#Multidisciplinary Approach

[latest-info]

The Importance of Cross-Disciplinary Learning

Introduction In today’s fast-paced world, the boundaries between different fields of knowledge are increasingly blurred. As we navigate through an era of rapid technological advancements and complex global challenges, the ability to draw from multiple disciplines has never been more crucial. This approach, known as cross-disciplinary learning, involves integrating insights and methodologies from…

[ajaythakur21]

Introduction:

Welcome to our blog, dedicated to all the athletes out there who have experienced the frustration and setbacks of sports injuries. Whether you're a professional athlete, an avid sports enthusiast, or someone who loves to stay active, we understand the importance of a speedy and effective recovery. In this blog, we will explore the world of sports injury clinics and highlight the essential role they play in helping athletes get back on their feet and back into the game.

Athletic endeavors can push our bodies to their limits, testing our strength, agility, and endurance. However, with the thrill of competition comes the risk of injury. Sprains, strains, fractures, and other sports-related injuries can disrupt training routines, dampen spirits, and put dreams on hold. That's where sports injury clinics come in - they are dedicated centers staffed with highly skilled professionals who specialize in diagnosing, treating, and rehabilitating sports injuries.

In this blog, we will delve into the key aspects of sports injury clinics that make them indispensable for athletes seeking rapid recovery. From their cutting-edge diagnostic tools and state-of-the-art facilities to the expertise of their medical teams, we will explore how these clinics provide comprehensive care and support throughout the healing process.

We'll also discuss the wide range of injuries commonly treated in sports injury clinics, including but not limited to sprained ankles, torn ligaments, muscle strains, stress fractures, and concussions. Understanding the nature of these injuries, their causes, and the treatment options available is crucial for athletes looking to regain their peak performance levels.

Furthermore, we'll provide insights into the rehabilitation techniques employed in sports injury clinics, such as physiotherapy, strength and conditioning programs, and specialized exercises. These clinics often take a multidisciplinary approach, collaborating with sports medicine physicians, physical therapists, nutritionists, and sports psychologists to ensure athletes receive holistic care that addresses not only their physical recovery but also their mental and emotional well-being.

Join us as we explore the realm of rapid recovery and discover how sports injury clinics can help athletes reclaim their passion, push their limits, and achieve their athletic goals. Let's begin the journey to a stronger, healthier, and more resilient you!

The Importance of a Sports Injury Prevention Clinic:

When it comes to sports injuries, time is of the essence. A rapid and accurate diagnosis is crucial for determining the appropriate treatment plan. Sports injury clinics employ advanced diagnostic technologies, such as MRI scans, X-rays, and ultrasound, to identify the extent of the injury and pinpoint the best course of action. This ensures that athletes receive tailored treatment strategies that promote efficient healing and minimize the risk of re-injury.

Moreover, sports injury clinics are equipped with state-of-the-art facilities and cutting-edge treatment modalities that go beyond traditional methods. From innovative therapeutic techniques like shockwave therapy and regenerative medicine to specialized rehabilitation equipment, these clinics provide athletes with access to the latest advancements in sports medicine. This combination of technology and sports medicine specialists accelerates the recovery process, helping athletes return to their sport sooner.

Comprehensive Care and Rehabilitation:

Sports injury clinics offer more than just medical treatment. They provide a holistic approach to care, addressing not only the physical aspects of the injury but also the mental and emotional well-being of the athlete. Alongside sports medicine physicians, clinics often have a team of sports therapists, nutritionists, and sports psychologists who work together to develop personalized rehabilitation programs.

Physiotherapy plays a central role in sports injury clinics, focusing on regaining strength, flexibility, and range of motion. Through targeted exercises, manual therapy, and corrective techniques, physiotherapists guide athletes through the stages of recovery, gradually reintroducing them to their sport with confidence.

Nutritionists play a vital role in optimizing the healing process. They design tailored meal plans to support tissue repair, enhance immune function, and promote overall wellness. Proper nutrition is essential for athletes to rebuild their bodies and regain peak performance levels.

The mental aspect of recovery is equally important, as injuries can take a toll on an athlete's confidence and mindset. Sports psychologists in sports injury clinics provide counseling, stress management techniques, and performance strategies to help athletes overcome psychological barriers and regain their competitive edge.

Range of injuries commonly treated in sports injury clinics

Sports injury clinics are equipped to handle a wide range of injuries that athletes may encounter. These clinics have specialized medical professionals who are experienced in diagnosing and treating various sports-related conditions. Some of the common injuries treated in sports injury clinics include:

             Sprains

            Strains

            Fractures

           Dislocation

          Tendonitis

          Overuse injuries

          Concussions

          Stress fractures

         Dislocations/instabilities

         Muscle tears

Sports doctors in the clinics provide accurate diagnoses and tailored treatment plans to help athletes recover and return to their sport.

Prevention and Education:

Sports injury clinics also focus on injury prevention and education. They provide athletes with valuable knowledge about proper warm-up and stretching techniques, safe training practices, and equipment selection. By educating athletes on injury prevention strategies, these clinics empower individuals to take proactive steps to reduce the risk of future injuries.

Choosing the Right Sports Injury Clinic:

Finding the right sports injury clinic near you is crucial for effective treatment and a successful recovery. Factors to consider include the clinic's reputation, the expertise of its medical professionals, the range of services offered, and the accessibility of the facility. Seeking recommendations from trusted sources, consulting with sports trainers or coaches, and conducting thorough research can help athletes make an informed decision.

Best Sports Injury Clinic Near Me:

Hyderabad, the capital city of Telangana in India, is home to several reputable sports injury clinics. These clinics offer specialized Arthroscopic Surgery & Sports services for athletes and individuals who have sustained sports-related injuries. Some of the well-known sports injury clinics in Hyderabad include:

           Yashoda Hospitals

           Dr. Ajay Singh Thakur- Consultant Arthroscopy &Sports

          Care Hospitals

           KIMS Hospitals

           Apollo Hospitals

           Continental Hospitals

In Conclusion:

Sports injury clinics play an invaluable role in the lives of athletes, offering rapid and comprehensive care to facilitate their recovery journeys. With their advanced diagnostic tools, state-of-the-art facilities, multidisciplinary approach, and emphasis on prevention and education, these clinics empower athletes to overcome injuries and return to their beloved sports stronger than ever.

If you find yourself facing a sports injury, don't despair. Seek the assistance of a reputable sports injury clinic and trust in the expertise of their medical professionals. Remember, your journey to rapid recovery starts with taking that first step towards comprehensive care.

Also Read : Recognizing the Signs and Symptoms of an ACL Tear: A Guide for Self-Assessment

[iferpconference]

Explore the Future of Research and Publication at Upcoming International Conferences by IFERP

Join IFERP's upcoming international conferences and delve into the multidisciplinary approach of research and publication. Engage with experts, present your findings, and expand your network in a diverse scholarly community. Don't miss out on this opportunity to contribute to the advancement of knowledge and gain valuable insights.

[educationclick]

A must read article for teachers, students  travels and all interested in education.

For more educational content Click and Subscribe, this blog

[kc22invesmentsblog]

Charlie Munger: A Legendary Investor and Multidisciplinary Thinker

Written by Delvin The investment world bids farewell to one of its most influential figures, Charlie Munger, who passed away on November 28, 2023. Munger’s remarkable contributions to the field of investing, coupled with his multidisciplinary approach, have left an indelible mark on the minds of investors worldwide. His relentless pursuit of knowledge and his ability to integrate insights from…

[haztory]

where you are.

— continuation to bias. (yes, i am making a series. yes, i am making us work for it) — jack abbot x fellow f!reader; attending/fellow dynamic, age-gap (unspecified but reader is late 20s and up, jack is mid 40s), heavy plot, slow-burn, angst, mention of patient death, gore, medical descriptions, descriptions of c-sections and premature birth, medical inaccuracies, jack and city girl being a formidable unit together in the ER then a LONG stint of pining, yearning, and embracing of domesticity, these two taking care of each other without realizing, please heed the warnings there are descriptions of invasive and traumatic birth — word count: 4.5k — summary: The sight of you instills a relief akin to a cool splash of water on Abbot—something he notes and stores on the shelf of things to deal with later. A shelf that is starting to pile up these days with things he’s avoiding. Things that all, concerningly, relate to you.

masterlist

The night had been going fine up until this point. Maybe it was that faulty line of thinking that led to this. The sudden implosion, the shatter of the steady. 

Jack isn’t one to brag much about himself. There’s no grand honor in being a doctor. Private practice, sure. Maybe. In the ED, it's shit work in shit situations where actual shit may or may not be involved. He’ll tell that to anyone who asks. When the inevitable question comes—are you any good at it?—he’ll shrug and tell them, depends on the day. 

He’s seen enough, done enough, worked with little more than two plastic straws and a boning knife to do a crike in the middle of a firefight in Afghanistan. He knows his way around the block, and can do more than the average ED can—that he will admit. But it's still a shit job sometimes. 

He hates all of the tragedy that rolls through the doors. They all eat away at the sinews of the mortal coil, but pregnant traumas? They get to him. It’s unsteady ground, the one type of call that he’s always shown a physical reticence to handling. 

There’s too much variability, too many unsuspecting errors, too much divided attention in the multidisciplinary approaches where focus has to be split for the sake of mom and baby. Crack open a body and you’re in for a world of hurt. Throw pregnancy into the mix, and now you’re one step away from God’s door asking what kind of games he’s playing. 

Aching despair is wedged in each part of an obstetric trauma that makes someone as battle tested and weathered as Dr. Jack Abbot sweat and cringe with a grief too profound for words. 

They wheel the young woman into Trauma One and the adrenaline surges through him like a needle straight to veins. His eyes, cold and hurried, press into Lisa. A terse instruction is barked out, your name in his lips.

“Get her in here now.”

Lisa is quick on her feet, stepping out of the OR to find you just as he cuts open the young girl’s shirt. In his survey of her body—the distended stomach dark with bruising from her injuries, blood staining every part of her body, most notably her inner thighs—his eyes find her face, shining a light in her eyes. 

The pupils remain unilaterally fixed in their dilation, non reactive. And it’s then that he notices how much of a child she looks. 

The sudden slam of the trauma doors welcomes you into the room, a rush in your step as you tie the surgical gown behind your back. A readied focus on your eye. The sight of you instills a relief akin to a cool splash of water on Abbot—something he notes and stores on the shelf of things to deal with later. A shelf that is starting to pile up these days with things he’s avoiding. Things that all, concerningly, relate to you. 

“Tell me.”

A resident presents with speedy construction as Jack oversees the tracheostomy. Young female ejected from an MVC, tachycardic, extensive blood loss and apparent extreme cardiovascular collapse and hypoxia. Non reactive pupils indicating neurological nerve damage. EMTs conducted an ultrasound to confirm pregnancy and baby’s length at 30 weeks. Dr. Hudson, the OB-GYN specialist, is on the phone, her own hands wrapped up in an emergency delivery upstairs, asking for details just as they’re presenting them to you. But there’s value in having you in the room—you’ve told Abbot enough about your New York residency. He knows just how much knowledge you have in obstetrics for this. 

The decision is made by you without further delay. Sure and serious. 

“We’re getting this baby out, now.” Your suggestion meets no rebuttal from Dr. Hudson over the line.

“CT has been ordered, we’re next in line.” Dr. Basu, the attending surgeon, speaks from the side of the bed.

“For it to confirm what we already know and waste more time?” You explain, not meanly. Just direct, intense. “We’ve got vaginal bleeding, likely dealing with placental abruption and the longer we wait, the longer the baby is not getting oxygen. We get this baby out now or we lose both of them.”

Dr. Hudson’s voice rings on the other end of the line, “I agree. Keep me updated.”

Abbot’s a good soldier, takes direction without problem. He’s heard your directive loud and clear, the specialist’s agreement is just icing on the cake. 

“You heard them. Let's move.”

You fall beside him in perfect time, meeting his movements quickly as skin is cut, hands move, and a baby—small, pink, and too pure for how he’s born—is introduced to the world. 

The baby is passed to a resident for care, a separate team filling up the connecting OR to secure baby boy before getting him up to NICU. Your attention remains fixed on attempting to stabilize mom, or at least getting her stable enough to be put on life support so that her family can see her and make the call. Jack is by your side, equally intent as you. Grounds his feet to the floor, keeps himself firm as you speak directions to one another, pass steady compliments at performance, grit out expletives of frustration.

Intent to share in the dread of this one. 

It’s not going well. The injuries are so severe, compounding on each other that right when you think you get something halfway resolved, another crash of vitals sounds through incessant beeping. 

He says your name softly, an hour and fifteen minutes into the procedure, after her pulse is lost for the third time and three units of O-Pos have been pumped through her. A gentle echo in the orchestra of chaotic beeps. You look at him, blood staining your forearms, sweat beading on both of your foreheads, the dismay creasing on your face mirrored on his own. 

“Anything else you want to try?” He asks. It’s not a test of knowledge, a sudden pop-quiz from your attending, but true deference. 

You hardly imagine he’s had to do many emergency c-sections on the floor, much less when he was on the field, but seeing the monolith of a man equally lost like you is hard hitting. You shake your head, tired.

“Call it.” He gently issues.

“Time of death, 3:07.” The words heave out of your mouth in a shuddered breath. It’s through shot nerves and sheer adrenaline that your hands shakily pull the bloodied gloves off of them. You toss them to the floor in defeat as the respiratory therapist stops her manually pumping of the bag valve mask and Lisa shuts off the monitors. 

It’s the same punch to the gut every time the words are uttered. You still struggle to get used to it.

“Thank you all for your work on this one.” Jack says to everyone in the room. The team seems to deflate at his words, solemnity a gaseous cloud that poisons the crowd. 

“Let’s take a moment and honor her and the life that was here.”

It’s a tense and desolate moment of silence. They always are. It’s broken by the sound of the sneakers in the hallway and the opening of the operating doors. 

“Dr. Abbot—” Bridget’s whisper stirs the room, “Your patient in two is vomiting.”

That’s all that can be afforded. The room breaks, everyone filtering out as the world continues to revolve beyond this room. As everyone makes out for the doors, he notices you stay. Staring. Reviewing. 

Going through it all over, and over, and over again. 

“We did everything we could.” He calls to you, ritualistically. Because it’s the right thing to say, not necessarily the one he believes.

“I know.” You tell him, because it’s true, but not because you believe it. You stay focused on the girl’s face, childlike features marred with contusions. “I just want a moment.”

“Course.” He offers quietly, “Anything you need.”

Your lips tilt at the shared mantra, a settled phrase that you find each other saying more often these days. You nod, appreciatively at him, your blessing for him to take his leave. Still, he hesitates. Holds. Waits. Staying close in case you voice a need—in case you say you need him. 

He forces himself out of the room before he makes a fool of himself. 

—

Abbot finds you in the aftermath. When a clean blanket is covering the girl's face, and she’s been wiped of the blood and fluids, and moved to an observation room waiting for her family’s arrival. After you both have moved forward through the night in other cases. He finds you outside of the vending machine, your gaze stuck flicking between the number of options.

“You’re supposed to put money into the machine in order to get something out.”

The sound of his voice hardly surprises you, even from behind. Almost like you anticipate him throughout the night, expect to find him somewhere nearby—these days, you practically hear him in the swirl of your own thoughts. Guiding you, teasing you, comforting you. 

“I’m fighting a battle against the urge to gorge on chocolate.” You tell him succinctly, eyeing the trail mix hesitantly.

“How’s that going?”

“I’m losing.”

He huffs a breath then pulls out his card from his wallet. He steps up behind you, close enough where his chest brushes your shoulder as he reaches around and taps it against the machine's card reader. You don’t move from the innocent meeting of your bodies, out of some curious interest in seeing if he will. 

He doesn’t. You shove the desire to lean into his subtle touch with a ten-foot pole, beating it until it's nonexistent. 

He punches in ‘B6’ on the keypad without hesitation and watches as a Snickers bar is dropped from the rack. He bends down, reaching his hand through the slot and raises back up with a grunt, handing the chocolate bar to you.

Your stare is scolding, but you take the bar anyway. Ripping the wrapper and taking a bite of the candy. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Cushion before the blow.” He warns. Your chewing slows, eyes widening in dread at him.

“Our pregnant mom’s parents are here.” Jack explains and you sigh heavily. “She was sixteen.”

Solemnly nodding, your eyes find comfort in fixating on the tile floor. “We have her name?”

“Kerina Jackson.”

“Okay. I’ll head over now.”

“You want me in there?”

“No. I made the call, I can do it.”

“I don’t mind.”

He watches you think for a moment. Weighing the pros and cons of it all, before you meet his gaze. Looking into him as if searching for any insincerity or any indication that he might take your acceptance as weakness. 

Finding nothing, you nod slowly. “Yeah, okay. Please.”

The walk to the observation room is harrowing. Your candy lays half eaten in your hand before you eventually tuck it into your pocket, appetite lost. You both convene one final look at each other at the door—a quick check-in, an agreement to step in before doing so. Jack moves, his hand on the handle of the door and holds it open for you, following in after you. 

You speak first, introducing the both of you to the parents as the doctors responsible for overseeing their daughter. They hang onto your words with fevered worry. You tell them the outcome as softly as you can. Life shatters for them in an instant. 

Through their heaves and sobs, you manage to croak out. “The baby is stable, for now. He’s been sent up to NICU for care. One of our nurses can take you to go see him.”

“And our daughter, where is she?” Her father asks. 

Jack speaks then, “We have her ready for you in an observation room. You can see her whenever you’d like.”

“I speak for Dr. Abbot and I when I say that we are so sorry that this has happened.” You continue. They ask a few questions—what killed her? Severe blood loss. Blunt force trauma. How long were you operating on her? An hour and fifteen minutes. Are you sure you did everything you could? No. But that part stays quiet. 

The room descends in a choked mood. Tempered by the soft sobs to two mourning parents who have no questions to ask but to the God that decided to take their child. 

“We will be here for any other questions you have or help you may need.” Jack speaks amidst the tears. There’s gratitude at his insertion as you find yourself at a loss of what else to say. But Jack knows. He always knows. “If you let one of our nurses know, they’ll come get us.” 

His hand rests on the small of your back as he guides you both out of the room. It’s a welcome feeling, a steady rock on shaky ground. As soon as the touch is there, it’s gone. He’s rounding on you, staring intently into you. 

“You good?”

“No.” You shrug. “You?”

He crosses his arms, tendons in his forearms stretching for a moment as he opens and closes his palms. For a moment you see the sliver of the man—the one that is becoming more and more familiar to you. That he’s revealing slowly, a new crack into the armor each time you happen to be around when these things happen. Weary and upset in a way that stretches beyond anger at the unfairness of life. Targeted almost in judgement, in disappointment at choices—his and beyond. 

It touches depths of sadness and hurt in ways that he doesn’t often let show. Visible only in the slow nod of his head and the downturn curl of the corner of his lips. 

A slew of questions sits in his mind—What was she doing out on the road so late? What did she run into? Why wasn’t she wearing her seatbelt? Why the fuck was she pregnant at sixteen? Each is more devastating than the last, sticking a knife into his back and drags down, down, down the seam of his skin until he feels like he’s split into two.

His leg aches, loudly, but admitting that is forsaking a life that this young girl doesn’t get to have anymore. 

“Gotta keep going.” He says, plainly. But his lips curl downward and his stare says more than he thinks it does.  

Your fingers itch to grab onto him and hold him tight.

—

The sun rises slowly and with it comes the harrowing end of the shift. It couldn’t have come sooner.

You should run—make for the streets of Pittsburgh and never turn back. Let your heart race in adrenaline from something other than tragic chaos. Run for nonexistent hills that whisper a promise of calm and levied bliss as you leave PTMC and all that it holds. It’s an amusing thought. If you were stronger, more committed, you would. But the clock ticks past your scheduled exit time, your bag slung over your shoulder and yet, your feet remain firmly planted to the ground at the loading bay. Stuck, held, waiting. For something.

A sign, maybe. A reminder of why you’re here. 

“I need a beer.” 

Much like he’s done all night, Jack sidles up beside you. Appearing out of thin air and standing next to you. You’re brows furrow in question, having thought he had made for the rooftop like he usually does after a long shift. 

“Isn’t it too early for that?” You ask. 

“Never too early for a good thing.” He shrugs. “Isn’t that a ‘city that never sleeps’ specialty?” 

“Touché.” You nod in concession. Silence befalls the two of you as the world sounds around you. Cars drive by as people wake up, sirens from an ambulance ring only a hair’s width away. The air is cool on your skin and you take the moment to breathe. The urge to run wanes, slightly. 

“I’ve got some beer at my place.” You offer, casually. “Wanna head that way?”

Jack turns to meet your gaze. It's an innocuous invitation, smeared with exhaustion and nonchalance. Nothing untoward. Like you wouldn’t be offended if he didn’t take you up on it, just as you wouldn’t make it a big deal if he did. Your thumb points south, gesturing to your apartment, the complete opposite direction of his home. 

He tilts his head after a thoughtful moment of consideration. “You take the train?”

“Bus.”

“Fuck that. I’ll drive us.”

— 

Your apartment is deep in the strongarm of the city, right at the crossing between loud and hectic, and just past the Allegheny River. The building is as quaint as it is quiet, which isn’t saying much. A big, tall eyesore and Jack can’t help but scoff. 

City girl staying close to what she knows.

He follows, woefully out of his element, as you guide him past the concierge and through the modern and minimalist decor of the lobby into golden elevators. You press twelve on the buttons and the elevator ascends in a quiet hum—lulled only by the whir of the machine. 

Comfortable silence emphasizes the line that’s been drawn in the sand. Work staying at the steps of the hospital, far from a desirable topic of conversation, even farther from being a worthy disruption of the tranquility. Rehashing the night, wondering what could have been done differently is a task you both save for personal time in the privacy of your spaces when no one else is looking. 

“Bienvenido a mi casita.” You sing, tired and a feeble attempt at jovial, as your keys unlock the apartment door. 1224, he notes. Puts it up on the crowded shelf with everything else about you he pretends he isn’t storing. He steps inside, eyes scanning the home with barely concealed interest. 

It’s a small space, clean—save for the mail you have scattered on the counter and the stray bottle of cleaner that you have yet to put away. The apartment is decorated modestly, color popping in the pillows on your couch, the rug you have in the living room, the dinner mats on your two-chaired dinner table. Photos of friends, family, your nieces hang on every wall in a pleasant array. It’s lived in, alive, warm, yours.

He doesn’t realize he’s studying the place until you call from behind him from the kitchen, your head deep in the pantry. “You still want that beer? I can make some coffee instead?”

“Coffee’s good. Bl—”

“Black. I know.” You look at him over your shoulder, a twinkle somehow emerging in your eyes. From the ash of a smoldering fire that burned all that was sane, you still rise—sparking anew.  He watches, curious. You grab coffee grounds and move through your kitchen, filling the machine and starting a brew. 

“You hungry?” You ask. 

“Are you?”

“I could eat.” 

He didn’t come here to eat breakfast. He’s not sure why he even came in the first place. But he nods despite the uncertainty that makes him feel idiotic. “Sure.”

He wades awkwardly into your apartment. Unsure where to stand, how to take up less space, if he should bid his goodbye now or later. His eyes fall to a box leaning against your living room wall, beside your television that sits pathetically on the floor. 

“What’s going on here?” He asks, gesturing to the cardboard with black lettering that has too many umlauts above them. 

“A TV stand that I’ve been procrastinating building.” You respond, the sound of eggs cracking on the counter and into a bowl ringing throughout the room. 

“How long?”

“‘bout a month.”

“Christ.” He scoffs. “You waiting for God to show up?

“Something like that.” He hums. His eyes narrow for a moment, before deciding resolutely. 

“Got a tool kit?”

The morning unfolds slowly, comfortably. Jack sitting in your living room, building your TV stand to create a reason as to why he’s here. He pauses only when you plate up some breakfast. Eggs, toast, and a cup of coffee. He eats in a steady quiet with you, unsure when the last time he had breakfast with someone was.

Conversations are interspersed infrequently. Mostly unimportant; something about this new hot sauce you got from the farmer’s market and the plans you have for redecorating. He tells a stupid story about the billboard outside your apartment window that used to have the picture of the two twin lawyers and their fish man.

(“Their fish man?”

“Shenderovich, Shenderovich, and Fishman. 1-888-98-Twins.”

“Shenderovich to the second power. God, that’s awful.”

“You’re telling me.”)

Quiet things, small delights that bring the slight quirk to his lips and the gentle huff of laughter from you. The small things the diffuse the tension of the night, that force the slow revival into becoming a human again.

You take both plates when you finish, humming at his quiet thanks and returning to the kitchen to clean while he returns his attention to the stand. And it’s normal—so pointedly normal and domestic it’s a wonder this hasn’t been a routine occurrence. Jack is sore thumb in his scrubs sitting on your living room floor, your measly excuse for a toolkit beside him as he fits wooden slabs together and builds. An entirely new sight, certainly not something the version of you a few months ago would’ve thought you’d ever see, but it's a welcome one. 

Weirdly, he fits. His figure, his presence, him. Makes your home feel whole, meaningful.

Time passes with little recognition. It’s a relatively simple stand—easy and mindless to put together. The Swedes are built off of functional efficiency and he sends a quiet hail mary to the Scandinavians. One moment, Jack is scanning the instructions, his eyes glancing to yours as you place a glass of water beside his mug on the coffee table next to him. Then he blinks and the stand is assembled, only the quiet hum of the morning news sounding from your television. 

It’s a welcome thing. He’s never able to fully turn his mind off but in the mundane, the easy turn of the screw and the pleasing click of pieces together, the turmoil dulls to a quiet chatter and he can breathe easily. Zoned in so readily that he lost touch with reality for a second. Forgot where he was, what he was doing, who he was doing it for. 

He pushes the stand into the place where your TV sits on the ground, then lifts the TV onto its surface. Settling the furniture into the place that he supposes you would want—the place he thinks it looks best. 

He’s turning, content at being useful and ready to ask for your approval. Then he realizes that he’s heard very little from you while he was building.

He finds you on the couch behind him. Eyes shut, mouth slightly open as your breaths are softly and evenly exhaled in your sleep. Your hair is released from the tie you had to hold it back throughout the shift, the strands messily framing your face as you lay against the pillow of the couch. Still clad in your scrubs, your face settles peacefully as you rest. Not scrunched in frustration or stony in your focus. 

Under the soft of the morning light, a sharp contrast to the fluorescents he’s always seen you under, exhaustion resounds on your face. Tamed only by the sweetened sighs of your slumber that remedy the ailment. You sleep, sweet and easy.

A stray strand of hair crosses over your nose, moving with the rhythmic rise and falls of your breaths. A twitch aches in his fingers. Spurned by need and the deep rooted ache of loneliness that craves the taste of tenderness. 

He brushes the strand away from your face, eyes focused on the action, watching your face remain peacefully asleep. Relishes in the brief moment of softness he’s been afforded. 

There’s a twinge of guilt as he has to disturb the solitude, yours and his, when he taps your leg gently. You stir in tired confusion.

“Lock the door behind me.”

“You’re going?” You ask, wiping your mouth, sounding disappointed at the notion. 

“Yeah. You need to sleep.”

“You sure? You can stay.”

The excuse is on his tongue fighting against the urge to read into that. There was hardly a reason for him to be here today, much less one for him to linger around. Insist and bore drill into the cracks of his thick skull that this shouldn’t happen again. That this is inappropriate. 

It’s pointedly not, though. He built a stand for you, you made him breakfast. That was all there was to it. That’s all that was being expected by you, because why would you expect anything further?

(You wouldn’t. Because there’s nothing going on. Despite the stares from the nurses, and the whispers of a rumored bet, and the lingering glances that get sent between you two—nothing is going on.

He’s sure of it.)

But, Jack doesn’t do things flippantly, without purpose. And walls don’t get torn down, softened, for just any reason. In the ingrained pattern that Dr. Mott insists is a defense mechanism and that Jack believes is just normal human condition, he feels the walls so carefully erected find their place once more. Fortified to shut out the possibility of some inane want for something burn without restraint within him. 

The armor that’s been slowly cracking back settles onto him and he aims for a neutral expression. Curt, succinct. No room for error. “Thanks for breakfast.” 

“Thanks for the stand, you didn’t have to do that. But it looks great.” You trail behind him slowly as he walks towards your front door. “I’ll be calling you for all of my furniture builds. I’m spoiled now, old man.”

Here’s the chance. Stop it here, smother the budding growth of a tender seed before it takes root and spreads into his lungs. Prevent the tendons from reaching up his throat, crawling into his brain, and mold the perfect image of you into the grey matter. 

He should tell you, firmly, that this will not happen again. Throw in a degrading tease, diffuse the sincerity of the moment. Get you to stop looking at him like he means something.

“Anytime, city girl.” He says, instead. 

You smile— warm, relaxed, gentle and he’s ready to aim gun to temple at the realization of how much he likes it. He can only do what he knows best, what he does with everything else he stupidly seems to notice and grab onto with you, and puts it on the shelf. Half ready to lock it in a chest deep in his mind and toss the key into a cavernous abyss. 

“I’ll hold you to it.” You say, content. And he nods.

He drives back in silence and the promise forged in tired smiles and quiet closeness chokes him all the way home.

a/n: i would like it known, this is the fastest i have ever put out work in a series. im just so bewitched by this middle aged man, i want him inside me.

know this is a quick one and not much happens but i'm a true believer in slow burn being both slow and burning :)

next one will be fun, promise!

[jadeseadragon]

Eugene Tapahe 📷 Diné Artist

Art Heals: The Jingle Dress Project

"Eugene Tapahe is a Diné (Navajo) artist from Window Rock, Arizona now based in Provo, Utah. Tapahe has a multidisciplinary approach in his work, largely specializing in photography and performative land installations."

[Juxtapose]

[jellyfishsthings]

The Equation of Distraction

navigation , dc navigation

WARNINGS: none really

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

Dick Grayson wasn’t used to competing for attention. Not in the way that actually mattered.

Sure, in the field, he competed with Bruce for control. With Jason, for who could kick in a door with more dramatic flair. With Damian, for sheer stubbornness. But when it came to relationships—real ones, ones with something soft and sacred curled at the center—he had always been attentive. Loving. Present.

So how the hell did he find himself third-wheeling to his own girlfriend, Tim, and a whiteboard full of integrals?

"Okay, stop. Stop right there," you said, stepping between Tim and the tangle of numbers he’d just scrawled. You were wearing one of Dick’s old hoodies, hair twisted into a bun, marker ink on your fingertips.

Tim leaned forward, eyebrows furrowed behind his glasses. "What? That’s the limit of the function as x approaches negative infinity."

"It should be," you said, tapping the board, "but this entire partial fraction decomposition is botched. You factored wrong."

Tim blinked. “I did?”

Dick, sprawled on the living room couch and pretending to read a book, smirked to himself. “Rookie mistake.”

You didn’t look away from the whiteboard. “Grayson, don’t snipe from the peanut gallery unless you want to solve this integral by hand.”

Dick shut his mouth.

Tim looked victorious. Dick glared.

The first time you met the family, you accidentally corrected Bruce on a quantum theory reference.

He had blinked at you.

You had flushed.

Alfred had smiled very faintly into his tea.

Dick, meanwhile, had fallen in love a little harder.

You were brilliant. Not just brilliant, but terrifyingly multidisciplinary brilliant. You knew literature and physics and evolutionary biology, and spoke with the unshakeable confidence of someone who had once gotten into an argument with a professor and emerged victorious.

You didn’t brag. You were just curious. A sponge for information. You asked questions and listened to the answers. And somehow, in a household full of detective minds and vigilante instincts, you were still the smartest person in the room.

So when Tim, swamped with his joint MIT-Gotham U coursework, mentioned offhandedly that he was struggling with differential equations, you offered to help.

Dick hadn’t realized what a tactical error that would be.

Then came Damian.

The kid walked in on one tutoring session, glanced at the diagrams you were sketching, and said, “That’s wrong.”

You turned, brow arched. “Excuse me?”

"The mitosis illustration. You’re using a generalized mammalian model. That isn’t accurate for marsupial chromosomes."

You blinked once. Slowly. “Are you studying marsupial mitosis in school right now?”

Damian scowled. "No. I already completed the human unit. I'm reading ahead."

Tim didn’t even look up. “He’s trying to skip grades again.”

You tapped your pen against the diagram, thinking. Then you shifted a few lines, adjusted a chromatid angle, and said, “There. Better?”

Damian squinted. “Acceptable.”

And that was that.

He joined the study sessions.

Suddenly, Dick’s evenings with you turned into academic triage.

Tim asked about imaginary numbers. Damian demanded enzyme pathways. You, looking entirely unbothered, juggled both while sipping lukewarm tea and wearing your glasses slightly crooked.

It was like watching a goddess of learning hold court.

And Dick? Dick got to sit there, watching you solve everyone else’s problems, while his half-written texts and longing stares went unanswered.

He tried not to pout.

It didn’t work.

The next Friday, Dick walked into the manor living room with takeout and three movies tucked under his arm. He had plans. Cozy night. Cuddles. Maybe make-out session #437.

Instead?

He found you, Tim, and Damian on the floor, surrounded by papers. You had a biology model of a nephron drawn across two pieces of poster board.

Dick stared.

You looked up. "Hey, love. You want to quiz Damian on the loop of Henle while I explain countercurrent multiplication?"

He dropped the takeout. "Absolutely not."

You blinked.

Tim smirked. Damian looked smug.

Dick folded his arms. “Babe, I love you. But I am not quizzing a fourteen-year-old on renal function on a Friday night.”

"Fifteen," Damian muttered.

You smiled sweetly. "We’ll be done soon. I promise."

Dick sulked off into the kitchen.

Alfred found him twenty minutes later, brooding into a cup of tea.

"Something the matter, Master Richard?"

Dick sighed. "She's supposed to be my girlfriend, not the tutor of every prodigy in this house."

Alfred didn’t flinch. "You are, perhaps, experiencing what Master Timothy and Master Damian have often felt about you."

Dick blinked. "What?"

"You have a history of... commanding attention."

Dick opened his mouth. Closed it. "Damn it."

Alfred handed him a second cup. "Jealousy, in moderation, is a sign of attachment. I suggest you redirect it.”

Dick took a breath. Sipped. Nodded.

Then promptly marched back into the living room.

"Alright, nerds. Move over."

You glanced up, amused. "Joining us after all?"

He plopped down beside you, tugging you into his lap. “No, I’m kidnapping my girlfriend."

Tim: “Rude.”

Damian: “Good riddance.”

Dick ignored them. Nuzzled into your neck. "Tell the mitochondria to wait."

You laughed. Warm and real. "That was biology. We're doing organ systems now."

"Whatever it is, it can survive without you for one hour."

You looked at him, eyes soft. "Are you jealous, Nightwing?"

"Me? Jealous? Never. Just asserting my dibs."

Tim made a gagging noise. Damian threw a pen.

You kissed him.

The study session ended shortly after.

And if Dick helped grade practice tests with glitter pens the next day just to feel useful? Well. No one had the heart to mention it.

Not even Tim.

(Okay, Tim did take a picture. But he sent it only to Kon, and Dick pretended not to notice.)

Eventually, things settled.

Tutoring became once a week. You started leaving time just for Dick. You told him how much you loved his patience, how good he was with his family, how your favorite part of the week was still movie night with him.

You even let him teach you something, once—acrobatics, on the mats in the cave. You fell on your ass laughing, legs tangled with his, and kissed him like you didn’t need textbooks to understand what you had.

And for once, Dick Grayson didn’t mind not being the smartest person in the room.

Not when he got to be yours.

[handweavers]

there is a specific type of politics that i find a lot among artists of colour of my generation living in the west where we talk a lot about war and empire and racism and it's a lot of like decolonization buzzwords and talking about "embodied approaches to collaboration and knowledge production" and bringing science and ecology and historic cultural practices into our art and there is this heavy emphasis on the mutual aid instagram infographics thing and it constantly feels Iike everyone around me is dancing around an understanding that is just outside of their grasp and i think its because everyone is afraid of marxism in an explicit sense, rather than just the vague defanged "leftist" sense, which isn't a coherent ideology at all nor an actual Foundation of tools through which we can seek to understand the world. the scientific method for understanding economics is dialectical materialism, and to truly understand how capitalism and colonialism and patriarchy function you need to be willing to learn materialist analysis. like to actually understand What imperialism is and how it differs from colonialism, the actual material function(s) of capitalism and Why things are the way they are, to see with clear eyes the roles of racism and homophobia and transphobia and ableism, and to write and make art about it in the way I think many people desire to, where you are not dancing around an understanding of the realities of the world but actually biting through the meat of it, you need to understand materialism, you need to understand that imperialism is not the same thing as colonialism it is the highest stage of capitalism, and really dig into that. otherwise my peers will just keep dancing in circles and saying things that not only do not reflect reality but actively benefit the systems that harm us as well as the billions of our people who do not live in the west, and all the jargon like "we are decolonizing our mindsets with multidisciplinary ecologies" or whatever will never actually like... have the impact that is desired because it's not touching the face of reality idk how else to say it. like what are we doing here lol

[herpsandbirds]

A remarkable new blue Ranitomeya species (Anura: Dendrobatidae) with copper metallic legs from open forests of Juruá River Basin, Amazonia

Esteban Diego Koch, Alexander Tamanini Monico, et al.

ABSTRACT

Poison dart frogs (Dendrobatidae) are known for their aposematic coloration and toxic skin, making them a frequent subject of interest and research. However, descriptions of new species of Ranitomeya were interrupted for more than a decade. The implementation of a RAPELD (Rapid Assessment surveys of Long-Term Ecological Research) module in the Juruá River basin, a highly biodiverse and underexplored region, led to the record of a Ranitomeya species with blue dorsal stripes and coppery limbs. Herein we use morphological, morphometric, advertisement call, natural history, tadpole data and genetic data to describe the new species. Our phylogenetic analysis places the species within the Ranitomeya vanzolinii clade, and all delimitation methods confirmed its status as a new species. The species is characterized by its (i) small size (snout-vent length: males 15.2–17.0 mm, females 14.4–16.9 mm), (ii) dorsum with light sky-blue stripes on a reddish-brown ground, and metallic copper limbs with reddish-brown spots, (iii) ring-shaped granular region on the belly, (iv) toes with poorly developed lateral fringes, (v) later tadpole stages with tooth rows P1 = P2 > P3, P3 of 83–87% of P1, and conspicuous light sky-blue dorsal stripes, and (vi) cricket-like advertisement call consisting of 16–35 notes, call duration of 490–1,005 ms, note duration of 8.2–16.9 ms and dominant frequency of 5,168–6,029 Hz. The discovery of the new species emphasizes the significance of researching under-sampled regions like the Juruá River basin, and the usefulness of using a multidisciplinary approach to reveal new dendrobatid species.

Read the paper here:

A remarkable new blue Ranitomeya species (Anura: Dendrobatidae) with copper metallic legs from open forests of Juruá River Basin, Amazonia | PLOS One

[mindblowingscience]

Like workers at a factory or office, proteins in a cell must be in the right department to do their jobs. But scientists have yet to fully map the cell's organization, much less determine how these cellular "employees" may be reassigned in a time of crisis or change. A hostile takeover by a virus, for example, can send a cell's proteins to new stations, from which they may either serve the pathogen's aims or help the cell as it attempts to resist the infection. A new method, described Dec. 31 in Cell and devised by a multidisciplinary team at the Chan Zuckerberg Biohub San Francisco (CZ Biohub SF), captures spatial organization across the entire cell at an unprecedented level of detail. Their approach maps the majority of a human cell's roughly 10,000 kinds of proteins according to the organelles and other compartments containing them, providing a crucial reference to understand how our cells are built. The team also applied their method to characterize how a portion of these proteins relocate during viral infection.

Continue Reading.

[guildofpriapus]

Photography by Gaines Pullman

Porn and Patriarchy

Foreword

This academic tome explores the intricate relationship between patriarchal structures and the influence of pornography. In a society where gender roles and power imbalances are deeply rooted, pornography both reflects and perpetuates these dynamics, affecting perceptions of gender, sexuality, and power.

Drawing from sociology, gender studies, psychology, and media studies, this volume offers a multidisciplinary approach to understanding these intersections. It examines questions of agency, objectification, and the potential for both harm and empowerment within pornographic media.

As you engage with this work, consider how patriarchal norms shape individual experiences and societal trends. This book aims to spark conversations and inspire a reimagining of media that promotes gender equity.

Approach the discussions with an open mind, ready to explore the profound impact of patriarchy on this complex aspect of modern culture.

Dr. Gaius Tormaline

Sociology Dept, Brookvale College

[mybeingthere]

Painting with Textiles: Abdoulaye Konaté

Konaté was born in 1953 in Dire, Mali. He began his career by training as an artist in a varied, multidisciplinary approach, with a leaning towards painting, as he explains, “I studied Fine Arts in Bamako and at the Institut Supérieur des Arts in Havana. During those years, I used acrylics, oils, screen printing and old earthenware techniques. I did a lot of acrylics, screen printing, a bit of etching, watercolours and a lot of installations.”

Following graduation, Konaté took on a series of high-profile curatorial roles in the arts; he ran the Exhibitions Division at the Musée National du Mali from 1985 to 1997 before moving on to manage the Palais de la Culture in Bamako and Rencontres Photographiques de Bamako from 1998 to 2002, and later became head of the Conservatoire des Arts et Métiers Multimédia “Balla Fasseké Kouyaté” in Bamako, Mali.

It was during the 1990s that Konaté found his way into working with richly woven tapestries, and they have remained at the centre of his practice ever since. “What I love about textiles,” he says, “is the sensory as much as the visual aspect. I use it in its entirety, as a material medium but also for communication.”