of his wrist, before pointing it downward and sliding it into its metal scabbard. "Thank you, Len-Len…"

"It’s not as glamorous as the sword you ruined… but it will do for now." Leleni did her best to ignore the cute nickname he gave her, but her rosy red cheeks told a different story. The longer he gazed at her, the bigger his smile grew, and the harder it was for her to maintain eye contact; they stood there marinating in an awkward silence before Zoronado moved first, stepping over to the table nearby to turn on the vinyl record player. "Music?" Leleni watched him with increasing curiosity; he almost never touched it himself. "What are you doing…?"

"Dance with me." Zoronado spoke plainly, reaching out to her with a gentle hand. "Like we did in the ruins near Idyllshire a summer and a half ago." He set the sword down on the nearby table before adding, "Or have you forgotten?"

How could she? It was the night she learned her father had revoked her birthright to the throne. It was the night Zoronado was stripped of all his accomplishments and titles. It was the night they both became outcasts. Telling him the news was not easy– she was certain he would leave once he realized he was no longer bound to her by an oath he was no longer required to keep; she treated him more like her personal pack mule and servant than any true adventuring companion… but he didn’t. He chose to stay by her side against all expectations, and it was that very night that they truly became friends; or maybe something more.

Without another word she gently took his hand and stepped to him, letting her loyal knight entwine their naked fingers. His other hand slipped around her waist and drew her in, pressing their bodies together. Leleni could feel his heart pounding against her chest, which only made her heart pound back– and as the music began to swell, they began their slow waltz in their apartment. Zoronado led while Leleni followed. Back and forth, left and right, side to side they stepped again and again. She couldn’t stop herself from gazing up into his eyes, from staring into the windows of his soul. As she drowned in his big baby blues her mind began to wander, and despite her somber bliss locked in his embrace, she was plagued with fear and doubt. Leleni wanted nothing more than to be the one to bear his children. She loved him, that much was plain– but she could not cross that boundary without losing herself. Nald’thal was her god, their god, and she could not claim Zoronado for herself; she was already sworn to another before not just Nald’thal, but all of the Twelve. 

Vows made before the gods cannot be unmade– not without a royal decree. Nonobira was her husband, and it would stay that way until either he or Leleni perished. Only a king could undo her vows– only her father, King Fafasasho, had the authority she needed to free herself of her eternal bond. “Does he think less of me for it…?” Leleni clenched her jaw as she danced, her doubts reared their ugly heads again. “Does he hate me for being someone else’s wife…?” She could no longer look him in the eyes– the shame was too much to bear. Suddenly she didn’t want to dance. All Leleni wanted to do now was leave.

She turned her head away and they stopped swaying back and forth. She was quick, but he was quicker– Zoronado released his hand from her waist and caught her by the chin. “Wait…” His voice was barely a whisper. Slowly and gently he turned her face back toward his. Surely he could sense her shame, it was written all over her face, after all. Reluctantly she gazed back into his eyes, and then down to his lips. It was all the invitation he needed.

Zoronado closed his eyes and kissed her with a gentle tenderness Leleni didn’t even know was possible. It was there that she surrendered, her eyes fluttering closed and her body relaxing. Her hands rose up to his collar as he wrapped his arms around her, and they stayed like this with their skin aflame for longer than either one could remember.

With only their hearts dancing now.

[culturalarts]

Title: Exploring Ancient Art Culture: The Roots of Human Expression Keywords: ancient art culture, history of ancient art, ancient civilizations art

Art has been an essential part of human life since the dawn of civilization. Long before modern tools and digital platforms, ancient societies used creativity to tell stories, honor their gods, and document history. The ancient art culture of early civilizations continues to inspire artists, historians, and thinkers even today.

What Is Ancient Art Culture?

Ancient art culture refers to the creative works produced by early civilizations, such as the Egyptians, Greeks, Mesopotamians, Chinese, and the Indus Valley people. These artworks include cave paintings, sculptures, pottery, carvings, and architecture — each piece offering insight into the beliefs, lifestyles, and innovations of the time.

Art as Storytelling and Spiritual Expression

In ancient times, art was more than decoration; it was deeply connected to religion and spirituality. Egyptian wall paintings, for example, depicted gods, pharaohs, and the afterlife. Similarly, Hindu temple carvings and ancient Greek statues honored deities and heroes. These visual stories helped pass down cultural knowledge across generations.

Symbolism and Technique

One defining feature of ancient art culture is symbolism. Artists used colors, patterns, and shapes to convey meanings that went beyond the surface. In Mesopotamian art, the use of lions symbolized power. In Chinese calligraphy and painting, balance and harmony were core values reflected in every stroke.

Despite limited tools, ancient artists achieved stunning levels of craftsmanship. Stone statues, bronze castings, and intricate mosaics prove how advanced their techniques were for their time.

Preservation of Identity and History

The history of ancient art provides us with a visual record of human development. From the cave paintings in Lascaux, France to the murals of Teotihuacan in Mexico, ancient art allows us to better understand early cultures — their fears, hopes, and worldviews.

Many modern art forms borrow from these ancient techniques and motifs, proving the timeless relevance of these works.

Final Thoughts

The ancient art culture is not just a thing of the past. It laid the foundation for all creative expression that followed. By studying and preserving these artworks, we keep the spirit of ancient civilizations alive and continue to learn from their brilliance.

In a world driven by change, looking back at our artistic roots reminds us of the universal need to create, express, and connect.

[tembatales]

Alfred Nobel: The Man Who Blew Up the World—Then Saved It

Introduction

Alfred Nobel (1833–1896) was a Swedish chemist, engineer, inventor, and philanthropist best known for inventing dynamite and establishing the Nobel Prizes. A man of contradictions, he amassed a fortune from explosives but later dedicated his wealth to honoring peace, science, and literature. His life was marked by brilliance, tragedy, and an enduring legacy that continues to shape the world.

Timeline of Alfred Nobel’s Life

1833: Birth & Early Years - October 21, 1833: Born in Stockholm, Sweden, to Immanuel Nobel (an engineer) and Andriette Nobel. - 1837: Family moves to Russia after his father’s business fails in Sweden. 1842–1850: Education & Early Interests - Studied chemistry, physics, and languages (became fluent in Swedish, Russian, French, English, and German). - Developed a fascination with explosives, influenced by his father’s work on naval mines. 1850s: Travel & Research - Worked in the U.S. under John Ericsson (designer of the USS Monitor). - Conducted experiments with nitroglycerin, a highly unstable explosive. 1863: Invention of the Blasting Cap - Patented a detonator to control nitroglycerin explosions, improving mining and construction safety. 1864: Tragedy Strikes - Nobel’s younger brother, Emil, died in a nitroglycerin explosion in their family lab. - Swedish authorities banned nitroglycerin experiments within Stockholm, forcing Nobel to move tests to a barge on a lake. 1867: Dynamite Revolution - Patented dynamite, a stabilized form of nitroglycerin mixed with kieselguhr (diatomaceous earth). - Marketed as "Nobel’s Safety Powder," it transformed construction, mining, and warfare. 1875: Gelignite & Further Inventions - Invented gelignite, a more stable and powerful explosive. - Held 355 patents by the end of his life, including artificial silk and synthetic rubber. 1888: The Premature Obituary - A French newspaper mistakenly published his obituary titled: "The Merchant of Death is Dead." - Shocked by being remembered as a "destroyer of lives," Nobel reconsidered his legacy. 1895: Creation of the Nobel Prizes - Signed his last will, dedicating 94% of his fortune (about $265 million today) to establish the Nobel Prizes in: - Physics - Chemistry - Medicine - Literature - Peace 1896: Death & Legacy - December 10, 1896: Died of a stroke in San Remo, Italy. - The first Nobel Prizes were awarded in 1901, five years after his death. 10 Lesser-Known Facts - Nobel never married; his closest relationship was with Bertha von Suttner, a peace activist. - He composed poetry and drama (one play, Nemesis, was banned for blasphemy). - His factories produced ballistite, a smokeless gunpowder that led to legal battles. - The Nobel Peace Prize is awarded in Oslo, while other prizes are given in Stockholm. - He suffered chronic health issues from handling nitroglycerin (migraines, depression). - The Nobel Foundation was nearly bankrupt by 1946 due to Swedish taxes. - Three leaders have won both Nobel Prizes and Ig Nobel Prizes (parody awards). - Mahatma Gandhi was nominated five times but never won the Peace Prize. - The Nobel Medal contains 18K gold and is handcrafted in Sweden. - In 1968, Sweden’s central bank added the Nobel Memorial Prize in Economics. Discussion Questions - Should Nobel have foreseen dynamite’s military applications? - How might his legacy differ if the mistaken obituary never appeared? - Are the Nobel Prizes still fulfilling their original purpose today?

Final Thoughts

Alfred Nobel’s life was a paradox—a man who profited from destruction but ultimately championed progress. Though remembered for dynamite, his greatest invention was the Nobel Prize, ensuring that wealth from explosives would fund human advancement. His story is a reminder that legacy is not what we create, but what we choose to honor. Read the full article

[icecricnews367]

Top 5 Best Batsmen in Test Cricket History

Test cricket is the purest and most demanding format of the game. Unlike limited-overs formats, it tests a batter’s technique, temperament, patience, and consistency over long periods. Only a few batsmen in history have truly mastered the art of Test batting. Here’s a look at the Top 5 Best Batsmen in Test Cricket—legends who redefined excellence.

1. Sachin Tendulkar (India)

Matches: 200 Runs: 15,921 Average: 53.78 Centuries: 51

Known as the “Master Blaster,” Sachin Tendulkar’s contribution to Test cricket is unparalleled. With a record 15,921 runs and 51 centuries, he holds almost every major Test batting record. What truly sets him apart is the longevity of his career—24 years at the highest level. From facing the best bowlers on fast Australian pitches to adapting to spin-friendly subcontinent conditions, Sachin was a complete player who inspired generations.

2. Jacques Kallis (South Africa)

Matches: 166 Runs: 13,289 Average: 55.37 Centuries: 45

Jacques Kallis was a run-machine with the temperament of a monk and the strength of a warrior. Known for his classical technique, he was rock-solid in all conditions. What makes his career even more remarkable is his dual role as a top-tier all-rounder. While piling up over 13,000 runs, he also took nearly 300 Test wickets. Kallis was the cornerstone of South African cricket for over a decade and delivered match-winning performances under pressure.

3. Ricky Ponting (Australia)

Matches: 168 Runs: 13,378 Average: 51.85 Centuries: 41

Ricky Ponting was not just a prolific run-scorer but also one of the most dominant personalities in world cricket. His ability to dictate terms with aggressive stroke play and mental toughness made him a nightmare for bowlers. Ponting’s signature pull shot and fluent cover drives became iconic. As captain, he led Australia to numerous Test victories, but even without the captaincy, his batting spoke volumes about his class and consistency.

Also Read:- Sachin Tendulkar Career Stats

4. Brian Lara (West Indies)

Matches: 131 Runs: 11,953 Average: 52.88 Centuries: 34

Brian Lara was a genius with the bat—graceful, flamboyant, and incredibly dominant when in rhythm. His 400* is the highest individual score in Test cricket, and his 375 once held the same title. Lara often carried the West Indian batting lineup single-handedly during difficult times. What made him special was his ability to score massive innings under pressure, often against the best bowling attacks in the world.

5. Rahul Dravid (India)

Matches: 164 Runs: 13,288 Average: 52.31 Centuries: 36

Nicknamed “The Wall,” Rahul Dravid was the epitome of grit and composure. He was India’s most dependable batsman in overseas conditions and often anchored the innings when wickets tumbled around him. Dravid’s patience and technical brilliance helped India win historic away series in England, West Indies, and Australia. He wasn't flashy, but his silent strength and unmatched consistency earned him immense respect globally.

Summary Table

Rank

Player

Matches

Runs

Average

100s

1

Sachin Tendulkar

200

15,921

53.78

51

2

Jacques Kallis

166

13,289

55.37

45

3

Ricky Ponting

168

13,378

51.85

41

4

Brian Lara

131

11,953

52.88

34

5

Rahul Dravid

164

13,288

52.31

36

Final Thoughts

Choosing the top five Test batsmen is never easy. The legends listed above not only amassed runs—they shaped the future of Test cricket with their resilience, class, and commitment. Each brought a unique style to the crease: Tendulkar’s elegance, Kallis’s balance, Ponting’s aggression, Lara’s flair, and Dravid’s calm.

Their numbers tell a story, but their true impact lies in the memories they’ve left behind for fans across generations.

Who’s your all-time favorite Test batsman? Let the cricket conversations begin!

Also Read:- Top 3 Best India Vs England Tests In England