#Daniele Formica

[perfettamentechic]

1 febbraio … ricordiamo …

1 febbraio … ricordiamo … #semprevivineiricordi #nomidaricordare #personaggiimportanti #perfettamentechic

2023: George P. Wilbur, George Peter Wilbur, attore e stuntman statunitense. Divenne famoso per aver preso parte a molti film dell’orrore tra i quali Poltergeist – Demoniache presenze, Nightmare 5 – Il mito e Il silenzio degli innocenti. La sua carriera come stuntman è durata 40 anni e ha coinvolto oltre 100 progetti televisivi e cinematografici. (n.1941) 2022: Paolo Graziosi, attore italiano.…

[thebutcher-5]

Monsters & Co.

Benvenuti o bentornati sul nostro blog. Nello scorso articolo abbiamo ripreso a parlare della Disney e dei suoi classici animati, arrivando al loro 41° lungometraggio, un’opera secondo me fin troppo sottovalutata, Atlantis – L’impero perduto. La storia parla di Milo Thatch, un giovane linguista e ricercatore che studia da molto tempo Atlantide e cerca di ottenere finanziamenti dal museo per…

[monstersinthecosmos]

September 21, 1973

The boy clicks on a lamp, and Daniel’s eyes throb in pain as they adjust. First thing he’s seen in… he’s not sure how long. But it’s a little desk lamp, with an orange plastic shade, glowing gently in the center of the room. 

Daniel hadn’t heard anyone else come in. And he wonders, in all the loops he did in the darkness, how he hadn’t noticed the table here. But he sees everything now; the damp bricks and dirty floor, the sealed window. 

“If you wanna come have a seat,” the boy says. He slides a microphone to the other side of the table. “That way it will pick up your voice.”

“My voice,” Daniel says. His throat hurts. It rasps out of him. He’s sick down here. Been screaming too much. For, how long now? All he’s done is scream.

“Don’t worry,” he says. He’s smiling, so warm. Bright and sweet. “I know it can feel weird the first time. I’ll warm you up though. You wanna come sit?”

Daniel recognizes this boy, but doesn’t. And it feels unsafe, because he’s been down here for—days? Weeks? Years?—and nothing is safe anymore. But it’s the first face he’s seen, and he wants to cry.

Legs are weak as he stands, but it’s only a few feet to the table. It’s so smooth and cold under his hands as he sits, and he stares at it. It looks like the one from his kitchen growing up. Yellow formica with a shiny silver frame. 

“So where are you from?” the boy asks. He leans back in his seat as he lights a cigarette, then slides the lighter and pack over to Daniel. So relaxed as he takes the drag, as he blows the smoke out the corner of his mouth, away from the microphone. 

“Um. Connecticut,” Daniel mumbles. His stomach growls as he lights up; not a great substitute for food, but he hasn’t smoked in so long, either. For a moment he’s flooded with complete ecstasy as it hits his bloodstream, as it fills his brain. The first time since he’s been here that he isn’t in pain. 

“Your folks both around? What was the family unit like?”

Did Daniel really interview people like this? The boy nudges an ashtray towards him. Daniel’s mom had this same one, too, for the kitchen. On the same yellow table. It’s sea-green and shaped like a conch. He narrows his eyes as he ashes into it, wondering what this kid is trying to pull on him. 

“Yeah, they were around. They’re normal, I guess.”

“Siblings?”

“Just me. My cousin was around a lot, though. They lived nearby.”

“Tell me about your cousin.”

Daniel glances at the microphone and can’t remember how he got here, why he’s being interviewed. Maybe about how he was abducted one time and lived in a black room. Or maybe he saw behind the curtain and knew there were secrets in the universe, that the cosmos crawls with monsters. 

“I dunno. She’s cool. Her name’s Alice. She’s older than me so she used to babysit a lot. But she’d take me to movies and stuff. She didn’t treat me like a little kid.”

“Does Alice know where you are?”

Daniel swallows. He’s so fucking thirsty. His lips are so chapped. 

“Do you?”

And the boy is so radiant. The picture of health. Mouth quirking into a grin like Daniel made a joke.

“Do I what?”

“Do… you know. Where I am.”

He shrugs. He lifts a finger to gesture for silence, and stops the tape to flip it over. The click of the buttons is so fucking loud in this damp room. So loud that Daniel flinches. And the sound of the cassette sliding into the deck makes him think of the teeth penetrating him. The wound burns, the pain glowing outward, down over his collar bone, tingling in his arm.

Daniel’s heart races, the way it had when Louis grabbed him. The way it had when he saw Armand in that doorway. 

“Do you think this is what happens when you die?” the kid asks. “That’s really what I wanted to ask you about.”

“When I die?”

“Is it just a cold dark room, just like this? Maybe it’s just nothing. Maybe it’s barren and full of rot. And completely black. And you just spend eternity like this, in the nothingness, and you never feel pleasure again, just the hunger, just the smell of your own piss, just the pain.”

“I don’t believe in stuff like that,” Daniel grumbles. He reaches for another cigarette. 

“Are you gonna tell me how your mom could only get you to go to church twice a year? Dragging you to midnight mass?”

“How do you know that?”

“Does this room make you wish you’d gone more? Maybe death won’t be like this for her. She put the time in. She played the game.”

“I don’t believe in that!” he snaps. 

Throat hurts. The smoke doesn’t help, but he feels a little calmer as he breathes it in.

“Do you even know if you’re alive?”

The boy’s eyebrow raises. He brushes a strand of hair to the side. Leans his chin into the palm of his hand as he waits for the answer.

Daniel thinks he might start screaming again. 

It comes and goes, down here, in the blackness. The screaming. Each time he thinks he won’t be able to stop. And he doesn’t remember stopping. Doesn’t remember anything, just comes in and out, and it’s completely black, floating here in nothing. 

Am I fucking alive, he asks. 

Too hungry to think of a snarky retort. Too tired. And as the question lingers between them he realizes he doesn’t have an answer. 

[previous day] | [next day]

[eresia-catara]

Do you have a favorite canto? This can apply to any part of The Divine Comedy

Keeping in mind that I still need to finish Paradiso, and that the parts that I have read need to be refreshed a bit, I have two canti that have always struck me and they're Inferno XIII and Purgatorio II.

The first one because I love that the text resembles the ambience: the phrasing is all twisted like the trees and the words are as if sharp and pointed like the thorns of the surrounding vegetation. Then we also have the soul of Pier della Vigna whose monologue is simply hhhhhhhhgnksh eatable. completely. Like his speech is so pretty so elaborate but also so violent and passionate, his first words are Perché mi schiante? Perché mi scerpi? while he is bleeding like that is such a killer way to start and MY. GOD. HE'S THE ONE WHO HELD AMBO LE CHIAVI DEL COR DI FEDERIGO E CHE LE VOLSI SERRANDO E DISSERANDO SÌ SOAVI CHE DAL SECRETO SUO QUASI OGN'UOM TOLSI LIKE SAINT PETER WITH THE KEYS OF PARADISE BUT BECAUSE OF HIS VERY LOYALTY HE KILLED HIMSELF AND DAMNED HIS SOUL TO LIVE IN DEATH SHSKSJ this canto was not responsible for my first unprompted essay that I gave to my literature professor and that was very appreciated making me realize I love working with texts for no reason. I am so normal about this canto.

Then Purgatorio II is also a very normal canto because Dante has finally reached a dimention in which he is not constantly frightened and anguished. He's in purgatory that looks like Earth except everything is soaked in hope. The souls are not clean yet, they still need to suffer, but they are all content and hopeful because they know what awaits them. And here. he meets. CASELLA. His musician and friend!! And my god OHI OMBRE VANE FUOR CHE NELL'ASPETTO!! Dante tries to wrap his arms around him three times but three times they end up on his own chest because he cannot!! touch him!!! AND CASELLA SAYS COSÌ COM'IO T'AMAI NEL MORTAL CORPO COSÌ T'AMO SCIOLTA. LIKE. DO YOU HEAR HOW LIGHT THAT SENTENCE IS?? HOW SOFT IT IS AND HOW IT ALMOST FEELS LIKE YOU ARE SIGHING?? And not only that but Casella still loves him and still wants to please him so he starts strumming and singing one of Dante's poems and Dante is reminded of the way he would always alleviate his torments when he was alive exactly by playing music!!! I MEANJSHFJSKS DANTE 😭😭😭 and then Cato comes in ushering everyone up saying they Cannot be idle and lazy they need to Hurry!! because Time is the central element in Purgatorio, just like Earth, and these are souls that are still unclean they need to earn paradise they need to Hurry!! be Quick!!

BUT there are some honourable mentions that are very dear to me and those are:

Inferno X, with the dialogue between Cavalcante and Dante which makes me spiral in a way all of its own

Purgatorio IX, the first two triplets are so lyrical and beautiful I could cry just by reading them like he describes that feeling of nostalgia so well jskjddhsk

Purgatorio XXVI, "così per entro loro schiera bruna/ s’ammusa l’una con l’altra formica,/ forse a spïar lor via e lor fortuna." has made it impossible for me to be normal about ants ever again. Also Arnaut Daniel speaking in langue d'oc??? hell yeah.

Purgatorio XXX, MATELDA!!!!

I feel bad not mentioning Paradiso but I really need to (re)read it, however I do remember that I looooved the language :')

[lezet]

V.A.- "S = k. log W" is out on CAMEMBERT ELECTRIQUE (France)!!!

V.A.- "S = k. log W" is out on CAMEMBERT ELECTRIQUE (France)!!! For this project, we chose an inspiring idea: Ludwig Boltzmann's formula, which links entropy to the statistical probability of a system's microstates. Essentially, it speaks about the disorder and order within a system, and how they can mix. Ludwig Boltzmann was a scientist who worked on statistics in physics. He created this famous formula: S = k. log W. It shows how entropy, which measures disorder in a system, is related to the probability of its different states. The idea was to invite artists to create music that reflects this concept. We wanted to show how disorder and order can coexist together. It was a musical exploration to express this complex idea in a creative way. you'll have the pleasure of listening to: 16bard (US) alfa00 (IE) {AN} EeL (CA) ANTEPOP (FR) PEDRO F. BERICAT (ES) BERTHELOT (FR FERNANDO BOCADILLOS (AR) BOUPELLE (VN) BRINE & GOBLINS (..) BRUME (FR) BUBEN (BY) CONSTANCE COOPER (US) ROBERT CUMINGS (AU) DAFAKE (FR) DAVID DELLACROCE (US) SEAN DERRICK COOPER MARQUARDT (US/DE) THE D3VI7 (DE) el_masmore (ES) EL ZOMBIE ESPACIAL (AR) FAIL (US) FARMACIA (AR) DENIS FRAJERMAN TETSUO FURUDATE (JP) GROSSO GADGETTO (FR) HARI HARDMAN (UK) HEAVY CLOUD (UK): INFINITY OF 6 (Scotland) JOHN TRUBEE AND THE UGLY JANITORS (US) LEZET (XS) LILITH ANTHROPOCENE (VN) MEAN FLOW (GR) MICHAEL MEARA (AU) NASTA LABADA (BY) NGUYEN HONG GIANG (VN) M.NOMIZED (FR) THOMAS PARK (US) Parrhesia Sound System (FR) PERSEFONE (MX) DANIEL PRENDIVILLE (IE) QUATREFOIL (HR) RAUPPWAR (BR) RIATSU (IN) RDKPL (CZ) SAINT DE L'ABIME (GR) SOKUSHINBUTSU PROJECT (IT) SOUFLAKY (FR) PETE SWINTON (ID) TÔLE-ACHE (DE) TRONOR (AR) THE UTTER (UK) VACUUM IN MY HEAD (UK) WH?LTHIS?EY (PT) WASHINGTON FORMICA (FR) XENYO (IT) Xoemyr versus Parrhesia Sound System (..) The compilation is available to listen to and download free of charge: https://camembertelectrique.bandcamp.com/album/s-k-log-w

[lamilanomagazine]

Il Comune di Piobbico protagonista per una settimana del progetto '50x50: Capitali al quadrato'

Il Comune di Piobbico protagonista per una settimana del progetto '50x50: Capitali al quadrato'.  Dall'11 al 17 marzo è il Comune di Piobbico il nuovo protagonista di '50x50: Capitali al quadrato', il progetto simbolo di Pesaro 2024 che vede i cinquanta Comuni della Provincia di Pesaro e Urbino, a turno, Capitale per una settimana lungo il 2024; special partner '50x50 Capitali al quadrato' Banca di Pesaro - Credito Cooperativo. Il programma si intitola 'Piobbico...in Rinascimento' e ruota attorno al Castello Brancaleoni - dove avverrà la maggior parte degli eventi - luogo simbolo di Piobbico la cui origine risale al Rinascimento, e alla natura con la montagna, elemento che connota questa parte della provincia; un elemento importante è anche il coinvolgimento delle scuole. In calendario, teatro, presentazioni editoriali, musica con il Conservatorio Rossini di Pesaro, percorsi guidati da giovani Ciceroni grazie al FAI, trekking, laboratori per i più piccoli e tour alla scoperta di antichi sapori grazie al coinvolgimento dell'Istituto Alberghiero Giuseppe Celli, fiore all'occhiello del territorio. Al programma collabora anche la delegazione di Pesaro e Urbino del Fai chiamata in campo da Pesaro 2024 - proprio a partire da Piobbico - per attivare iniziative con le città del progetto '50x50'. Presenti anche gli immancabili appuntamenti di Cosa c'è DOP. Alla conferenza erano presenti: Daniele Vimini vicesindaco e assessore alla Bellezza del Comune di Pesaro; per il Comune di Piobbico il sindaco Alessandro Urbini, Matteo Martinelli consigliere regionale e presidente della Proloco, l'assessora Donatella Santini, la consigliera comunale Silvia Formica; Fiammetta Malpassi capo delegazione Pesaro e Urbino del FAI; Valentina Marchetti referente del progetto di Pesaro 2024 'Cosa c'è DOP'. Ha introdotto Daniele Vimini: ringrazio Piobbico per avere aderito con entusiasmo. Ogni settimana rimarchiamo la grande attenzione dei vari Comuni nell'aderire al progetto 50x50 ma anche il modo in cui stanno centrando l'obiettivo che ci eravamo dati: e cioè creare maggiore consapevolezza - a partire dagli stessi abitanti - per la bellezza della provincia; dunque un invito a visitare il nostro territorio. E poi l'altro obiettivo centrato è quello di coinvolgere le associazioni, le scuole, le realtà sportive e quelle del mondo enogastronomico, che sono poi quelle che fanno da volano alle iniziative culturali. E soprattutto nel caso di Piobbico il lavoro fatto permetterà non solo di accendere un faro particolare sulla settimana prossima ma anche di immaginarsi iniziative che possano essere replicabili anche in altri periodi dell'anno, unendo più comuni della provincia. Molto centrato anche il tema del Rinascimento che consente di connettere la Settimana da Capitale con la cultura e la storia che ha generato tutto questo. Mi piace sottolineare che Piobbico ha colto anche l'indicazione suggerita fin dal primo incontro di Fonte Avellana: ovvero quello di assumersi - ciascuno per la propria zona - anche il ruolo di collegamento con le regioni di vicine, in questo caso con l'Umbria, dunque un modo di lavorare a rete. Un lavoro di rete è anche quello che sta alla base della Card Pesaro Capitale cui il Castello Brancaleoni ha aderito entrando quindi nell'offerta museale ampia che sta prendendo forma con Pesaro 2024. Per il sindaco Alessandro Urbini, '50x50 è un momento grazie al quale anche i territori dell'entroterra possono essere protagonisti. Quello che si potrà vivere a Piobbico sarà un viaggio nella cultura abbinata a ciò che più ci rappresenta e contraddistingue: natura, storia, arte. Il tutto si arricchisce con eventi di teatro, lettura e gusto i quali non faranno altro che portare ulteriore qualità alla nostra settimana di Co-Capitale della Cultura. Matteo Martinelli ha illustrato nel dettaglio il programma caratterizzato dall'hastag 'la cultura che si abbina' immaginando appunto la cultura che si può abbinare ad altri cluster come la natura, il teatro, l'arte, la storia, la musica, la lettura collaborando con tante realtà con cui si collabora tutto l'anno e con un dialogo anche extraregionale con l'Umbria. Il risultato è un calendario variegato. Donatella Santini ha fatto un invito a visitare Piobbico la prossima settimana ma anche durante tutto l'anno perché è un paese ospitale da tanti punti di vista a partire dall'accoglienza della gente e a visitare il Castello Brancaleoni così ricco di eventi fra cui ciascuno può scegliere quello a lui più congeniale. Ha continuato Fiammetta Malpassi: abbiamo accolto l'invito dell'assessore Vimini ad essere presenti nelle città della provincia coinvolte dal progetto 50x50 nella loro settimana. Non riusciremo ad essere in tutte le città; la prima che vede la nostra collaborazione è Piobbico con cui già collaboriamo da tanto tempo. Mettiamo in campo alcuni dei progetti a noi più cari come gli studenti delle scuole che diventano Ciceroni facendo da guida e poi il coinvolgimento del Conservatorio Rossini che ci farà compagnia nelle varie capitali. Valentina Marchetti ha ricordato i due appuntamenti di Piobbico di 'Cosa c'è DOP', progetto che vuole unire in rete 100 bar della provincia che raccontano che cosa succede, cosa c'è da vedere e cosa c'è da mangiare in provincia con le eccellenze enogastronomiche. E che promuovono le nostre DOP: il prosciutto di Carpegna, la casciotta di Urbino, l'olio di Cartoceto da raccontare abbinati ad un bicchiere di vino o una buona birra; dunque per raccontare la cultura a livello enogastronomico Piobbico... in Rinascimento 11-17 marzo 2024 Calendario   Martedì 12 marzo ore 21 Sala Consiliare culturaeTEATRO 'Il coccodrillo" spettacolo teatrale, una produzione di Realtà Teatrale Skenexodia – Luca Guerini. Lo spettacolo sarà anticipato da una riflessione sul paragone tra il testo di Dostoevskij e "Il Principe" di Niccolò Machiavelli.   Giovedì 14 marzo ore 9-13 Castello Brancaleoni #culturaeSAPORE "Alla scoperta di Antichi Sapori" in collaborazione con Polo G. Celli - I.P.S.S.A.R Piobbico. Il pubblico sarà guidato alla scoperta dei segreti e degli antichi sapori di Piobbico al tempo della casata Brancaleoni. Attraverso l'organizzazione di tour guidati e di attività ludiche del passato ci si rivolgerà ad un pubblico giovane. Conclusione con un assaggio di pietanze a tema rinascimentale preparate dagli alunni della scuola. ingresso Gratuito   Venerdì 15 marzo #culturaeLETTURA Presentazione del libro di Elisabetta Pierini Notte in collaborazione con Associazione Hortus, modera il professore Michele Bonatti. Cosa c'è DOP alla scoperta del nostro capitale gastronomico, conduce il sommelier Raffaele Papi info 338 9763202 #culturaeTEATRO "Destinatario Sconosciuto" spettacolo teatrale in collaborazione con Officina delle Arti APS. Tratto da una storia vera, il racconto è basato su alcune lettere autentiche tra un ebreo americano e il suo ex socio in affari di nazionalità tedesca. Da un rapporto di amicizia e di affetto fraterno, i rapporti tra i due si incrinano con l'ascesa al potere di Adolf Hitler. Ingresso gratuito   Sabato 16 marzo #culturaeNATURA "Le bellezze naturali che circondano Piobbico" trekking. Entro mercoledì 13 marzo (in funzione delle previsioni meteo) saranno resi noti i dettagli dell'evento con indicazione di itinerario, grado di difficoltà, orario e punto di ritrovo alla pagina Facebook Gianluca Dormicchi Natura Trekking Marche, info e prenotazioni 339 3734504 Gianluca #culturaeSTORIA "Alla scoperta del Borgo con i giovani ciceroni" in collaborazione con FAI/Delegazione Pesaro-Urbino. Gli alunni della scuola secondaria di primo grado di Piobbico, preparati dai loro docenti, si cimenteranno nell'esperienza di giovani ciceroni lungo un percorso che toccherà i luoghi principali, con partenza dalla Macina da Guado in via Roma per terminare alla chiesa di San Pietro nell'omonima piazzetta. Partecipazione gratuita. Cosa c'è DOP alla scoperta del nostro capitale gastronomico, conduce il sommelier Raffaele Papi info 331 6652307   Domenica 17 marzo #culturaeSTORIA "Alla scoperta del Borgo con i giovani ciceroni" in collaborazione con FAI/Delegazione Pesaro-Urbino. Gli alunni della scuola secondaria di primo grado di Piobbico, preparati dai loro docenti, si cimenteranno nell'esperienza di giovani ciceroni lungo un percorso che toccherà i luoghi principali, con partenza dalla Macina da Guado in via Roma per terminare alla chiesa di San Pietro nell'omonima piazzetta. Partecipazione gratuita. #culturaeMUSICA "Concerto a Corte Brancaleoni" in collaborazione con Conservatorio Rossini di Pesaro Quattro allievi del Conservatorio per un concerto che inonderà le stanze del palazzo di eleganti suoni e dolci note. Info e prenotazioni 333 7922408 #culturaeARTE "Ceramica e Rinascimento" - Laboratorio per bambini Immersi nell'atmosfera storica del Castello e guidati da Linda Zepponi esperta artigiana, i piccoli artisti avranno l'opportunità di decorare mattonelle di forma ovale in terracotta trasformandole in opere d'arte uniche e prendendo ispirazione dall'arte rinascimentale che riguarderà il Palio dei Brancaleoni e gli stemmi dei 4 rioni; un'occasione per imparare la pittura a freddo su terracotta. Ingresso gratuito, Info e prenotazioni 333 7922408 #culturaeSCOPERTA "La Casata Brancaleoni e la sua Storia" in collaborazione con la guida turistica professionale Daniela Rossi. Visita guidata del castello e dell'omonimo Museo Civico alla scoperta delle stanze svelando le curiosità e le peculiarità più emozionanti. Info e prenotazioni 333 3886193 (Daniela Rossi)  ... #notizie #news #breakingnews #cronaca #politica #eventi #sport #moda Read the full article

[topcat77]

Daniele Formica 

Water (big blue), 2021

ultramarine blue pigment, water, salt on paper

[babblydrabbly]

Is it okay to request a second time? If not, simply delete lovely! No worries!

A game of 20 questions that ends with "Can I kiss you?" with Holder?

stephen holder x reader; general - warning: kissing, in fact

You sit idly beside Holder with a mug of coffee in your hands as the other diners eat and chat. You were next to him because you figured Linden would be arriving soon, but as ten minutes turned into twenty, you didn't know what to do with yourself as you waited.

But Holder doesn't seem perturbed. He grins lop-sidedly as he twists the rim of his own mug on the table with his long fingers.

"Alright, alright. Number eighteen." He finally says, sitting up straighter. He turned to face you in the narrow booth quite a few questions ago. "Who was your biggest crush in high school?"

You balk at that one.

You've both covered everything from favorite movie to least favorite sex position. But the mention of your shared past was something you've been avoiding.

It's been years since your recent reconnection with Stephen Holder. You were glad for it, because it only rekindled what you'd been missing all this time. You bite your lip and smile down at the formica table.

"Don't think I had one of those." You lie.

"Bull. Shit." He drawls, grinning. "Everybody knows you used to crush on that- that lacrosse motherfucker. What's his name. Duke?"

"Daniel."

"Y'see?" Stephen snaps his fingers triumphantly. He follows it with a scoff. "Daniel Wilcox. Lucky bastard."

You arch a brow. "Lucky?" You repeat. "Why lucky?"

Stephen glances over his cup at you as he busies himself with a sip instead of answering. His eyes are hazel and striking as they've always been, and you feel yourself unable to break his stare, as you always haven't. Like nothing's changed.

You may have told everyone you liked Daniel Wilcox once. But it hadn't always been the case.

Stephen shakes his head with a reserved smirk, like he's just considered something.

"Nah."

You turn to him. "No, not nah. Question nineteen. Why's he the lucky bastard?"

He throws his head back and laughs- a full, face-scrunching laugh. Your heart flutters.

"Oh snap, you got me, huh?" He mumbles behind a closed fist. He takes a breath and sweeps his gaze over the restaurant so as to not look at you.

"Cuz I, uh," Stephen's hesitancy surprises you and fills you with anticipation.

Say it. Oh please say it.

Finally, he turns those soft eyes to you. "Always wanted to be him...Your stupid lil' crush, I mean."

Your heart's practically soaring. You take your own sip of coffee to smother your flushed grin. You feel him shift across the tattered vinyl seat, long legs making room for the rest of his large body to draw closer.

When you glance back up, Stephen is bracketing your side. You have to crane your neck up just to see his face.

He stares back with that smile that makes you weak.

"Number twenty."

"...Yeah?"

"Can I kiss you, Y/n?"

The you from nearly fifteen years ago never would have imagined kissing Stephen Holder in some random diner, the taste of stale coffee and mint gum and everything perfectly Stephen behind it.

He turns the chaste touch of your lips into something deeper after awhile, mouth working until you feel the warm, tempting slip of his tongue across it. You forget about the other patrons as he curls his fingers around the nape of your neck, pulling the two of you closer.

And the way you let his tongue slide against yours makes the years of longing pour out with a quiet, shaky breath. Stephen's eyes flutter open when the two of you part, searching for the sound's meaning in your dazed expression.

The awkward cough somewhere behind you makes the two of you jump apart.

Linden stands at the end of the table, her smile suspiciously unsurprised.

"Sorry I'm late. I take it you two were catching up."

Drabble prompts ♡

[tarditardi]

26/3 Michael Antley fa scatenare Megà Disco Dinner - Pescara 

C'è una bella notizia per chi ama la house, anzi il mix decisamente personale di house e tech house con sfumature pop, funk ed electro che il dj producer napoletano Michael Antley propone.

Il 26 marzo Michael Antley è protagonista in console al Megà Disco Dinner di Pescara, in un evento già decisamente atteso da chi in zona e non solo vuol scatenarsi al ritmo di tendenze e ritmi internazionali.

Per Michael Antley è un ritorno importante in console. L'evento è poi organizzato da TooNite Pescara e dall'art director Daniele Tenace, un professionista dell'intrattenimento che da sempre organizza eventi di qualità assoluta come il suo Ferragosto Villa Exclusive... Per cui la qualità di tutto ciò che conta per potersi divertire e ballare fino all'alba è assicurata. Tutti i dettagli e info sull'evento, che inizia già alle 20:30 e si conclude solo alle 4 del mattino, sono disponibili qui: https://linktr.ee/toonighteventi.

Il 26 marzo al Megà Disco Dinner di Pescara Michael Antley sarà in console portando avanti il suo nuovo progetto musicale. "Sono da anni attratto dagli origami, un'arte che mette insieme leggerezza e perfezione. Sono da sempre legato anche alle formiche, visto che il mio cognome è Formicola", spiega l'artista, che come nome d'arte si è pure scelto Antley, quando Ant in inglese significa appunto formica.  "Le formiche sono quasi invisibili, ma sono ovunque. Riescono ad alzare fino 5 volte il proprio peso e quando stanno insieme possono invadere e devastare".

In realtà il nuovo progetto di Michael Antley vuol solo mettere insieme anima e cuore di tante persone. "Dalle formiche vorrei solo prendere costanza e caparbietà e la loro capacità di stare insieme per creare qualcosa che cresce e si migliora". Il messaggio è forte e coinvolgente... Tra l'altro, siamo molto vicini a una prima data per questo artista. Chi ha voglia di muoversi a tempo avrà presto belle news.

Uno dei più recenti post di Michael Antley su Instagram 

https://www.instagram.com/p/CbVPbLVA1SP/

[perfettamentechic]

1 febbraio … ricordiamo …

1 febbraio … ricordiamo … #semprevivineiricordi #nomidaricordare #personaggiimportanti #perfettamentechic

2022: Paolo Graziosi, attore italiano. Esordì sul grande schermo nel 1962. (n. 1940) 2022: Isaac Bardavid, attore e doppiatore brasiliano. Discendente di ebrei turchi, maturò la vocazione artistica piuttosto tardi, intorno ai 35 anni. Il suo esordio di attore avvenne nel 1968. Salvo una breve pausa, resasi necessaria per completare gli studi universitari in legge (1975), recitò a pieno ritmo al…

[lepus-arcticus]

OMENS: CHAPTER SEVEN one | two | three | four | five | six trigger warnings apply

HALF-MOON DINER 4:00 PM

The Half-Moon Diner was a relic from the 60s, with cracked cream tile and flaking red leather stools lined up at the counter. Strains of tinny bluegrass harmonies scrolled forth from an old antenna radio behind the bar, filling the air with a lament about whatever happened down by the banks of the Ohio.

Even under the weak fluorescent lights, Hugh was a presence. In the grimy throng of farmers scarfing down gelatinous heaps of scrambled eggs and reheated strawberry pie, he appeared to Scully as a beacon, lit from the inside by the glow of tragedy. She sat across from him in a corner booth, her shoulder pressed up against the window. Sheets of rain melted her reflection into the glass, blurring a ghost of her into the dark sky outside.

She felt warm and sullen, cupping a chipped china mug of tar-black coffee between her palms. People stared at them, caught themselves, turned away, glanced back for more. The young, pretty waitress in her lemon-yellow uniform had been polishing the same plate for ten minutes, gawping at them from over the bar.

If Hugh noticed, he didn’t seem to care. He hunched over the table, the very picture of tortured, contained passion.

“Hugh,” Scully began, conscious of their audience. His hand, splayed on the Formica, was brown and dusted with sun-bleached hair.

“How’s this. I’ll tell you everything… anything you need to know, Dana,” he said quietly. “Anything that’ll help. Ask away. I’m yours.”

Scully looked up from the table and found him gazing intently at her. Under the beam of his spirited eyes, she found herself somewhat at a loss for words, for strategy. “Um. Well I suppose you can start by telling me about your wife. About your marriage.”

A sad smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “I guess that would be the place to start, now, eh?” He picked up his cup and sucked down a mouthful of coffee, appearing to gather his thoughts. “Em. Well. I bought the farm in ‘94. Met Anna the same year. Met her here, in fact. She was a waitress.” His voice faltered, and he looked over at the bar, as if he could still see her there. The girl cleaning dishes blanched, and seemed to remember something pressing to attend to in the kitchen. “Nineteen. Loveliest thing I’d ever set my eyes upon,” he continued. “Sweet as the sunrise.”

Scully blinked and pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “And why Horizon? Why leave your home behind for such a faraway and isolated place?” She imagined the lack of anonymity, nowhere to run or hide, and suppressed a shiver of revulsion.

“You’ll think I’m a langer,” he offered, chuckling self-consciously and scrubbing his chin with his hand. “Ehm. I, eh, I guess I watched The Hangin’ Tree a few times too many. Staying in Ireland just wasn’t as… romantic of a concept as the call of the mythical Old West.”

Scully couldn’t help but smile a little. “If it’s any consolation, I think Gary Cooper had that effect on a lot of people.”

Hugh grinned at that, full-on, a disarming flash of brilliance that he swiftly pulled back into submission. “God, I love that bastard. Anna loved him, too. She, ehm, she grew up in that religious colony, without television, you know, so films were quite a thrill for her. The novelty, I suppose.”

She nodded, sipping her coffee. It was burned and bitter, and it coated the roof of her mouth.

“Now… now I know what you must be thinkin’, because everyone was thinkin’ it, but she and I really did have a lot in common, despite... the age difference. When you’re… when you’re not with your family, even if it’s by your own doing… well, there’s a loneliness there that I’m not sure can be described. It’s something you don’t understand until you’ve experienced it. I left a lot of people behind to come here. Not all of them were supportive of it. Of me.”

Scully thought of Bill in San Diego, of Charlie in Canada, of her father scattered in the sea, of her sister in the cold ground. “But Anna had Rhiannon, didn’t she?” She said. “And Marion, too. I’ve been given the impression that the three of them were quite close.”

At the mention of Marion’s name, Hugh clenched his jaw. “Ah. Well. Don’t let folks lead to you believe that it was all sunshine and rainbows up at Kicking Horse. That Rhiannon is a strange and fiery woman, and certainly no great admirer of mine. And Marion… well, if you happen to have sisters, I’m sure you can imagine how it could be. Especially when it became clear that Anna and I were of a mind to be married.”

Melissa at fourteen leapt to her mind, her eyes brown as pondwater and lined with crumbly black. Her scalp tingled with the memory of her hair in her sister’s fists. She didn’t even remember what the argument had been about. She pushed the image down, and continued. “And when did you begin your affair with Marion? After the wedding, or before?”

Hugh exhaled sharply and looked away, out the window, staring down the soaked smudge of his reflection. A fork of lightning darted down into the fields in the distance. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Did Marion tell you that?”

“In as many words,” Scully replied.

He turned his palms up in a gesture of helplessness, and then dropped them again. “I mean, what on earth could I ever say to defend myself? It was never supposed to go that far. Anna had these moods, and she’d been so distant, and Marion was always around, always had a listening ear to lend, that girl, and I⁠—we⁠—just got wrapped up in the… in the forbidden excitement of it all, I guess. The hiding. The secrets. The passion. But I ended it as soon as it begun. It was nothing more than a few weeks of foolishness.”

Scully looked him over, trying to gauge the honesty of his words. She found herself wishing for Mulder’s powers of insight. “When, Hugh?”

He swallowed. “This is going to look bad. But it was a few months ago. Shortly before… well, when the omens began. But you mustn’t think that… I mean, who could… I still loved Anna, I wanted to make it work, and Marion loved her as a sister; we didn’t want to hurt her, neither of us could ever…” He stared hard into her, releasing a shaking sigh. “You have to believe me. About this, about the signs…”

The shrill cry of Scully’s cell phone cut into the air. She dug it out of the rumple of her coat and shut it off.

“Dana… you don’t believe me about the omens.” It was a statement, not a question.

“My partner does,” she replied with a sigh. The bell over the front door of the diner tinkled.

Hugh nodded, chewing his bottom lip. “This town… Horizon… it’s a strange place. Was strange long before I put down my roots.” He was getting worked up, a tremor easing into his voice, his eyes beginning to glisten. “This is a fucking nightmare. Whatever is here killed my wife. Killed our child. Killed her goddamned horse. It’s not done. I’m next. I know it.”

“Hugh,” she said softly, and reached over to cover his hand with her own, just to soothe him, just to draw him back into calm, clear conversation. Marion’s words of warning leapt to her mind, but now that she’d heard the full story, she was less inclined to take her seriously. She remembered sneaking around with Daniel, how she felt as though she was helpless to resist him, too.

Hugh took a breath and closed his eyes, sliding his other hand over hers. His skin was rough and warm, and it sent a flush of sweetness through her.

“And just what’s goin’ on here?”

Scully turned to see the thick slab of Theo’s chest. Above them, his eyes were indignant, bright with suspicion. Behind him, a dozen faces turned to follow the drama. Scully ripped her hand away from Hugh’s.

“Sherriff Gladstone,” she said, arranging her face into a practiced professional scowl.

“Dana was just asking me a few questions, Theo,” Hugh said in a bristly tone, as she gathered her coat. This was ridiculous, she’d done nothing wrong. So why did she feel so exposed?

She stood and shouldered past Theo. “We’re all done here, Mr. Daly. Thank you for your candour. Theo, I’ll send you those autopsy notes once I go over them with my partner,” she said, wrapping herself in her overcoat, and without a goodbye to either of them, she marched out of the diner and into the cold downpour of rain.

KICKING HORSE B&B 6:23 PM

The bed was littered with crime scene photos.

Mulder squinted into the bright laptop screen at the rolltop desk in the dim of his room. The connection was crummy, and the going was agonizingly slow. There was little public information about Horizon, even less about the Bishops or the colony or even the reservation. Nothing about homicidal behaviour in crows, mythological or otherwise. He lingered around thoughts of ghosts, of signs, of family, of loss, trying to find a path.

He hoped there were records in town, old newspapers, anything that would help him discern a pattern. He had a few ideas, but he needed Scully's perspective, needed her to eliminate the mess of avenues he laid out for her until they came to an agreeable trail to follow. He needed her to disagree with him, to make him work for it, so that he could gauge the depth of conviction he carried about the hunches he was nursing.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, slamming the screen closed. Where the hell was she, anyway?

He was just about to reach for his cell to try her again when he heard footsteps on the stairs. At first, he thought it was Rhiannon, armed with either a peace offering or another scolding, but then he heard the door of the next room shut.

He stood, briefly stretching his arms behind his back, and followed the sound.

“Scully?” he asked, with a gentle knock.

There was no answer but the sound of her movements inside—a shuffling of clothing, a muffled sniff. He rapped his knuckle against the wood again. “Hey, Scully, you okay in there?” He placed a hand on the door, trying to sense her inside of the room.

It swung open abruptly.

Scully’s hair was wet with rain, and she’d changed into her robe. There were black smudges of mascara clinging to her eyelids, and she looked so small and vulnerable that he had a sudden, dire urge to scream at her.

“Where were you?” He asked tersely.

She walked over to her briefcase and flung it open on the bed, gathering loose papers and Polaroids and thrusting them towards him. “Here are your initial autopsy notes,” she said. “I'll transcribe the rest tonight.”

Mulder stared. She shook the papers a little when he didn't take them, then tossed them back to the bed.

“You can't just not answer your phone,” he pressed, lodging his hands on his hips. “We’re on a case.”

She turned to look at him, expression neutral, but she couldn't hide the redness at the tops of her ears, the stiffness in her shoulders. “And what about all the times you've ignored my calls, Mulder?”

Silence yawned between them, punctuated only by the slap of rain against the windowpane.

“... Scully, look⁠—” he continued, trying to diffuse the situation. “You're right. I'm sorry. I was just concerned, okay? You sounded upset earlier, and I just—I know that Daly makes you uncomfortable.”

She blew a huff of air from her nose, and turned away.

He forged ahead. “I, uh, had an interesting day.” He was expecting her to take the bait, but she remained quiet, clearly distracted. “I don't think Abel Stoesz is involved... he's a nasty piece of work, but I can't see it coming down to him. But Scully, Marion knows something. We need to talk to her. When she's cooled off a bit.”

She nodded.

“...Uh, any luck with Daly?”

Scully fidgeted with her fingers, twining them together and rubbing at her thumbnail. “Mulder,” she said, and the pit of his stomach dropped. “I don't want you hearing this from anyone but me.”

Taken aback, he waited, searching her face.

“After our initial interview, Hugh and I decided to continue our conversation in town.” She paused, bracing him with her eyes, daring him to say something. His lips were suddenly very dry, and he darted out his tongue to wet them.

“And?”

“Well, the fact is… to onlookers, we may have appeared a little… familiar. Our demeanor may have been construed as inappropriate.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Mulder, it was nothing.”

Something sour and vile filled his chest. “If it was nothing, why the little confessional here?”

“I was comforting him, that was all. I don’t want Theo putting ideas into your head.”

An itching heat prickled over him. Scully was slipping away from him, literally and figuratively, wasting away, fucking murderous psychopaths and getting inked in sleazy Russian tattoo parlours and getting all cozy with sketchy farmers while they were supposed to be conducting a goddamn investigation.

“Oh, like how you comforted Ed Jerse? What, you got a bucket list number you need to fill or something?”

She looked as though he’d slapped her. “What is your problem?” she asked through her teeth, her voice low and deadly as a viper.

“My problem is that your decision making skills have been severely compromised since your diagnosis, Scully. You can’t even keep a professional distance from a good looking suspect?”

“Hugh Daly is a victim, not a suspect.”

“Did you happen to conveniently forget about Marion’s warning? Scully, listen to me here, she knows something!”

“Marion is twenty two years old, Mulder, and highly emotional, and she and Hugh⁠—”

“Scully, I need you with me on this, not having tea parties with⁠— ”

“⁠—If you’re going to crucify me every time I show a shred of human decency to someone⁠—”

“⁠—Oh, come on! That’s not what you were doing, and you know it.”

She snatched up the papers again, and shoved them towards him. “Mulder, take the damn notes and get out. Just leave me alone.”

Alone. She always wanted to be alone. But only when it came to him.

He ripped the papers out of her hands, fixed her with one last searing gaze, and left.

1:33 AM

Darkness. True darkness, and then a swift, startling awareness unfurled through her body.

The inky miasma of the room pressed into her, trapping her, locking her down. She tried to move her hands, but found that she couldn’t. Things were strange, and wrong, and the only thing she was sure of was that she wasn’t supposed to be here. There was a tingling buzz in the back of her head, growing, getting louder, becoming more and more insistent… and then perfect, eerie quiet.

A presence.

There was a figure at the end of her bed. She couldn’t quite see it, couldn’t quite focus on it, but she felt it, as real as gravity, and it was singing, in a voice so thin that it sounded more like a thought passing through her mind.

I cannot get o’er…. and neither have… I wings to fly…

Her heart seized in terror. She knew that she was dreaming. She had to be. She struggled against the oppressive gauze of sleep, fighting for air, and then she was there, and it was real, and she was sucking breath into her lungs, chest heaving and chilled with sweat. As she struggled and failed to move her limbs, she realized she still felt someone, something, there with her, and became suddenly and painfully alert. She mentally located her gun on the nightstand. Feeling gradually bled back to her, and she carefully wiggled her fingers, staring at the ceiling, willing there to be nobody there when she looked.

She took a deep breath, counted the punches of her heartbeats, and glanced down. Nothing.

Of course there wasn’t, she reprimanded herself. She was just having another nightmare. The case was just wearing on her. Anna’s body, Mulder’s accusations. Hugh.

Her pulse began to settle. The rain had cleared, and as she glanced over to the window, she could see a freckled arc of stars through the glass. She took a few more steadying breaths, struggling to sit up, thrusting her hands through her sweat-damp hair. She tuned an ear to listen for Mulder’s snores, but there was no sound.

She wanted to get up, to go to him, to make things right between them. But her mind went blank when she thought of what that might entail. What it could lead to, here in the dark in the middle of nowhere.

Instead, she kicked off the fluffy summer comforter with still-shaky legs, and went over to the window. A gentle breath floated up from the radiator. It wasn’t too hot to lean against, so she did, luxuriating in the comforting flood of warmth through her pajamas.

Her reflection stared back at her from the window glass, and she reached out to trail her fingers along the surface. For months, she’d avoided the thin, tired, sombre woman in the mirror, that horrible, consumptive apparition of herself. She remembered last night’s dream, her own face poised above her, pale and waxy in death.

Soon, she thought. I’ll be dead soon.

She passed the word through her mind over and over again, like fingering a strand of prayer beads, one for each of the countless cadavers she’d cut open in the course of her work. Sometimes they’d just been part of her day, barely human, interesting arrangements of flesh on a slab, and she a 20th-century haruspex, reading entrails.

But it had to be that way. It wasn’t that she was unfeeling⁠—she just preferred to keep her own emotions locked away, muzzled and collared like dangerous, mythical animals. Despite the popular opinion of the grunts in the bullpen, she wasn’t cold. No, she burned too hot for comfort. Melissa had been the same, but she’d embraced that heat. Harnessed it, rode it into battle. Made it work for her. In this and in so many other ways, Melissa had been the stronger one of them, the one that knew how to listen to her heart, to her gut. The one that knew what bravery was.

Did she see the gun, the hand in the dark? Did time slow to a crawl? Did Missy know, did she suspect, even for a second, that she was going to die?

Scully hoped not. To be aware of your own mortality was strange, too strange for her to fully grasp. There were other lives she’d wanted to lead, other paths she might have taken. She wanted to be a doctor. She wanted to be a mother. None of that would ever happen⁠—this was it for her. And what was the legacy she would leave behind? A few files in Mulder’s cabinet labelled with Scully, D.? A family torn apart, both of her mother’s daughters dead in the name of her work? A trail of unavenged victims and half-solved cases that no court of law could begin to prosecute?

Grief and helplessness rose like water in her throat, drowning her from within. Was this really God’s plan for her? What good had she ever really done with this life? What would Missy think? What would her father have to say?

And Mulder… Oh, Mulder. There was just too much there to contemplate. She wondered if she would ever have the courage to even begin to tell him what he meant to her. She wondered if, even worse, he already knew.

She clipped the latch of the window and shoved it open, forcing her breath to slow and deepen before the tears spilled over.

Fresh air met her skin with a gentle kiss, a whisper of wind pushing its fingers through the wheat outside. The clean country air was thin and rejuvenating. She closed her eyes against it, inhaling, sending a filament of prayer to whoever would listen, a prayer of peace for Mulder, peace for her mother.

And then she heard it again. Warm breath in her ear.

Both shall row… my love and I...

A shock of fear electrified her, and she flung her shoulders around. And then she heard a heavy swoosh, like a baseball bat cutting through the air.

Blood rushed into her ears, and she felt a razor-sharp heat open the skin of her shoulder.

She staggered backwards, instinctively covering her face, the pain and surprise of it trapped in her chest, so that she couldn’t cry out. The bird screamed at her as it ripped, a shrill harpy caw filling the room. She tasted blood in her mouth, felt the creature’s beak scraping and tearing viciously at her back as she stumbled away⁠—

CRACK⁠—

The door nearly splintered with the force of Mulder’s kick, and then Scully did cry out, in the terror and rage of it all. She expected to hear a gunshot, but none came⁠—just the heaving thump of Mulder’s body on hers, tackling her, rolling on the floor so that he was above her, shielding her. Black wings beat around his face as he reached up and grabbed the comforter from the bed, lunging at the dark and screaming bird, trapping it against the floor with his body.

Scully whipped her eyes around the room⁠—the crow appeared to be alone in its attack. She scrambled up and slammed the window shut, shaking fingers working the latch closed. Mulder was hunched over the struggling, squawking, blanketed lump on the floor. He fumbled around it as she ran back to him, and with sure, angry hands, he gained purchase on what he’d been searching for.

He grasped and twisted, and there was a sick, muffled crack. Flinging the dead bundle away from himself, he knelt in front of Scully, who had fallen back against the footboard. He ghosted his fingers down her cheek, looking deeply into her eyes as she struggled to gain control of her breath. “Scully, you okay?” She touched his wrist, trying to speak, taking in the scratches on his face, the blood beading along a deep cut across the tendon of his neck. “Had to tackle you. Couldn’t get a clear shot, you okay? Did I hurt you?”

She was beginning to feel the hot, white pain of it, blood trickling down the back of her pajamas. “My back,” she said.

“Let me see.” He tugged at one of her shoulders, and she swiveled obediently, pulling at the neck of her shirt. “...Shit, Scully, you’re all torn up.”

“Go get Rhiannon,” she breathed, every moment becoming more and more cognizant of the pain. Mulder scrambled up to a crouch, grabbing his gun from the floor and placing it in her hands, cupping her face. “Don’t move, okay? I’ll be right back. Don’t move.” He grounded her with his battle-worn monotone, the planes of his face blue in the night.

Scully closed her eyes and nodded, willing her heart rate to go down. Blood streamed from her, plastering her pajamas to her back. She was dizzy, raw-nerved. She heard Mulder’s movements downstairs, his voice bellowing for Rhiannon, the creaking and slamming of doors, the rattling of cupboards in the kitchen. She breathed through her mouth, settling into the pain, eyeing the bulge under the blanket.

When Mulder entered the room again, he had a large white metal first aid kit under his arm and a serious look on his face.

“Where’s…?” Scully asked.

“She’s gone. Her truck is gone. The dog is gone. I found a field kit, but Scully, from what I can tell, you’re going to need professional medical attention. You’re bleeding. A lot. Rhiannon’s gone. The closest hospital is hours away. Talk me through this, here. What do we do?”

“Get me to the bathroom,” she rasped. He ducked out to toss the kit with a clang into the bathroom, and returned for her. She reached for him, and he gently helped her up. They staggered clumsily together across the hall, Mulder careful not to touch her ruined back, the eyes of the Bishop women on the wall following them.

Mulder flicked on the wall switch. The wan, metallic light flickered to life above them, the buzzing from it echoing off the bathroom walls. The bathroom was longer than it was wide, and housed a clawfoot bathtub, no shower, a tiny black square of window, and a kilim rug rough under her bare feet. The ceiling was slanted, and so low that Mulder had to stoop his head.

Scully caught sight of herself in the pockmarked mirror. She was pale, her hair wild, and dark splotches of blood were soaking through her robe. Mulder loomed above her, looking guilty. “Scully. What do I do? Tell me what to do. Tell me what you need.”

“I need to get this shirt off.”

Mulder exhaled unsteadily as she peeled her robe off and tried to lift her tank. The fabric stuck painfully to her lacerated skin. “A little help here?” She managed to ask. Mulder visibly swallowed and helped her lift her shirt, averting his eyes politely as she brought the tattered, sticky fabric around to cover her bare chest.

The bathroom was cold against her skin and the heat of her blood. She glanced over her shoulder to survey the damage. Her naked back was lashed and streaked, and there was one deep, seeping cut that ran three or four inches from the inner curve of her shoulder blade to the base of her neck. Mulder’s face in the mirror was drawn as he surveyed the damage as well. The gash on his neck was bleeding into the collar of his shirt.

“Scully, fuck. Okay. it’s gonna be okay. What do I do? What do you need?”

“I can’t reach. These need to be cleaned. Water. Clean towel,” she managed, beginning to feel faint.

Mulder sprang into action, rooting around the squat wooden armoire for fresh towels. Scully slumped onto the fuzzy cover of the toilet seat, clutching her bloody shirt to her breasts. The rug was already spotted with her blood. She flashed on the photograph of Anna in the field, her intestines curled in the dirt.

Mulder, jaw set, rinsed the towels in warm water from the sink. He dropped to his knees in front of her⁠—“Here, can you turn a little?”⁠—and scraped the towel over her back.

She sucked air over her teeth. “Mulder, gentle...”

The towel was uncomfortably rough as he cleaned her, murmuring comforting nothings that would usually infuriate and humiliate her, were she not sick and scared and half-naked in a stranger’s bathroom.

“Scully…,” he said, “this one is bleeding pretty seriously. It looks bad.” Fuck.

“It… needs pressure. Clean towel. 15 minutes,” she breathed.

He discarded the wet, bloody towel and rummaged around for a clean one, pressing it into her back and shoulder with a comforting, firm hand. His other hand rested on her arm, caressing her almost unconsciously, sending tiny shivers up to her neck. The slanted walls of the bathroom seemed to crowd in on them, pressing them closer together.

After a few minutes, when the sharp edge of shock had worn down, Scully spoke, her voice shaking and tenuous. “It was a crow. Dammit, Mulder, it was a crow.” He nodded, chewing the inside of his lip.

“Good thing you weren’t out taking a midnight stroll in the wheat.”

“Don’t joke about that,” she said, haunted by Anna’s shredded face. He had the good sense to look vaguely ashamed.

“Scully… this can’t be a coincidence. What’s the common denominator here? Hugh Daly gets you alone, maybe shows a bit of interest in you, and bam, birdfeed.”

“Maybe there’s… maybe there’s a disease here. Maybe that’s why the animals are acting strange, attacking people. That might explain Hugh’s horse, not to mention the one on the highway… and, and Anna. And the crow that flew into my window tonight.”

“Then why haven’t we seen other animals affected? There are literally thousands of cows and horses in Horizon, don’t you think Rhiannon would have noticed something, would have mentioned something?”

“Well, she’s grieving, maybe she hasn’t thought to…”

“And where is she? What is she doing out in the middle of the night?”

“Maybe there was an emergency.”

“Well, these walls are pretty thin, and I didn’t hear a phone ring or anybody knock on the door, did you?”

They fell into another uneasy silence. Scully was weak with residual fear, the pulse of her blood hot on her back, the pain clarifying her thoughts. “Mulder…”

“Yeah?” He answered, his voice just above a whisper. He was so, so close, the scent of his skin all around her.

“Um... check if it’s... stopped bleeding.”

He peeled back the towel, gently stroking the skin next to the cut. “Oh, Scully,” he breathed.

“Do you see any white? Any muscle tissue, subcutaneous fat?”

“Ugh… um. Maybe.”

“Let me look…” she said, turning and placing a hand on his shoulder, using him for balance as she pushed herself up. His hands went to her elbow, to her hip, and he followed. She went to the mirror and turned her back to it, squinting at the cut. It wept fresh blood. “Mulder… I’m going to need stitches. I can’t reach to do them myself.” She looked over her shoulder and regarded him with as much sternness as she could muster. Comprehension and horror overtook his face.

“No. No, Scully. Wait for Rhiannon.”

“And what if she’s not back soon? Or ever? This needs to be closed up, ideally within the next six hours, and it’s a simple process. One you’re fully capable of performing with my instructions.”

“...Can’t we just wait?”

“Mulder,” she said, growing frustrated. “Buck up. I just want it over and done with.”

“Scully! No, Jesus, what if I⁠—?”

“Shut up and get that first aid kit. I need to see what’s in there.”

He blinked at her helplessly, then resigned himself and leaned over for the white tin, bringing it back and opening it. Luckily, it was well-stocked, something Rhiannon might bring with her on a call.

Scully rifled through the case one-handed, unearthing thread, a curved needle that resembled a fish hook, a roll of gauze, and a bottle of iodine.

“Should I.. do you need ice? I can go get ice,” Mulder ventured.

“That might be a good idea,” she conceded in a strained voice, the pain radiating hot and sharp across her back.

He blinked up at her, his eyebrows slanted in concern. “Okay. I’ll be right back. You stay here. You scream if anything happens. Loudly. And stay away from the window.” Scully nodded and watched him as he disappeared through the doorway, closing it swiftly behind him.

The moment he was gone, she sank back onto the toilet seat, and let loose one single, silent, wretched sob, clutching at her tattered shirt so hard that her nails bit into her palms through the fabric. She hated herself for it. For her weakness, her fear. Hated herself for needing him. Hated that he might be right.

She pulled herself together quickly, biting her tongue hard, blinking back tears. Minutes slurred onwards, and soon, Mulder’s voice sounded beyond the door. “Scully, it’s just me,” he warned, before rattling the door knob and letting himself back into the bathroom. He cradled a dusty bottle of Glenfiddich under his arm, and toted a few handfuls of ice tied into a kitchen cloth, already melting into his shirt.

“Thought this might help too,” he said, liberating the bottle from the crook of his elbow with his free hand and sloshing it around a little. She looked up at him as he unscrewed the cap and handed it to her.

Oh, Mulder.

She adjusted the arm that was holding her shirt to her chest, took the bottle from him, and pulled deeply. Liquid fire swished down into her chest, into her sinuses. As she drank, she met Mulder’s eyes, and found something in them that was suspiciously close to admiration.

“Alright, Anne Bonny,” he said, taking the bottle back and taking a short, scowling swig himself before screwing the cap back on and clanging it down next to the base column of the sink. He kneeled in front of her again, helped her turn around, and brought the dripping ice pack to her back. After the initial jolt of it, numbness swept through her slowly, both from the drink and the cloth. Rivulets of melt trickled down her back, sweetening the rhythmic throb of fading pain.

“I’m ready,” she said, once the bite of the ice had faded into a blunt gnaw.

Listening carefully to her instructions, Mulder washed his hands and clumsily sanitized the needle, threading it with some difficulty. He soaked a cotton pad in iodine, and guided it slowly over her skin in strokes so soft and careful that they could have been mistaken for a lover’s touch.

“Scully, I can’t do this,” he pleaded, when everything was prepared.

“Mulder,” she countered patiently. “You know how to sew, right?”

“I mean, I can do a button, but… this isn’t the Indian Guides.”

“Please… I trust you. Just do it.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

“I need this. I need your help.” She looked over her shoulder at him, and saw determination return to his face.

“God, Scully. Okay. You let me know if you need to… if you need a break, or if something feels wrong, or…”

“Make sure you catch enough of the flesh, okay? Pull it open a little. It’s a rotation, remember, not a stab. Just keep your hand steady.”

He sucked in a breath, and then she felt the first pinch of the needle invading her skin, the slow, tense curve of of it, then the tug of the thread as it slid through her, the tight pull as he knotted her skin back together.

“One down,” he murmured in concentration, and then he entered her again. She gasped quietly.

“Am I hurting you?” He asked with infinite tenderness. “Am I going too fast?”

“It’s fine, you’re… it’s fine,” she said.

“We can take a break if it’s too much. You’re the boss.” His hot palm swiped over her shoulder, and she glanced down at her knees.

“No, it’s… it’s not that.” She realized she didn’t know quite what it was. “You’re doing fine. Thank you, Mulder,” she added as an afterthought.

“S‘okay,” he said, and continued, but even more slowly, more gently than before. 

“I’m going to need antibiotics as soon as possible,” Scully said, more to herself than to him. “And the swelling⁠—did you see any Motrin in the tin?”

“No, but I’m sure Rhiannon has some kicking around,” he replied softly. “You sure that was a normal crow, though, Scully? I feel like an exorcism is more the order of the day than antibiotics.” He said this with flat humour in his voice, but she didn’t think it was very funny.

Six stitches, and then there was gauze and tape, and then it was done.

He swiped a warm, wet cloth over her back one more time, avoiding the dressed wound. His hand continued downwards, knuckles bumping over the ridge of her spine, and the pads of his fingers came to rest on her tattoo.

“I’ve only seen it in snapshots. The red is really…”

Scully pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and leaned forward, just a little, a silent invitation for a closer look. Mulder bent down further, tracing it with his fingers. She could feel his breath on her skin.

His voice was coarse and close. “It’s nice.” His fingers brushed in a spiral over the snake, sending chills up her spine, heat rising between her hips.

“Mulder⁠—”

His hand leapt off of her skin, as if the snake had bitten him. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay⁠—I just… let me look at you.” She swiveled, holding her shirt to her breasts with one arm and bringing her hand to his face with the other. He was far better off than she was, just a few scratches across his cheek framing his rocky nose. She tilted his chin in her hand, and examined the cut along his neck. It had stopped bleeding on its own, but left a trail of rusty red down into the scooped gray collar of his shirt.

Their eyes locked together and held, and a stroke of energy went through her, something undeniably foundational, something as deep as love. But then the light in his eyes shifted.

She felt a hot trickle of blood spill from her nose and pool between her lips. Self-consciously, she brought the back of her hand to her face to catch it, and turned away.

“Scully…” Mulder gently grasped her wrist and tugged her hand away, turning her face to his, tenderly dabbing the blood away with a clean corner of the towel.

“I’m fine, Mul⁠—”

“⁠—STOP that,” he seethed, suddenly intense, inches away from her face. “Stop it with that, Dana, you are not okay. I’m sick of this shit. Stop it. It’s me, for fuck’s sake. It’s me.”

She tongued the corner of her mouth, tasting blood, and felt the hot sting of tears forming behind her eyes again, the twist of humiliation and anger in her belly. Mulder sighed deeply, his shoulders heaving.

“You’ve got to trust me, Scully. You’ve got to let me in. I’m right here with you. You’re not… you’re not fighting this thing alone.”

Despite her efforts to keep it at bay, a tear welled, crested, and rolled down her cheek. Mulder seemed to hesitate momentarily, then leaned forward and pressed his lips against it, sweetly, lingering. He pulled back, and then, as if surprised by his own audacity, he launched himself up, his bum knee cracking. “I’m… uh, do you have anything to sleep in? I’m gonna…” He disappeared without finishing his sentence, and reappeared a moment later with a clean t-shirt, which he tossed in her direction before leaving again.

Scully closed her eyes, willing them to dry. She dabbed at the sticky blood that had transferred from the shirt to her chest, and careful of her injuries, she slid the shirt over her head. It was soft, smelling of Mulder and laundry soap.

“Scully?” Mulder appeared in the doorway again, wide-eyed, his voice urgent, gun in hand. “Scully⁠—the crow is gone.”

“What do you mean the crow is gone? I thought you killed it!”

“I did, but it’s gone.”

“How can that be possible?” She stood, bracing herself against the sink.

“I have a few ideas,” he said darkly. “But… I don’t want you in that room tonight. I think you should come to mine so I can keep watch.”

“Mulder, I’m⁠—”

“DON’T⁠—start with that again. I’m gonna get cleaned up, and you’re coming to my room.” Something about his tone of voice reminded her of her father, and she found herself unable to protest. She followed his orders, watching him strip his shirt off and dab at his chest with a wet cloth, and then following him to his room. It was a mirror of hers, with the same sloping roof. “Take the bed,” he said, closing the door behind him.

“Where are you going to sleep?”

He nodded towards the small armchair in the corner.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mulder. The bed is big enough for the both of us.”

He seemed to consider this, chewing his lip, hands on his hips. “Okay, but I’m taking the side closest to the window. Just in case.”

Scully curled into the cool sheets in the dark of the room, favouring her good side. The sleepy smell of him rose to meet her from the pillow, a scent that was dark with dreams. Mulder was pacing, checking the locks, peering out of the window, the floor creaking under his feet.

She watched him quietly as he slowed and then finally stopped.

“I, um. I think your room was Anna’s,” he sighed, leaning his forehead against the window glass.

“I think it was, too,” she said, and was grateful that he didn’t ask her to elaborate.

He turned, his long, lithe silhouette approaching the bed, the moonlight glancing off of the curve of his shoulder. Carefully, he crawled in beside her. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked contentedly on. Scully felt as shy as a teenage girl; she was careful not to touch him, but she yearned to all the same.

Mulder tentatively reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and rested his palm on her cheek, thumbing just below a scratch.

“Why is it always me?” she whispered, indulging in a fit of uncharacteristic self-pity.

He scooched towards her without a word, his knees knocking her shins, and kissed her sweetly between the eyes as he threaded his arm under her neck. She rested her cheek on his chest, sucking her tongue nervously, submerging herself in his heavy, warm aura. He nosed her hairline.

“You’ll be fine,” he murmured. “We’ll figure this out. All of it. You’ll be fine.”

[millepiccolinsetti]

a gianluca piacevano diverse cose. raccogliere le rane più minute, portarle in casa, in cucina, mentre sua nonna cucinava, e spaventarla. inginocchiarsi sulla terra con daniele, nel bel mezzo del bosco, e far arrampicare le formiche sul polpastrello dell’indice e poi appoggiarle sulla lingua, per mangiarle. erano dolci e scoppiettavano come le caramelle frizzanti al limone. fare la lotta con daniele con le spade di legno, i legnetti, le bacche delle siepi, le cerbottane improvvisate, le pistole di plastica, oppure con le mani, spingendosi e stringendosi e tirando qualche schiaffo e pugno ma per finta, con estrema attenzione, per non farsi davvero male, cercando di evitare di rompersi qualcosa. era rimasto traumatizzato da quella caduta al lago. un lancio di dodici metri da una scogliera alla vista dei suoi genitori. l’hanno fatto tutti, dicevano, al laghetto lucinasco si buttano tutti, dicevano, dalla scoglierina, gianluca! lo fanno poi tutti, non è nulla di che. basta chiudere gli occhi, e non pensare a niente. chiudi gli occhietti, gianluca. è poi solo un attimo. quel giorno erano in fila, lui e daniele. prima di loro una bambina, elena, bionda e riccia. di lei vedevano solo i suoi capelli che scintillavano al sole d’agosto. si è lanciata con grazia. un salto grazioso, dicevano i genitori dalla spiaggia, così ne ho visti proprio pochi, di solito sono più imbranati. la andavano ad abbracciare mentre si portava in salvo sulla riva. sei stata bravissima, elena, hai un futuro da tuffatrice, e intanto le poggiavano l’asciugamano sulle spalle come si fa coi sopravvissuti a un incendio o a un terremoto, e lei piangeva, e si soffiava il naso stringendo le narici con le dita. si salta dove c’è la statua della madonna alla quale, una volta, hanno mozzato la testa. è un rito che viene passato di generazione in generazione. non si tratta di coraggio (anche se il coraggio è un prerequisito fondamentale), né di passaggio a un’età adulta (anche se, in effetti, dopo il salto dicevano tutti di sentirsi qualche centimetro in più nelle ossa; di aver visto la mattina dopo, controllandosi allo specchio, qualche capello bianco): era una sorta di battesimo. una pulizia dei peccati, addirittura, un sacrificio per maria e agli occhi di maria, che sbiadita dai decenni, scolorita dalle intemperie, vestita di un rosa pallido e macchiata di blu sul fazzoletto poggiato sul capo, tiene le mani giunte in preghiera e rivolge uno sguardo addolorato davanti a sé, alla piccola conca dove il ragazzino o la ragazzina si getterà. tutti i suoi 35 centimetri di statua di pietra scolpita incutono timore, e lo sguardo della santa ti tiene d’occhio, che se ti ritiri all’ultimo, se hai un’esitazione, se lo ricorderà, lo dirà a dio, o ad altri santi come san paolo o san francesco, e poi si sa, va come non va e la voce si diffonde in tutti gli angoli dell’altro mondo e se ti va male finisce che se ne parla pure all’inferno, dove i diavoli pervertiti e malvagi escogitano degli scherzetti e ti portano via le coperte di notte, o ti fanno trovare i vermi nella mela, o ti fanno inciampare dalle scale. non c’è nulla su cui scherzare. il salto va fatto, senza se e senza ma, e poi sono loro, i genitori, che ti obbligano: loro stessi che l’hanno fatto decine di anni prima ti tengono la manina prima della salita, prima del patibolo. e se non salto, daniè? che succede? succede che poi la madonna lo dice ai santi che lo dicono agli angeli che lo dicono ai demoni e ai diavoli che di notte ti prendono dalle gambe e ti fanno fare un giretto in pigiama sulle alpi a meno cinquanta gradi. vabbè, ok. attendono al patibolo, gianluca e daniele. si guardano intorno, aspettano il loro turno, che arriva presto. riescono a sentire solo il rumore del corpicino di elena a contatto con l’acqua, il fragore degli schizzi. gianluca guarda la madonna. è sempre lì, al riparo sotto un tettuccio di legno, col suo sguardo affranto, e aspetta il famoso salto. c’è un attimo di esitazione, poi i piedi sono già sul bilico della conca. i genitori sono punti lontani, sfocati, delle pennellate sulla distesa puntinistica di pietre grigie, agitano la mano, si sbracciano, si fanno notare in un mare d’altri genitori in gran parte presenti per il salto del proprio figlio, in piccola parte per partecipare a quel rito collettivo da terzi esterni. chiudi gli occhietti, gianluca, e andrà tutto bene. dura un secondo, il salto. non c’è da aver paura. durante il salto non esitare. non temere. non pensare che possa succedere nulla di male, perché le profezie si avverano. capisci? gianluca si lancia. nel lancio pensa a cose mostruose, al suo corpo tagliato a metà da una pietra appuntita, alla gamba che con uno spostamento d’aria rotea su se stessa e si stacca dal corpo e sparisce all’orizzonte volteggiando come le pale di un elicottero, pensa all’acqua che nell’immaginazione fervida del ragazzino è diventata un muro ostile di cemento armato pronto a spappolarlo da vivo, a lasciarlo cosciente per quei trenta, quaranta secondi, abbastanza per vedere tutta la sua breve vita davanti a sé, per pentirsi degli scherzi alla nonna e per la fauna di formiche decimate nel bosco. gli attimi successivi sono confusi. all’improvviso è in alto, quasi sulle nuvole, e vede una scia di sangue nel mare, vede i genitori che da pennellate sulla spiaggia si trasformano droni di guerra che volano rapidi sullo specchio dell’acqua, e raccolgono il suo corpicino simile a un manichino per quanto è inanimato e gelido, e vede lo squarcio sulla gamba che ai suoi occhi è come la fontana della piazza del paese tanto spruzza sangue e tanto gli spruzzi sembrano avere una coerenza geometrica gradevole, studiata. e vede danielino che piange, corre dalla mamma, quasi scivola dalla discesa. qualcuno urla di chiamare l’ambulanza, c’è un gran trambusto, le persone si scambiano di posto, corrono frenetiche come le formiche quando si accorgono del pericolo umano. da sopra, racconta gianluca a danielino, sembrava tutto più pacifico. sapevo che stavo per morire e che mi faceva male tutto, ma non m’importava. sembrava avere tutto un senso. poi è apparso il demonio. ora non penso sia normale, ma quando ero lassù lo sembrava. mi ha detto: l’angelo dice che non hai saltato bene, come mai? ho avuto paura, signor demonio. e perché hai avuto paura, gianluca? sentiamo. perché ho pensato che sarebbe apparso un muro di cemento, e che le pietre sarebbero diventate tutte appuntite, e che il vento avrebbe reso la mia gamba una pala di un elicottero. gianluca, vuoi bene alla tua mamma? sì. e a tuo papà? non lo so. certe volte non è a casa. e cosa vorresti dire al tuo papà, gianluca? che gli voglio bene, ma non capisco perché a volte non è a casa. anche papà ha sbagliato il salto, da ragazzino. pensava che ad attenderlo nelle profondità del mare ci sarebbe stato un portale che l’avrebbe rigettato tutto vestito e asciugato sul letto del suo ex collegio. è un timore che vi portate dietro come un compagno di viaggio, dice il demonio. questo cane infervorato e violento chiamato dna. questa nube tossica del dolore che vi annulla, vi centrifuga, vi rende schiavi di una parola indicibile che vi frulla nel cervello finché siete coscienti, e che si ripresenta come una serpe, come un’anziana impazzita che brandisce un coltello, come un alieno che vi trasporta nella sua navicella, nella stanza delle torture, come una vecchia fidanzata che fa capolino nel mondo onirico per amarvi per un’ultima volta. questo mondo in cui non sembrate appartenere, in cui vi muovete senza muovere foglia, sottili come chicchi di riso. questo mondo in cui sopravvivete camminando coi gomiti, come i militari nei percorsi di guerra. questo mondo in cui l’amore è paura, la pace è paura, la felicità è paura, l’esistenza è paura, il salto è paura, il sangue, gli schizzi, la barella, l’ambulanza, l’ospedale, l’intervento d’emergenza, il battito che torna regolare, i giorni d’attesa, il cibo neutro della mensa fatto di minestrine, pasta in bianco, fettine di carne smunte, il ritorno a casa e quegli sguardi disperati nel vuoto, il salto che non è andato a buon fine, di padre in figlio sembra che qualcosa dovrebbe migliorare ma non migliora e il salto squarcia la pelle e rimane solo quello a imperitura memoria, perché il salto non si ripete, rimane unico, insostituibile, ci possono essere altri salti, altrove, sì, in altre province, ma il primo è un certificato, una sentenza. posso tornare a giocare nel bosco, demonio? puoi, gianluca. dà un bacio alla mamma. e poi sono tornato qua nel bosco, per farla breve. dall’alto anche la vita delle formiche sembra avere senso, no, daniele? per loro dev’essere tutto un gran casino, pensaci un po’. spesso guardano solo il sedere della formica che gli sta davanti per ore. noi comprendiamo lo schema più grande, il lavoro di una colonia, le strade che percorrono precise da far paura per andare a prendere il cibo, le gerarchie, chi comanda, chi sta più sotto. ma per una formica la vita dev’essere proprio un inferno, no? vedere solo il culo di quella che gli sta davanti per ore. da pazzi. ne prende una sul polpastrello, gianluca, e la poggia sulla lingua. la sente scoppiettare tra i molari. è dolce. 

[levysoft]

La storia della nascita del cosmo viene raccontata in genere più o meno così: quasi 14 miliardi di anni fa, un'enorme quantità di energia si materializzò come dal nulla. In un breve momento di rapidissima espansione, questa esplosione di energia gonfiò il cosmo come un palloncino. L'espansione spianò qualsiasi curvatura su larga scala, portando a una geometria che ora descriviamo come piatta. Anche la materia si rimescolò accuratamente, cosicché ora ...

La storia della nascita del cosmo viene raccontata in genere più o meno così: quasi 14 miliardi di anni fa, un'enorme quantità di energia si materializzò come dal nulla. In un breve momento di rapidissima espansione, questa esplosione di energia gonfiò il cosmo come un palloncino. L'espansione spianò qualsiasi curvatura su larga scala, portando a una geometria che ora descriviamo come piatta.

Anche la materia si rimescolò accuratamente, cosicché ora il cosmo appare in buona misura (anche se non del tutto) omogeneo. Qua e là, mucchi di particelle formarono galassie e stelle, ma sono solo puntini minuscoli su una tela cosmica che per il resto è immacolata.

Questa teoria, che i libri di testo chiamano inflazione, corrisponde fino a oggi a tutte le osservazioni ed è la preferita della maggior parte dei cosmologi. Ha però implicazioni concettuali che alcuni trovano inquietanti. Nella maggior parte delle regioni dello spazio-tempo, la rapida espansione non si fermerebbe mai e di conseguenza l'inflazione non può fare a meno di produrre un multiverso: uno stato di cose complessissimo, con una varietà infinita di universi isolati, uno dei quali è la nostra casa.

Secondo i critici, usando l'inflazione si prevede qualsiasi cosa, e ciò significa che in fin dei conti non si prevede nulla. "L'inflazione non funziona come avrebbe dovuto", secondo Paul Steinhardt, un fautore dell'inflazione che poi ne è diventato uno dei critici più noti.

di George F.R. Ellis

Negli ultimi anni Steinhardt e altri hanno sviluppato una storia diversa su come nacque il nostro universo. Hanno riesumato l'idea di un universo ciclico, che cresce e si contrae periodicamente. Sperano di riprodurre l'universo che vediamo – piatto e omogeneo – senza le conseguenze che derivano dall'esplosione iniziale.

A questo scopo Steinhardt e i suoi collaboratori di recente hanno unito le forze con ricercatori specializzati in modelli computazionali della gravità; hanno analizzato il modo in cui un universo in collasso cambierebbe la propria struttura e alla fine hanno scoperto che la contrazione può funzionare meglio dell'inflazione. Indipendentemente dall'aspetto bizzarro e contorto dell'universo prima di contrarsi, il collasso sarebbe efficiente nel cancellare una grande varietà di rughe primordiali.

"Quello che dicono di essere riusciti a fare è molto importante", commenta Leonardo Senatore, cosmologo della Stanford University che ha analizzato l'inflazione adottando un approccio simile. Dice di non aver avuto ancora la possibilità di approfondire vari aspetti del lavoro, ma a prima vista "sembra che ce l'abbiano fatta".

Tutto si contrae Nell'ultimo anno e mezzo, da una collaborazione tra Steinhardt, Anna Ijjas, cosmologa al Max-Planck-Institut per la fisica gravitazionale, e altri, è nato un nuovo approccio all'universo ciclico, o "ecpirotico", in cui si verifica un rinnovamento senza bisogno di un collasso.

Volendo visualizzare l'espansione e la contrazione, in genere si pensa a un universo simile a un palloncino, in cui il cambiamento di dimensioni è descritto da un "fattore di scala", mentre una seconda misura – il raggio di Hubble, cioè la massima distanza osservabile – viene spesso ignorata. Le equazioni della relatività generale consentono ai due parametri di evolversi indipendentemente e, soprattutto, si può rendere piatto l'universo cambiando uno qualsiasi dei due.

Immaginiamo una formica su un palloncino. L'inflazione corrisponde a gonfiare il palloncino: è soprattutto il rigonfiarsi del cosmo che lo deve rendere omogeneo e piatto. Nell'universo ciclico, invece, l'omogeneizzazione si verifica durante un periodo di contrazione: in questa fase il palloncino si sgonfia in misura modesta, mentre il vero lavoro è svolto da un orizzonte che si restringe drasticamente. È come se la formica vedesse tutto attraverso una lente d'ingrandimento sempre più potente. La distanza che può osservare si restringe e allo stesso tempo il suo mondo diventa sempre più omogeneo.

Steinhardt e colleghi immaginano un universo che si espande forse per mille miliardi di anni, alimentato dall'energia di un campo onnipresente (e ipotetico), il cui comportamento è attribuito attualmente all'energia oscura. Quando questo campo di energia alla fine si dirada, il cosmo inizia a sgonfiarsi gradualmente. Nel corso di miliardi di anni un fattore di scala in contrazione avvicina ogni cosa a ogni altra, ma senza ridurre tutto a un singolo punto. Il cambiamento estremo proviene dal raggio di Hubble, che collassa e alla fine diventa microscopico. La contrazione dell'universo ricarica il campo di energia, che riscalda il cosmo e ne vaporizza gli atomi. A questo punto si verifica un rimbalzo e il ciclo ricomincia.

Nel modello del rimbalzo, il microscopico raggio di Hubble garantisce l'omogeneità e la piattezza. E mentre l'inflazione fa esplodere molte imperfezioni iniziali fino a farle diventare giganteschi appezzamenti di multiverso, la lenta contrazione li compatta fino a farli praticamente smettere di esistere. Rimaniamo con un cosmo che non ha inizio, né fine, né un singolarità nel big bang, e senza multiverso.

Da un cosmo qualsiasi al nostro universo Un problema delle cosmologie dell'inflazione e del rimbalzo è mostrare che i rispettivi campi di energia creano l'universo giusto, indipendentemente da come iniziano. "La nostra filosofia è che non ci debba essere una filosofia", riassume Ijjas. "Sappiamo che funziona quando non dobbiamo chiederci in quali condizioni funziona."

Lei e Steinhardt criticano l'inflazione perché raggiunge il suo obiettivo solo in casi speciali, come quando il relativo campo di energia si forma senza caratteristiche particolari e con poco movimento. I teorici hanno esaminato queste situazioni in modo più approfondito, in parte perché sono gli unici esempi in cui i calcoli si possono svolgere con carta e penna.

In recenti simulazioni al computer, che Ijjas e Steinhardt descrivono in una coppia di preprint ("Supersmoothing through Slow Contraction" e "Robustness of slow contraction to cosmic initial conditions") pubblicati online a giugno, i ricercatori hanno sottoposto a verifiche severe il loro modello a contrazione lenta con una varietà di universi neonati troppo complessi per l'analisi con carta e penna.

Adattando programmi sviluppati da Frans Pretorius, un fisico teorico dell'Università di Princeton specializzato in modelli computazionali della relatività generale, la collaborazione ha esplorato campi contorti e pieni di grumi, campi che si muovono nella direzione sbagliata e persino campi che partono con due metà che vanno in direzioni opposte. In quasi tutti i casi la contrazione ha prodotto rapidamente un universo noioso come il nostro. "Lo lasciamo andare e... bam! In pochi istanti cosmici di lenta contrazione diventa liscio come la seta", commenta Steinhardt.

Katy Clough, cosmologa all'Università di Oxford, specializzata anche in soluzioni numeriche delle equazioni della relatività generale, ha definito le nuove simulazioni "molto complete", ma ha anche osservato che i progressi computazionali hanno reso possibile solo di recente questo tipo di analisi e quindi non è ancora stata esplorata l'intera gamma di condizioni che l'inflazione è in grado di gestire. "È stata in parte affrontata, ma c'è ancora bisogno di molto lavoro."

Non tutti mostrano lo stesso interesse per il modello di Ijjas e Steinhardt, ma la maggior parte dei cosmologi concorda che l'inflazione rimane il paradigma da battere. "Ora come ora, [la contrazione lenta] non è un concorrente alla pari", dice Gregory Gabadadze, cosmologo alla New York University.

La collaborazione intende ora descrivere meglio il rimbalzo, una fase più complessa che richiede interazioni mai viste per ricominciare ad allontanare ogni cosa da tutto il resto. Ijjas ha già una teoria del rimbalzo che migliora la relatività generale con una nuova interazione tra materia e spaziotempo, ma sospetta che esistano anche altri meccanismi. Ha in programma di costruire presto una versione informatica del suo modello per comprenderne il comportamento in dettaglio.

Il gruppo di ricerca spera che, dopo aver saldato insieme le fasi di contrazione ed espansione, si riescano a identificare alcune caratteristiche distintive di un universo che rimbalza, che potranno poi essere osservate dagli astronomi.

La collaborazione non ha elaborato tutti i dettagli di un cosmo ciclico senza un "bang" iniziale e finale, e tanto meno dimostrato che è fatto così quello in cui viviamo. Ma Steinhardt ora è ottimista che il modello offrirà presto una valida alternativa al multiverso. "Gli ostacoli che mi preoccupavano di più sono stati superati", commenta. "Non mi tengono più sveglio la notte."

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via https://www.lescienze.it/news/2020/08/21/news/universo_ciclico_cosmo_big_bang_bounce_rimbalzo_contrazione_espansione-4782035/

(L'originale di questo articolo è stato pubblicato il 4 agosto 2020 da QuantaMagazine.org, una pubblicazione editoriale indipendente online promossa dalla Fondazione Simons per migliorare la comprensione pubblica della scienza. Traduzione di Daniele A. Gewurz, editing a cura di Le Scienze. Riproduzione autorizzata, tutti i diritti riservati)

[shadowdianne]

Sorry are you open to prompts if not sorry. You know the double sided caanadle that snow used to kill cora what if she brought leopold back or queen Eva. I just thought if you hadn't did it coukd be interesting. Sorry to disturb you o' great writer I will hide in the shadows once again

No, don’t hide! Come back from them! Thank youso much for the prompt; I’m afraid I changed it a little bit majorly because thereare very few times in where the series was consistent and the candle could,theoretically work in the way it did because, according to Regina, a séance canonly happen when you have both weapon and murderer in the same room.

But I truly hope you like my take on this oneanon

Set on: Season 3, Episode 18 [I’ve made this SQ-of course- because I really want to explore the dynamics of these particulartwo at that point in time]

“My magic gets morepowerful every day. By the time this all goes down, I'll be ready.”

“Make sure you are.”

Emma eyed Regina as the brunette womanapproached her, worry glowing on her eyes. She had been ready to bolt from thehouse, nerves still present in the pit of her stomach ever since she had seen thecandle being lighted. It wasn’t the flickering flames what had set her off perse but the heavy air that had grown around the table; the twitching yet calmingtouch of Regina’s hand on her as she had tried to talk only to be interrupted bythe brunette the only thing that had kept her there. And now she used thatstrength again as she recalled what she had wanted to ask; her voice coming toher in a distant echo.

“Is it okay for us todo this? For you?”

The question, still trapped within her, crawledits way up her throat once more, breaking against her vocal cords as sheswallowed it back down while she kept on staring at Regina, at the way she keptone hand away from her body, at the perfect posture her back presented even ifher lips were parted in silent worry.

Humming, the blonde glanced at Hook only toshake her head twice, knowing already she couldn’t simply leave the formerqueen. Not like this.

“How about I stay and we go over the basics?”

Her words were ended in a filigree close to asmile. One she hoped was convincing enough for the brunette or Hook whosepresence was almost stifling with how close he stood; eyes not as piercing butdefinitely following her every move.  Shewas so focused on him, on her, on both, that she almost missed her mother’shalf-hearted comment about how she had wanted to help Regina clean whatever wasleft from the misfired séance. Rising her chin, she kept on staring at theolder woman; smile faltering slightly but her magic crackling within her; abarely-there murmur that she was still unsure on how to read.

The radiating warmth from the wood of the stairsleading to the main door felt far too much all of a sudden as Regina let out aslow breath; eyes flashing to purple as she did so. It was enough of a call, ofa nod to her own, that Emma felt some of the smile returning, its message muchmore clear, more honest, than the previous one.

“Go to Belle.” Looking at her parents, Emmanodded as Regina kept on talking, voice breathy as she pointed to the generaldirection of where the pawnshop was. “She may have a second option, but weneed to be prepared.”

“Swan.”

Hook’s urgent call did nothing for the blondeas she looked back at him, at the way he kept standing: too close, tooimpatient.

“Go with them.” Her voice lacked the confidenceRegina seemed able to switch on with just the aid of a glare but she remainedunyielding as Hook’s hand moved towards her forearm, the creaking sound ofleather momentarily muting everything away. The pirate seemed about to arguebut one look at her seemed to tell him she wasn’t planning on agreeing. Notwhen there was so much reaching inside Regina’s magic: a constant pricklingthat made her want to cross her arms close to her chest, palms tightly pressedagainst her sides.

She glanced away as soon as her parents and thepirate brushed past her, not truly knowing where else to look but at the wallsthat now seemed to glow in a brighter shade of white.

It was Regina’s throat as the brunette womancleared it what made her blink and glance away; lips tensed in a fine line asshe did so; as she read on Regina’s doubts as the two of them stood in the foyerwith Emma’s left foot still on the top stair, the other firmly planted on the floorbeneath them both. She could feel Regina’s eyes on her as she swayed from footto foot, gravity changing as the silence stretched.

She had told Regina she always knew when shewas lying but she had -perhaps- forgotten that Regina could read her just aswell; the tellings she had worked so hard to suppress roaring red lights thatnow she felt as if illuminating her eyes with a very distinct hue.

“I'm not in the mood for a heart-to-heart.”

It was caustic, closed off, and Emma almostwanted to smile at it as she took a step onwards, boots scraping against thefloor.

“Do I look like my mother?”

Her voice felt scratchy from a misuse that hadn’thappened, but the answer seemed to be enough for Regina as the brunette let outan almost chuckle before pointing towards the kitchen, back already turning,hands falling to the sides while sparkles made out of lilac fell down from herwrists like ichor.

“I’m not in the mood for magic classes either.”This time the words were softer; an almost gentle plead that Emma hummed at asshe followed the older woman down the hall; their shoulders touching as theyboth walked in the kitchen, a hum of electricity coming from the lights asRegina switched them on.

“I wasn’t planning on asking you for some.”

It blurted out of her before Emma couldproperly edit her answer and, for a moment, she cursed her lips as she watched Reginamove away; back towards her and arms close to her torso; blouse shimmeringunder the slightly colder lights from the room. Acutely aware of where the twoof them stood, Emma approached the stool next to the kitchen island, fingersnervously drumming against the surface while she watched as Regina worked for anew set of tea. An edible one she hoped.

“You could have…”

“It didn’t seem like you wanted to be alone.”

She felt the tension rising on Regina’sshoulders even before she finished the words; the heavy silence that wasunavoidable from any other part of the house settling on her lungs as shelurched forward, hand sliding against the counter as she twisted it upwards.

“Regina…”

There were things she wanted to apologize for:she could feel the word battling among many others against her teeth, cracklingher resolve in the same way she felt her magic hissing deep within her; trappedstill at the other side of a thick barrier she could only get tired glimpsesfrom whenever she focused hard enough. Still not enough; still far too weak.

“We all need to do things we don’t want to do.”

Regina’s eyes were dark as she turned towardsher and Emma felt her throat constrict as she swallowed; the words dying as theyfelt as fragile, as brittle, as glass. There were many things she felt likeasking; many different doubts that had felt like a distant dream as she andHenry had lived in New York. Images and glimpses that tended to appear to heramong dreams she would later on never remember.

“What would you have wanted to say to her?”

It wasn’t the one she had wanted to ask but itfelt right as Regina lowered her head, shoulders losing the stiffness as she shrugged,magic rising around them both in waves.

“I told you…”

“You don’t need to answer.”

Regina’s lips curved into a smirk; an almostsad one that didn’t quite illuminate the purple on her eyes as they sparkled;the power bringing Emma’s white one in dizzying force. Silence growing, Emmapushed herself until her sternum protested; the edge of the counter digging on thebone as she struggled to breathe. She had felt the way Regina had reachedforward while not wanting to break the connection their hands had made; in needof moving ahead, of calling her mother forth as the portal had opened andswirled; a promise of certain death reeking out of it in far too much clarity.She had felt her own need of simply channeling everything she had, everythingshe got, in order to get the spell to work; the call one that had felt like anecho of the time the older woman had eyed her with tears clouding her eyes anda curse about to strike.

“I don’t know.”

Thoughts being interrupted by Regina’s answer,Emma blinked as she watched as Regina sighed and walked closer to where shesat, heels clicking against the floor and presence crumbling.

It felt strange, Emma thought, to be in frontof the brunette like this. She had the connection they had shared repair itselfas memories had flooded her brain but that on itself was made of tenuousnon-said words. The ones they both knew but had never voiced. Sighing, she turnedher hand once more, palm facing down, over the formica surface.

“What would have happened if someone else hadcrossed?”

The question was stupid, she knew it, but deathsat heavy against her collarbones and so she refused to look away until Regina’sown hand came into view, knuckles white.

“Who?”

Emma swallowed; names and titles mixingtogether; history and details far too convoluted and not completely clear toher yet. She could guess names, of course, Daniel, Leopold, Neal.

“No one.”

It was curt but she refused to glance away asshe rose her eyes and found Regina staring at her; understanding reaching fromher in a whirlwind that made Emma feel weak.

And there it was; the possible real reason whyshe had stayed. No one else would truly get, would truly fill in the blankslike the woman that sat across from her; beautiful in a sense that Emma wasn’tentirely ready to give voice to. She felt the need to assuage Regina’s ownworries like flames licking her skin, burning everything else away and so shestayed, eyes searching as Regina tilted her head; hair cascading and reactingto the light as Emma felt the need to touch the strayed hairs that stuck to theolder woman’s cheek.

The howling sound from a room above interruptedthe impulse, though, leaving behind a vague sense of dread, the almostconversation dropped as they both glanced up, at where squeaking could still beheard.

“What was that?”

“I have no idea.”

Next time, Emma promised herself as shefollowed Regina while the woman circled the island, steps long but careful, shewould talk to Regina next time.

[cassius-writer]

In quella storia che da bambini ci cantava la pagina amica, fui sempre cicala e mai formica. Oggi che gli anni sono andati e l'acqua è scorsa sotto i ponti nulla è cambiato, vedo gli altri andare avanti. mentre vivo nel passato. Daniele Scopigno Foto di: Francesca Piccardi #rovine #lettureconsigliate #lettura #passione_fotografica #viaggiare #viaggiaresempre #viaggi #arteitaliana #poesiaitaliana #poesiadistrada #poesiacontemporanea #letteratura #passeggiata #scrittori #scrittore #visitlazio #igerslazio #volgolazio #vivolazio #yallerslazio #lazionascosto (at Chiesa di San Vittorino) https://www.instagram.com/p/CgT9YBTMJql/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[lamilanomagazine]

Modena, Estate modenese: musica da Mogol ai Tupamaros

Modena, Estate modenese: musica da Mogol ai Tupamaros. C'è musica per tutti i gusti nella settimana dell'Estate modenese che si apre lunedì 17 luglio: dal concerto di Mario Venuti, che apre la rassegna dei Giardini ducali, alle canzoni di Mogol, dal folk rock combattivo dei Tupamaros alla musica irlandese fino al jazz. Ma nel programma che arriva fino a giovedì 21 luglio ci sono anche gli spettacoli per grandi e piccoli del MichEstate, il cinema al parco XXII Aprile, la storia della radio al cortile del Tempio e percorsi per bambini. Lunedì 18 luglio, al cortile teatro Tempio, alle 21.00, va in scena "Studio su maschile universale", con Giuditta Pascucci e Giulia Trivero, regia di Diego Piemontese. L'iniziativa è a cura di associazione FaberArt. Martedì 19 luglio debutta alle 21.00, con il concerto di Mario Venuti, la rassegna dei Giardini d'estate ai Giardini ducali curata da Studio's in collaborazione con Fondazione di Modena ed Hera. Al parco Amendola, alle 22.00, il concerto di Dudu folk experience. Nel cortile di Ovestlab, a partire dalle 19.30, il collettivo Amigdala propone incontri e musica durante la giornata di apertura del Mercato di alimentazione ribelle. Mercoledì 20 luglio, alle 21.00, nuovo appuntamento con "MichEstate", la rassegna estiva del Teatro Michelangelo, che propone lo spettacolo di prosa "Godot", suggestiva interpretazione in chiave post apocalittica del grande classico del teatro dell'assurdo di Samuel Beckett "Aspettando Godot". In scena, con la regia di Maicol Piccinini, Francesco Degli Esposti, Michele Agatiello, Giuseppe Grisi, Marina Governatori e Riccardo Benatti. Lo spettacolo si svolge all'interno, con aria condizionata (biglietteria: info@teatromichelangelo.it). Nel cortile del Tempio, alle 21.00, il concerto dei Tupamaros, storica band carpigiana di folk rock combattente attiva dal 1995. L'iniziativa è a cura di Associazione Tempio (biglietteria: associazionetempio@gmail.com). Al parco XXII Aprile, sempre alle 21.00, torna il cinema con la programmazione di "Tre manifesti a Ebbing, Missouri", film drammatico con protagonista Frances McDormand nei panni di una madre che, per trovare l'assassino della figlia, comincia ad adottare metodi insoliti e, piano piano, contro la legge. La proiezione, a ingresso libero, è a cura di Happen, Voice off e Amnesty. Giovedì 7 luglio, alle 17.00, alla Palazzina dei Giardini, è in programma l'iniziativa per bambini dai 6 ai 10 anni "Piccolo grande cielo", nell'ambito del ciclo "Un percorso ad arte" promosso da Fmav. Un percorso "con il naso all'insù" che condurrà i bambini, ispirati da alcune celebri opere d'arte, in un'esplorazione dei Giardini, osservando le trasformazioni della sfera celeste ma anche avventurandosi in un viaggio immaginario tra le meraviglie dell'universo. Di nuovo ai Giardini ducali, alle 21.00, appuntamento con la rassegna Giardini d'estate e il concerto di El trio, in collaborazione con Amici del jazz Modena jazz festival 2022. Al Cortile teatro Tempio, sempre alle 21.00, a ingresso libero, Modena radio city è la protagonista di "I love my radio", un dialogo con Chicca Bicciocchi, Daniela Moscatti, Daniele Soragni e tanti altri che racconteranno la radio modenese tra leggenda, musica e aneddoti. La serata, a cura del Salotto culturale di Modena, è a ingresso libero. Nel cortile del Melograno, in via dei Servi 21.00, nell'ambito di "Musiche sotto il cielo", la rassegna estiva del Teatro Comunale Pavarotti-Freni, concerto di danze, ballate e canzoni dalle brughiere d'Irlanda con "Willo's. Una notte irlandese", lo spettacolo musicale scritto e diretto dalla violinista Stephanie Martin, con la partecipazione di Massimo Giuntini alle uilleann pipes. A cura di Fondazione Teatro Comunale di Modena, inizio alle 21.00 (biglietteria: teatrocomunalemodena.it). Al Teatro Michelangelo, alle 21.00, fantateatro con "La cicala e la formica", rivisitazione di una delle più celebri favole di Esopo: Mala Cicala e Pica Formica sono i proprietari del Pub "Il Tronco Secco", dove ogni sera Mala si esibisce mentre a Pica tocca lavorare in cucina per accontentare i tanti avventori del locale. Non manca inoltre di preoccuparsi di preparare il buono e succoso Ginfragola, indispensabile per affrontare l'inverno. Esasperata, Pica rompe la società e caccia via Mala, che rimane senza riparo durante i mesi freddi. Sarà il Natale ad avvicinare di nuovo i due amici (biglietteria: info@teatromichelangelo.it).... Read the full article