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rockscanfly · 3 years

Text

the stars are not wanted now

The headline was several days old by the date in the corner. The cheap paper was peeling at the corners from the wall it’d been pasted to when Charles ripped it down. His mind was carefully blank as he hitched Lenny’s canvas-wrapped corpse higher on one shoulder. He stuffed the ripped page into his pants pocket.

It stayed there, smouldering, as he loaded Lenny onto Taima. Sadie was already seated on Bob, Hosea laid carefully behind her. Her eyes caught his, red and shining.

Charles was an hour into digging Lenny’s grave when it hit him: He was never going to see Arthur Morgan again.

Death’s messenger arrived in the form of the front page of The Saint Denis Times. TRAGEDY AT SEA! CARGOSHIP THE OQUENDO SUNK FIVE MILES OFF GUARMA COAST!

or,

Charles Smith, Sadie Adler, and the two deaths of Arthur Morgan.

Read below or at AO3.

----------------------

In the life of Charles Smith, death’s messengers had come in many forms.

The first was in the navy blue uniforms of American soldiers, their ghost pale hands wrapped tight over his mother’s arms as they dragged her from their tent, screaming and kicking.

Ten years later it was in a letter, sent by an old neighbor. It contained his father’s wedding ring, a family photo, and no explanation.

The way the whiskey had wafted off his father’s breath the night Charles left? There was no need for one.

Then it had been the sharp crack of a gunshot—one, two, three. Sean, Hosea, Lenny. There was the frightened whinny of a horse mixed in, and the sick, rotten-fruit plop of Kierran’s head as it fell from his cupped, bloody hands.

This messenger arrived in the form of the front page of The Saint Denis Times. TRAGEDY AT SEA! CARGOSHIP THE OQUENDO SUNK FIVE MILES OFF GUARMA COAST!

It stayed there, smouldering, as he loaded Lenny onto Taima. Sadie was already seated on Bob, Hosea laid carefully behind her. Her eyes caught his, red and shining.

Charles was an hour into digging Lenny’s grave when it hit him: He was never going to see Arthur Morgan again.

For twenty-seven years, careful restraint of his emotions had allowed Charles to survive. He’d never had the luxury of anger, of rage. An outburst from most members of the gang meant getting kicked out of the saloon, a fine, or a night in jail at worst.

For Charles, a length of rope looped over a tree branch was never far. America hated nothing more than a mutt, and to her people Charles was a rabid dog best put down at the first snarl.

So Charles learned control and calm. He learned to bury, to smother, to take everything burning in him and shove it somewhere safe. To put his feelings aside until he was alone and could take them out and look them over with no nervous trigger fingers or hateful eyes waiting for the first excuse—the first bitter word, sharp gesture, first hateful look.

Charles didn’t know what did it, what final burning hurt snuck into the tinderbox of his chest and sparked the blaze. If it was the seventh rock his shovel struck in the soft, sucking dirt, forcing him to fumble in the dark until he could haul it free and cast it out. If it was the heat, the chafe of sticky cotton on his damp skin. Could be it was the flies buzzing in his ears, or the way the sweat from his brow stung his eyes.

Maybe it was the sickly smell of rotting meat already coming from the sacks wrapped around Lenny and Hosea’s corpses, or the way there was no money for coffins to bury them in.

One moment Charles was digging side by side with Sadie, knee deep in the grave that would hold just one body of the second family that fate had torn from him.

And then he was kneeling in the sucking mud, hands fisted uselessly in the torn roots and crawling worms. Anguish tore howling from his throat, muffled against gritted teeth. Charles could taste copper coating the backs of his gums as he hunched in the dirt. His eyes clenched tight as his heart did its level best to tear itself from his chest, to strike out for a life less riddled with bullets, one that didn’t bleed loss like a butchered carcass or burn everything good up to ashes.

Charles was dimly aware, under the pounding of his own pulse in his ears, of Sadie’s soft cursing as she threw down her own shovel and climbed into Lenny’s half-dug grave beside him. The darkness behind his eyes became complete as she shuttered the lamp, plunging them into night. He flinched away as Sadie’s firm hand gripped his shoulder. “Don’t,” he growled. He didn’t want comfort. He wanted exorcism.

Sadie just gripped him tighter, blunt nails digging hard into the hunched muscle of his shoulder. “I know,” she rasped, kneeling before him, sharp knees pressed to his own. A choked cry strangled in Charles’s chest as her skinny, whipcord arms wrapped around him, pressing him to her chest.

“They’re gone,” he managed, gasping through the tightness in his lungs. He couldn’t get any air. “Lenny, Javier, Hosea—Arthur.” Charles made a fist, pounding senselessly at the dirt. “He, we—” Charles cut himself off, dug his nails deep into the flesh of his knee, and tried to claw the pain into his own skin.

A beat passed. One of Sadie’s palms gripped Charles at the back of his neck, cupped the back of his head gently. “Charles,” she said, voice rough and small, gentle. “Charles, I know.”

And it’s possible she did. She was one of the more observant folks in the camp. He and Arthur hadn’t really been very careful. Nothing too blatant, no. But anyone could have read into the casual ease with which Arthur touched his shoulder, the way their knees almost touched as they sat by the fire. The way Charles would return from guard duty with his hair mussed, leaves of grass clinging to the back of his shirt, the trailing ends of his hair. How Arthur would sit on a stump, failing utterly to conceal that he was sketching Charles as he chopped wood or hauled water.

Arthur was not a cautious man by nature. He often made Charles foolish.

More important than any of their thousand tiny, dangerous indiscretions was the fact that Arthur had trusted Sadie. It was possible the big, soft-hearted idiot told her about them. Maybe one day Charles would have it in him to be angry about that, at Arthur for putting them both at risk without asking him first. Reckless, impulsive, trusting.

Gone.

Charles leaned heavily into Sadie’s grip, buried his face in the sweat and dirt streaked cotton of her shoulder. “How did you live through this?” He hissed, breath hitching. It felt like nettles had grown in his chest, wrapping around his lungs, choking like weeds to a garden.

Sadie’s arm tightened over Charles’s shoulder. “Sun hasn’t dawned on a single day I’ve wanted to live through since they killed my Jake.” A filthy hand pet his hair back from his face, streaking dirt through the sweat on his brow. “Two reasons I go on. I gotta put every O'Driscoll on this green earth into a hole in the ground. And ‘cause I got folks as need me, now.”

Charles buried himself tighter against her, hiding from the pain that wracked him. It was ridiculous. Sadie was half his size, if he was being generous. But pressed against her, her clumsy hand in his hair, her skinny arm not even half over his back—he felt safer. Smaller. “They don’t even want me.”

Sadie laughed, a hoarse, half-hearted thing that shook her chest more than it did the air. “You think those boys are lining up to put me in charge? Or, hell, Grimshaw? It don’t matter what anyone wants, Charles. They need us.”

“I needed him,” Charles keened. He sounded like a child. He felt like a child. And he’d never felt so helpless, so lost, since he’d been torn from his mother’s arms. “All of them.” Charles bit back a breath, forced it down. He grasped a handful of Sadie’s shirt, pulling her closer. “I feel like the only part of me that’s good died with them. I don’t. I don’t think I can keep doing this.”

“John ain’t dead yet,” Sadie whispered fiercely. “And neither is Tilly, or Mary-Beth, or me. Even the rest of ‘em. They’re all the family we got, Charles. So cry it out. But then you gotta pull yourself together. I need ya.”

No one had ever needed Charles Smith.

No one who lived.

Charle’s head was going fuzzy, light, in a buzzing, burning way. Maybe he wasn’t getting enough air. Maybe he was choking on his own pathetic sorrow.

Maybe the pain of losing so much was finally going to kill him.

“I should just leave,” he mumbled into Sadie’s filthy, mud spattered shoulder. “Suffering follows me, I think. Maybe if I just go you won’t die, too.”

Sadie’s blunt nails dug hard into Charle’s shoulder. “You leave and you’re yellow or you’re a fool,” she said, shaking him. “The world doesn’t give a shit about any of us, Charles. You know this life we’re livin’ ain’t meant to be a long one.”

Something in that tickled him, in a sideways sort of way. He laughed, a weak, hacking thing that was half-cough. “How the hell is Uncle still kicking?”

Sadie’s shoulder moved under his forehead as she gave a half-hearted chuckle. “Can’t die if you never do shit.”

“You’re right,” Charles admitted. The stupid joke had shaken something loose in his throat. His chest still hurt, but he wasn’t choking on air. “I’m sorry. I just—” Charles sucked down another breath. “I wasn’t ready to live without him.”

Sadie just pulled him tighter, tucked his head up under her chin. Charles wondered, vaguely, what she saw when she looked out into the dark of the Lemoyne night. “I know, honey,” she sighed. “But you will. You have to.”

_________________________

Traditional Kotsoteka mourning is an involved process. Done right, Charles should have burned Arthur’s wagon and killed Peachblossom, Arthur’s white Roan mare, so he would be well equipped in the afterlife.

But there was no body to bury. No grave in which to throw Arthur’s guns, or the bow he’d left strapped to Peachblossom’s saddle on that final, bloody day at the bank. It would have been a shame to snap into pieces, anyway. Charles had made the bow for Arthur, so the other man had always taken excellent care of it.

Fact was, Arthur’s body lay somewhere at the bottom of the sea, and they were too strapped for resources to go burning wagons and wasting supplies for traditions Charles had never been all that good at following. So instead Sadie helped him shave the sides of his head—the left side, to mourn a fellow warrior. The right, because a fellow warrior wasn’t all Charles was mourning.

Together, Charles and Sadie burned one of Arthur’s shirts. There was no wailing, no cutting of arms and chests. As the last few patches of blue cotton caught fire, Charles resolved that, a year from then, he would never again speak the name Arthur Morgan.

______________________________

Six years and too many graves later, Charles was resting on a freshly hammered fence post when a giant, mean-looking mustang rode up the road to Beecher’s Hope. Charles was half-way to drawing his sawed-off when its rider called out to him. “Charles! Charles Smith!”

Charles would know that hoarse drawl anywhere.

Charles jumped the fence, jogging towards the black-clad woman on her suitably terrifying horse. “Sadie? Sadie Adler?”

Sadie swung down from her saddle, running forward. Charles caught her around the middle, swinging her excitedly.

“How are you?” Charles asked as he set her down, hands moving to her shoulders to get a look at her. She’d picked up a few fresh scars, some weather to her skin from sun and wind. But her eyes were just the same as they’d always been, lit with an inner fire.

Sadie smiled, that same bitter half lift of the mouth as six years ago. “Alive,” she shrugged, patting Charles roughly on the shoulder. “You?”

Charles shrugged back. “Better, now. A few months back? Not so well.”

Sadie nodded, walking back to her evil looking mustang and leading it gentle as a kitten to the hitching post. Charles leaned back against the fence, digging around in his jacket pockets for a pack of cigarettes and his lighter. He lit one, settling it in the side of his mouth. Demon-horse secured, Sadie settled beside him, leaning forward over the fence to survey the homestead. Charles passed her a cigarette, holding the lighter out and flickering as she lit a burning ember in the early morning light.

Sadie inhaled, brown eyes sharp and considering as she surveyed the half-built ranch. “So. You’re, uh. Livin’ with the Marston’s?”

Charles nodded, tucking the lighter back in his pocket. “Just John for now.” He caught himself, laughed. “Well, and Uncle.”

“That old fool’s still alive?” Sadie whistled. “Bless his heart.” Silence stretched out between them. Maybe it should have been uncomfortable, the way it would have been between any two other friends who had parted in bloodshed and hadn’t seen one another in six years.

Instead, it was like a well-worn blanket, warm and comforting in the early morning chill. Charles hadn’t shared a peaceful silence in a long while. John and Uncle always seemed to need to fill the air with talk. The folks in Saint Denis too, and theirs had been a lot less friendly.

Their cigarettes burned down to embers before Sadie broke the peace. “Any clue where John’s at?” she asked. “I got a job for him.”

Charles grunted. “Bounty hunting?”

“Only kinda jobs I run. For now, anyway.”

“He’s in town grabbing supplies. Won’t be back until late.”

“Well, shit.” Sadie cursed, scuffing her boot in the dirt. She frowned, kicking up little clouds of dust while she chewed on her lip. Charles turned, tucking his arms up atop the fence, settling against the sun-warmed wood. Sadie leaned in beside him, shoulder to shoulder, so the fringe of her leather duster brushed against his knuckles. They watched the horizon together for a few long moments, the sun slowly rising higher in the sky.

Sadie let out a long breath, shifting restlessly next to him. In the corner of his vision Charles caught brown eyes flicking consideringly over at him, measuring. “You busy?”

Charles let out an inaudible sigh of his own. “I don’t do that anymore, Sadie.”

Sadie laughed, a little bitter, a little sharp, like a sip of bark tea. “You too good for bounty hunting? Well, excuse me.”

Charles groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Isn’t like that. I just. I’m trying something new.”

Sadie rolled her eyes. “Ain't no reason you can't help around Marston’s ranch and earn yourself a little money.” She gestured to the half-built house, the piles of timbers and sacks of plaster. “Hell, how you think John’s paying this place off? I know y’all ain’t making any sort of profit yet.”

Charles massaged his temples, willing away the oncoming tension headache. Sadie wasn’t wrong. Charles loved John, knew he needed to look after him for Arthur—at least until John was settled in with his family. But there would be an after, one day. Charles had learned one thing in his thirty-three years: no one stayed.

He’d be watching his own back again, probably not too long from now. And it's a lot easier to do that when you had money.

Charles sighed, pulling his hands from his face. He hooked his thumbs through his belt. “What’s the job?”

Sadie grinned, bitter and mean. “Man murdered his family, looks like,” she said, pulling away from the fence. “He’s wanted in Strawberry. Not even that far of a ride from here.”

Charles walked over to the little campsite, pulling his rucksack from his tent. It was already packed. He hesitated. “Kids?”

“A little girl, around ten. And a boy, round three.”

Charles pulled his tomahawk from under his bedroll, tucking it into his belt. He grabbed some of the nastier arrows—the poison wouldn’t kill a full grown man, but it’d make him suffer.

Some men deserve to suffer.

Charles stalked over to Falmouth, mounting him in one swift motion. “Lead the way.”

Sadie swung up onto her monster. “Good man,” she said, kicking her boot against Charles’s own as she trotted by. “Let’s see how rusty you’ve got, Mr. Smith.”

As they rode, Sadie interrogated him.

“Talked to John a little, ‘bout you,” she yelled over the thundering of hooves. The earth was hard-packed and dusty in the Texarcana heat. “Heard things weren't going too well down in Saint Denis.”

“They weren’t,” Charles called back. “I’d only been there about a year, anyway. Job was going sour.”

“How so?”

Charles laughed. It wasn’t a pretty sound. “Folks were only going to put up with me beating up white men for a living for so much longer.”

Sadie tossed a grin over her shoulder, knowing and vicious. She and Charles had different struggles in their lives. But there was a baseline understanding between them. Most of the gang had been dangerous for what they did. Of the ones who lived, Charles and Sadie were dangerous because of what they were. “Novelty was about to wear off, huh?”

Charles shook his head, whipping wayward hair from his face. “Yeah.”

Sadie turned back to the road, steering Hera around a sharp bend. “Before that?”

The road widened out. Charles urged Falmouth forward, riding till the two horses were running abreast. “Was up in Canada. Helped relocate the Wapiti after...” Charles paused. He had left with the Wapiti immediately after the attack on the oil refinery. Hadn’t even gone back to camp for the rest of his belongings, just taken what was on Taima’s back and. Left.

Charles had no idea if Sadie even knew why Charles had gone, what Arthur had told her.

“That kid,” Sadie asked, breaking Charles’s train of thought. “He died, didn’t he?”

Charles swallowed, the dust from the road cloyingly sweet in his mouth. “Yes.”

Sadie steered Hera over a wooden bridge, hand on her rifle as she scanned each side for signs of an ambush. “I don’t think I understand what all happened with them,” she said. “There was so much going on, towards the end. Folks leaving, Arthur sick, that damn fool plan with the train—How did Dutch even get those folks wrapped up in our mess?”.

“Same thing that happened to all of us,” Charles offered. “Dutch talked a good game, riled them up over things they were already angry about, got everyone in over their head, and was the only one who didn’t pay for it.”

The rest of their ride continued in contemplative silence, broken only by the necessary shouts and calls needed to wrangle their bounty. The murderer was holed up in an abandoned cabin just a little north of town. Hardly worth hiring bounty hunters for, really. Except that the Strawberry sheriffs had always been corrupt, not to mention lazy. Some things don’t change.

Still, working with Sadie again was worth it. It’d just been them those long months Arthur and the rest were lost in Guarma, presumed dead. Sure, the rest of the girls were still around and they pulled their weight. But none of them were as talented in violence—save Karen, maybe.

But she was too far gone over Sean to hold herself together, let alone anyone else.

It’s when they’d divvied up the bounty and stepped into the Strawberry saloon that Charles remembered why those months had been so damn stressful. Besides the Pinkertons, the hopeless fate of half their family, the deaths, John trapped in prison—

Sadie Adler’s temper had always been on a short fuze.

And Charles, fool that he was, had always had a weakness for brave, impulsive idiots.

A big, mean white man took exception to Charles drinking at the same bar as him. Sadie snapped off a sharp warning, stepping around Charles and squaring up to the man twice her size. Then the mean bastard took exception to Charles traveling with, being familiar with, a white woman.

Sadie took exception to his exception, and her exception took the form of a knife straight through the man’s hand and into the scarred oak of the counter.

They were riding hard out of town, ducking the odd shot from the posse riding too slow behind them, Sadie whooping wildly and shooting flawlessly over her back when Charles realized: he hadn’t had fun like that in six years.

They lost the posse in the hills by turning off on a razor thin trail, stashing the horses under an overhang and laying down in the tall grass.

They lay there, panting, laughing, exhilarated. The stars were bright in the sky, glaring down through the clear West Elizabeth sky.

Eventually Sadie sobered, hoarse laughter falling silent. Charles could see her from the corner of his eye. She was still staring up at the stars, hair limned silver in the moonlight. She chewed on her words before breaking the peace. “You didn’t say goodbye.”

Charles took a breath, held it. “We had to leave before the Army arrived,” he said. He picked absently at the grass, crushing it dry and summer-sweet between his fingers. “The Wapiti. They were mostly women and children, the elderly. The sick.”

Sadie huffed, turning on her side, propping up on her elbow to glare down at him, hair frizzled into a messy halo behind her head, all lit up by moonglow. “Ya could of wrote,” she insisted.

Charles kept his eyes fixed on the night sky, on the stars in their cold, beautiful distance. “To who?” he scoffed. “We all knew the gang was on its last legs. By the time we crossed the border into Canada I’d already seen the papers. Interesting, how they left you out of it.”

Sadie went quiet. She collapsed back beside him, thumping softly in the bent grass. “Is that how you found out?”

A copy of The New Hanover had been pinned to the wooden wall of the trading shack where Charles was selling pelts for food and medicine. He’d left for Beaver Hollow the next day. “Yes.”

Sadie sucked air through her teeth. “I went back, few years later,” she muttered. Her boot knocked against his, a rough comfort. “You uh. You did a good job, Charles,” she said. Her fingers sought his in the tall grass, brushing against his lightly. Like she was scared to spook him, maybe. “We watched the sun come up together. He woulda liked it.”

Charles drew his hand back, pressing it over his heart. The hollow, dull ache that lived in his heart sharpened, brightened. A fresh cut on an old scar. “He’d have liked it better if he’d lived.”

Sadie made a noise, propping back up on her elbow to lean over him. “You know that ain’t his fault,” she frowned at him. “The man was sick, Charles.”

Charles’s head hurt. His whole body did, in a cold, numb way. This wasn’t the burning, searing grief at the bottom of Lenny’s shallow grave. It was older, rooted deeper down. “Don’t,” he rasped. Grit from the road coated the back of his throat. “Just, don’t.”

Sadie charged on, implacable. “You know he wasn’t gonna leave without John.”

The stars were so bright. Charles could feel the headache building, like a creature clawing out through his temples. “They could have left together,” he snapped at her. “We all could have left together, before the bank. All of that mess in Lemoyne—none of it had to happen. Arthur didn’t stay for John—he stayed for Dutch.”

Sadie scrubbed her free over her face. “The man raised him,” she tried. The excuse was hollow, empty. Even she didn’t buy it.

Charles turned on his side, faced Sadie properly through the tall grass and moonlight. “Don’t give me that, Sadie. Not you.”

“Fine, Charles! He was a fool!” She threw her hand up in the air, exasperated. “He was scared, he was foolish, and he loved Dutch because he was an idiot.” Sadie fixed him with a glare. “There, did that make you happy, big man? Speaking ill of the dead?”

It didn’t. “I shouldn’t be speaking of him at all,” Charles said instead. “That’s not how—we’re supposed to let go. It’s been years.”

“You loved him,” she insisted.

“Look at how much that mattered,” Charles said, anger furrowing his brow, burning low in his stomach. Had he ever let himself be angry, with Arthur, with the choices they made? “What did loving him buy me, besides a heart that broke twice?”

Sadie’s eyes softened, understanding dawning warm and terrible. “I know that’s not how you really feel,” she said. Sadie reached out, again, with careful fingers. When Charles didn’t stop her she tucked the hair plastered to Charles sweaty forehead back, away from his eyes.

It was the first gentleness anyone had touched him with since he left the Wapiti for Saint Denis. Charles’s breath caught in his throat, trapped, terrified. Vulnerable.

It would have hurt less if she’d socked him in the stomach.

“You don’t ride back from Canada, on your own, to bury a man who you hated,” Sadie continued. Her calloused hand settled on his jaw, thumb behind his ear. She held him steady, made him look her in the eye. “You don’t spend a year of your life helping his kid brother get his family back.”

“Arthur didn’t need me, at the end,” Charles managed. “Rain Falls needed me—and then they didn’t. No one did.”

“Why Saint Denis, Charles? You hated it there,” Sadie asked, resigned. She already knew the answer. She was being cruel, making him face it out loud.

Charles swallowed. No one had ever accused Sadie Adler of being kind.

“I was waiting to die.”

Sadie nodded. Yes, of course. “And all this with John? What next, once he doesn’t need you?”

Charles glared at her, mouth tight and stubborn.

Sadie laughed in his face. “You and Arthur,” she sighed, shaking her head. “You were made for one another, weren’t ya? No understanding how to live in this world for yourselves.”

“You’re one to talk,” Charles shot back.

“I’m happy with my life,” Sadie said firmly. “I had love, but I never wanted a family. I just wanted Jake. He’s gone. So I’m doing what makes me happy.” She paused, staring down at him, considering. “What makes you happy, Charles? You’re the most competent, most stubborn man I know. What do you really want? You know no one could stop you from getting it.”

Charles shook his head. “I have no idea,” he admitted. He climbed to his feet, offering Sadie a hand. She accepted, pulling herself to her feet. She kept hold of his hand, squeezing tight.

“Don’t stop looking,” she commanded. “What you were doin’ in Saint Denis, waiting to die? You’re better than that, Charles Smith.”

Charles shook his head, pulling Sadie into a one armed hug. Grief, Arthur, his life—they hadn’t solved any of it, laying out in a field and snapping at one another under the stars.

But the wound hurt a little less, like a lanced infection.

“I hope so, Mrs. Adler,” Charles said into the mess of Sadie’s hair. She chuckled into his chest, punched him half-heartedly in the arm. They separated, fetching and mounting their horses.

They separated at the fork in the trail. Sadie headed east, back to her base camp just outside Valentine. She had work to do, bounties to catch. The world may have been more ‘civilized’ in 1907 than it was in 1899, but work was still plentiful for a rider and marksman of Sadie Adler’s skill.

Charles rode west towards Beecher’s Hope, sun rising over his shoulder.

--------------------------------

A/N: Charles and Sadie are my favorites, and they should have spent more time with one another. They're not exactly similar people, but they've been through many of the same trials.

I also think they were both done a disservice by the epilogue. Charles's feelings regarding the gang's collapse are largely unexplored, despite him canonically being the one to have buried Lenny, Hosea, Mrs. Grimshaw, and Arthur.

We also don't get a good explanation for why Charles ended up in Saint Denis as part of a fighting ring. Certain lines from Charles--"It seems like I was put on this Earth to hurt and to suffer myself"--have always led me to believe that he suffers from suicidal ideations. Him ending up in Saint Denis, surrounded by people who wish him harm, reads to me like a sort of 'death by cop' form of suicide.

On the subject of Charles's heritage: Rockstar is a trash fire, so beyond being half-Black and half-Native we have very few clues about Charles's culture and his history. I settled on a particular band (the Kotsoteka, or 'buffalo eaters') of the Comanche who would have had a decent amount of contact with Black Freemen post-Civil war. They live in Oklahoma and Texas, buffalo are a central part of their traditional lifestyle, and one of their mourning traditions involves shaving their heads in a manner similar to Charles's hairstyle change post-Guarma arc.

I'm white and if anyone has constructive comments about my inclusion of Kotsoteka funerary traditions I'm happy to hear and act on them.

The Oquenda was the name of a Cuban trading ship from the 1870's. It was primarily used to transport indentured Chinese workers to the Cuban sugar plantations.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #charles smith #sadie adler #charthur #arthur morgan #cw: suicidal ideations

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

Text

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 8: The Light]

Hi y’all! Thank you so much for reading and supporting my writing. Each and every message/reblog/comment/etc makes me smile, and it’s a dream come true to get to share my work with you! 💜

Chapter summary: John shares a secret; Y/N excels at Scrabble; Brian makes peace; Roger suffers a misstep.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, medical stuff, pregnancy (not who you think!).

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @killer-queen-xo @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @bookandband @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

Medicine teaches you to be fiercely skeptical of things that seem too good to be true. Bodies fail—completely and inevitably, though the timing may differ—and patients lie. Medical records don’t, fingerprints don’t, track marks up the underside of an arm don’t, blood and paternity tests don’t, oftentimes the eyes don’t; but given half a chance, people will lie themselves right into the grave.

Those bruises, doc? Got ‘em from a nasty fall down the stairs. I’m lucky I didn’t break my neck!

Nope, never done drugs, not even a joint, I swear on my mother’s life.

I’ll give it up, I’ll go to rehab. Never again. I promise. I don’t want to die.

Doc, I don’t care if the timing doesn’t seem quite right. My husband IS the father. There’s been no one else!

That doting fiancé is flirting with the nurses. Those grown-up children who fluff pillows and dab away tears are asking about the will. That wife is never going to testify against her abusive husband. That addict is going to relapse again...and again...and again. Are there exceptions? Of course. But if you get in the habit of trusting people—of believing all those tantalizingly attractive, hopeful lies—it’ll break your heart six ways to Sunday. There is no perfection in medicine, and there are very rarely miracles.

And so during those first few weeks with Roger—as you watch him from the reeling crowd, from the other side of the tour bus, from across the restaurant table, from the tiny viewfinder of the Canon F-1—you can’t stop searching for the cracks, the shadows, the lies, the dark malignancies breeding beneath the surface. Because everything about Roger Taylor is too good to be true. He’s bright and he’s loud and he’s brilliant and he’s always smiling, always warm. He careens backstage after every show—you keep bracing yourself not to be disappointed when the novelty wears away, when it ends, but it doesn’t—pushing aside roadies and reporters, shouting “Where’s the love of my life? Where’s my Boston babe?” with the most absurd grin you’ve ever seen until he finds you, collides with you, scoops you up and spins you in ungainly circles as your toes skim the floor. Then he cradles your face in his scarred hands and kisses you, breathes you in, tells you everything about the show (even though you were there to see it) in a rush of pure, manic adrenaline. And you stumble into some dressing room together—or a hotel room, or a taxi, or a limousine, or an elevator—and finally it’s your bare thighs his palms are gliding over, your tongue tasting the Heineken and craving on his lips, and it feels impossible for that to ever change. Roger is too good to be true, that’s undeniable; but when you watch him with those doubtful, cautious eyes, you can’t find anything but light.

He wakes up at 6 a.m. to join you on a bayou tour in New Orleans, taps his cigarette over the moss-covered sides of the boat, points out the alligators with leathered skin and ancient yellow irises lurking in the depths. He walks Fremont Street with you in Las Vegas and makes you choose his numbers for the Roulette wheel, for his fate. He snaps photos of you on a sun-drenched balcony in Miami, roaring cobalt waves crashing in the background. He takes you to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, the Art Institute of Chicago, the National Aquarium in Baltimore, the Philadelphia Zoo, Myrtle Beach and the Saint Louis Arch and the Santa Monica Pier. Because he was telling the truth when he said he could show you the world all those months ago when Queen was at Top of the Pops; he was telling you the truth about the list that’s etched into the rushing scarlet chambers of his heart.

When the American leg of the tour ends and the band gets a brief reprieve in London, you move into Roger’s paltry, disorganized flat and scrub away all the remnants of his past life: dust and empty cigarette boxes and women’s socks, ashes and copies of Vogue, a tube of lipstick that isn’t yours. You don’t complain, don’t even frown; you’re under no delusions that something eternal can be founded on resentment, on lies. And so you clear out the clutter and open the windows so sunshine and crisp spring air can breathe through the apartment, so you can both start fresh along with the bellflowers and delphiniums and roses and the tawny newborn ducklings scampering behind their mothers. You hang photos from the tour and John’s sketches on the refrigerator, place your Canon F-1 and pink conch shell from Ostia on the nightstand, litter the drawers with your own socks and makeup. You teach Roger how to sew (although he’s not much good at it) and how to treat blisters (although you’ll always be there to do it for him); and in return Roger teaches you how to trust, how to believe, how to stop searching desperately for faults in the light.

On the second day of April, Queen boards their flight to Tokyo. Brian settles into a plushy, billowing blanket and loses himself in an astronomy magazine; he’s an engaged man now, an honest man in the eyes of society at large...and, far more importantly, his parents. Freddie pens lyrics in his notebook, humming disjointedly, napping like a cat when the mood strikes him. Roger snacks constantly and tries to get John chatting, but John is particularly subdued today, preoccupied, prone to gazing unfocusedly at the clouds that drift by outside and wringing his hands.

And you think, as you peer down into the glistening sapphire waters of the East China Sea: Brian’s a willow tree, Freddie’s a lightning storm, Roger is wildfire...but what is John?

Something deep, something beautiful and strong and constant and hidden.

The ocean, you decide as Queen’s private plane soars over the quicksilver waves that conceal the abyss. John is the ocean.

~~~~~~~~~~

“You didn’t have to stay, you know.”

John is lying on his back under a small grove of cherry blossom trees outside the hotel, sketching grey outlines of petals and arcing branches in a new notebook. He hasn’t given any sign that he heard you coming, doesn’t turn his head to see you. You freeze, startled.

“How’d you know it was me?!”

“You have very distinct footsteps. Dainty, yet purposeful.” He sets aside his notebook and sits up, crossing his long legs. “Why didn’t you go to lunch?”

“Because you didn’t. You turned down ramen, and you never turn down ramen. I was worried. Plus someone has to make sure a roving posse of screaming Japanese girls doesn’t carry you off.”

That makes him laugh. The Japanese fans are inexplicably obsessed with John; or maybe it’s not so inexplicable, maybe they just have a better eye for quiet, unassuming wonders. “Always so thoughtful.”

You sit down beside him, open a pack of chocolate-flavored Pocky and offer John a piece, frown when he lights a cigarette instead. “That’s really bad for you. Seriously. You should quit.”

“At last. One thing you and Brian agree on.” He exhales a gale of smoke and peers up at the cherry blossoms.

“John?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t break up with Veronica, did you?” Chrissie and Mary didn’t mention anything about her tearful devastation, and you suspect they would have had John gone through with it.

He sighs. “I did not.”

“And...are we feeling...okay about that...?”

He twirls the cigarette nervously between his fingers. After a silence, he surrenders. “Look, I haven’t told anybody yet, but I’d tell you first anyway. So here it goes.” He glances over at you guiltily, gloomily, wishing he could disappear. “I didn’t break up with Veronica because she’s pregnant.”

Your jaw falls open. A half-eaten stick of Pocky rolls out of your mouth and onto the grass. She’s what? She’s WHAT?

“Please don’t be disappointed,” John pleads. “I’m disappointed in myself enough for both of us, believe me.”

“I...I...I’m not disappointed, John, I’m just...” You blink at him. “Oh my god.”

He nods, acquiescent. “I’m in complete agreement.”

You shake your head, gaping at him, stunned; and suddenly you don’t like what you’re feeling at all. Because it isn’t just shock and horror, it isn’t just apprehension. You hate the thought of him touching her, of her delicate white hands on him, of innocence stripped away and memories impressed into muscle, into soul.

Because you know she’s not right for him. Because you know he doesn’t love her the way he should. Because you want the best for him and always have.

Oh, there’s a comforting rationale; but is it true?

And then: You fucking hypocrite. Since when do you get an opinion on who anyone sleeps with?

“It must have happened in January,” John says miserably. “Right before we left for the States. She didn’t want to tell me over the phone...I guess maybe she thought if she did I’d never come back. So she told me as soon as I landed in London. And here we all are.”

You stare down at your shoes, trying to compose yourself. “What are you going to do?”

“There’s only one option.”

“Actually, there are quite a few. But I know you’d never consider them.” John’s father died when he was ten, and he never talks about it; which is precisely how you know it’s a wound that can’t ever heal, a gash that goes straight down to the bone. He would never leave his child, never banish them to some dusty, repressed corner of his consciousness while he moves on with a blissfully unencumbered life. You whisper: “I’m so fucking sorry, John.”

That snaps something in him, something he was choking back. He buries his face in his hands. “What the fuck am I doing?” he moans. “I’m twenty-three years old, I’m broke, I turned down loads of jobs, good jobs, as an electrical engineer, I’ve somehow become the bassist in an increasingly famous rock band...I mean, how the hell did this happen? How did any of this happen?”

“It’ll be okay,” you insist with newfound resolve. I have to save him. I have to protect him.

John rolls those soft greyish eyes, hopeless, distraught. “Sure.”

“It will be, I promise you. The tour is going great. I had my doubts about the band when I first met you, I’ll admit it, I didn’t know if there was a future for Queen. But you’ve made me a believer. You’ve made millions of people all over the world believers. The money will keep rolling in, Queen will finally start seeing some of it, you won’t be broke forever. You’ll have two more months on the road and then we’ll be back in London, and it’ll be on to recording the next album, more shows, more money...the hard times are almost over, John. You can do this. And I’ll help you.”

His brow furrows. “You will?”

“Of course. If it’s easier for Veronica, it’ll be easier for you. So I’ll be extra friendly, take her to appointments when you’re busy, help organize the wedding, babysit the littlest Deacon whenever she needs me to. We’ll get through this. I’ll be there to help every step of the way.”

“You’re happy, aren’t you?” he asks suddenly. “You and Roger. You aren’t going anywhere.” He’s reading you closely, sifting through your words and forced smile for something deeper.

“I’m happy,” you assure him. “You don’t need to be concerned about that. I’m staying with the band, I’m staying in London. Whenever Queen is home, that is.”

He nods, but perhaps that wasn’t exactly what he was looking for. He finally accepts a piece of Pocky from you and takes a bite. “Then I guess we’ll plan for a summer wedding.”

“You could do a double one with Brian and Chrissie.”

He laughs so hard he almost inhales the Pocky, then doubles over coughing. “I think Bri would rather slit his own throat, but a charming thought. Thank you for that. Bravo.”

You smile at John, genuinely this time. “You’re going to be an amazing father. I hope you aren’t worried about that part of it, at least.”

“Will you be their godparent?”

“What? Me?!”

“Yeah. Because, you know...” John averts his gaze. “You’d be the person I would want to raise them if something happened to me and Veronica. You’re the most dedicated, stubborn, capable, nurturing, remarkable person I’ve ever met. You’re my best friend. And maybe Roger’s your best friend and you’re his, and that’s all fine, that’s alright, but you’re still mine.”

“Roger is a lot of incredible things, but he’s not my best friend.” You lie flat on the grass and lace your hands behind your head, tracking the weightless snowy clouds as they float by above. When did we become adults? When did all of these rules catch up to us? “I would be honored to be your child’s godparent.”

John plops down beside you. “Don’t tell the others yet, okay? I want to wait until the tour’s over. I don’t want them to panic and think I’m leaving and try to replace me or anything.”

“They wouldn’t try to replace you, John.”

“No?” he asks doubtfully.

“No. Roger knows it, Fred knows it, I think even Bri knows it.” You reach out and weave a lock of his hair through your fingers as cherry blossom petals tumble in the breeze. “You’re irreplaceable.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Sod,” Freddie mocks. “That’s the best you could do? Really? Sod?”

Roger flings up his hands in frustration. “Freddie, I’ve got like a million Cs!”

“You could have done cod,” Brian notes, sipping a cup of hot tea. “Cods, actually.”

Roger glowers down at his Scrabble tiles. “Fuck.”

“And I’m so delighted he didn’t!” You place your tiles, expanding on sod to make rhapsody. John high-fives you and records the points in his notebook. Freddie and Brian groan in defeat.

“What the hell is a rhapsody?!” Roger snatches the Official Scrabble Dictionary off the table and flips through it.

“It’s a, like a...” Freddie waves his cigarette, scattering smoke through the air. “It’s like an epic poem. Or an opera. With lots of bizarre, different parts all pieced together.”

“That sounds made up.”

Freddie cackles. “Darling, it’s a real thing, I swear!”

Roger locates the pertinent page in the Scrabble Dictionary and his shoulders slump. “Goddammit. Fucking...too smart...nerdy...college-educated...girlfriend.” He drags you into his lap and kisses your temple. “You’re lucky you’re cute. I don’t usually tolerate being conquered like this.”

Bri smirks from behind his teacup. “I rather think you conquered her, Rog.”

“Oh, a rare good one from Bri!” Freddie trills as everyone laughs, although John soon busies himself with clearing empty bottles and cigarette butts off the table.

“Yes,” Roger agrees. “Against her superior judgment, I finally won her over. Only took eight months. Which is approximately...wait, let me count...seven and a half months longer than it has ever taken me before.”

You trace your fingertips across his stubbled cheeks, his soft lips, his little dark blond tufts of sideburns. “No one knows how to say no to you, do they?”

“It’s impossible. I’m too charming. Blindingly heroic. Perseus in the flesh.” He kisses your forehead and steadies you, his hands on your waist, as the brakes squeal and the tour bus lurches to a halt.

Freddie leaps to his feet and claps. “Alright, darlings! Off to the new digs we go. Deaky, hand me my shoes, they’re under the table...yes, right there...and toss over Brian’s hideous clogs as well.”

You help the roadies and the band drag luggage into the hotel (no small feat, as the elevator is out of order), unpack your toothbrush and hairbrush and a floral-patterned dress for dinner, giggle as you listen to Roger’s feral, raspy singing in the shower. It’s something about loving a car, how perfectly on-brand for him. Then Roger goes to fetch Freddie and John for dinner while you find Brian. Bri is collapsed on his bed in a striped t-shirt and jeans, freshly-washed and dewy, gazing up at the ceiling in a daze.

You tap gently on the doorframe. “Bri? You want to join us for dinner? There’s a sushi place a few blocks away that’s a local legend, apparently. Lots of veggie options too.”

He looks over at you. You haven’t spoken about the argument since you had it two months ago. Brian sometimes grimaces or smirks or rolls his willowy viridescent eyes, but he never says anything; not to you, and not to Roger as far as you’re aware. “I’m sorry,” he says simply. “I may have been out of line before. Incorrect, even.”

“No need to apologize, Bri. I’ve forgotten all about it.” You haven’t, but there’s no reason for Brian to know that.

“I just want what’s best for you. For you to be happy.”

“I know, Brian.” You cross the room and take his long, moon-white, artful hands in your own. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ll be in the wedding party, won’t you? I know Chris will ask.”

“Of course. And I’ll proudly wear whatever dreadfully tacky and uncomfortable bridesmaid dresses she picks out.”

“Even if they’re a frightful shimmery green?”

“Oh god.” You swallow noisily. “I’ll still do it. And then burn the photos.”

Brian chuckles as he climbs out of bed. “In a stroke of luck, I suspect she’ll ask you to take the pictures. So you can avoid being in them as much as you’d like. And conveniently lose the unflattering ones.”

You study him thoughtfully. “Are you happy, Brian?”

“I am. Chrissie’s excited, my parents are thrilled, they’ll be sitting in the front row with the proudest smiles you’ve ever seen. Next comes a proper house, and children, and all the rest of it.” But something in those mellow olivey eyes is resigned, melancholy. His words from two months ago echo in your skull: It’s necessary. It’s self-preservation. Because sometimes the people who set us on fire would burn us alive.

“Do you still think about New Orleans?” you ask softly. About the woman he’d fallen in love with there before you ever met Queen, about the utopian passion he never quite stops searching for. Everyone has demons, secrets, shadowy trenches like cracks in porcelain; you’ve learned all about Brian’s. What about Roger’s? What about mine?

He shrugs, staring out the window at the dusky skyline of Yokohama. “Maybe I’ll always think about New Orleans. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have to grow up and start taking responsibility.”

“Responsibility,” you reply cynically, before you can stop yourself. “Is that all love is about anymore?”

“Not for you. Not for Roger. You both want your freedom, your adventure, your true and uncomplicated love. And you’ll get to keep it.”

For now. But you don’t say that. Instead, you smile appeasingly and gesture for Brian to follow you out into the hallway.

The others are waiting by the door to the stairwell: John in a smart grey suit, Freddie in his black-and-yellow jacket, Roger in sunglasses and a ridiculous leopard-print vest he’d dug out of a trashcan somewhere and precariously tall boots.

“At last, Nurse Nightingale and my darling Brian!” Freddie chirps. “Come on, I’m positively famished, and also I’ve bet five pounds that I can consume more sake shots than Roger and I could really use the dough.”

Roger pushes through the door, leading the way. “Prepare to lose!”

“Roger, please,” you implore. “New livers don’t grow on trees, and I can’t give you half of mine. I’m the wrong blood type.”

Roger laughs as he bounds down the steps, then whirls to grin up at you as he walks backwards. “Relax, Deaks will share! You’re type A, aren’t you John—?”

Roger’s heel slips and he plummets down the flight of stairs. He tumbles as the four of you shriek in horror and bolt after him, slams into the wall of the landing, ricochets off of it and plunges down the next flight as well. There’s blood, you think frenziedly as you descend, screaming Roger’s name. There’s blood all over the steps.

Roger, crumpled on the maroon-streaked landing, slowly unravels and groans. He glances down, appraises himself, then hammers his left fist against the concrete wall of the stairwell, roaring in raw agony and rage. “No no no no no no!”

“Roger—!”

And then you see it.

Roger’s right arm hangs uselessly, unnaturally, his snapped radius bloody and splitting through the skin.

#but you can never leave fic #but you can never leave series #but you can never leave #roger taylor fic #roger taylor x reader #queen fic #queen fanfic #queen fanfiction

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fangirl-ramblings · 5 years

Note

hey friend, could i get a drabble of "well, it’s the thought that counts" with bill?

Why of course my new friend.😊

📷 Photo Credit: @the-neigh-sayer

Pairing: Bill Williamson x reader

Summary: Bill gives you a gift, but where did it come from?

Word count: 816

Notes: Fluff

I had to go and make Bill soft again – but don’t worry he’s still the loveable dumbass we all know & love.

I’m not entirely sure this plot makes sense – but I had fun doing it anyways.

This was written with a female reader in mind, but I’ve (hopefully) tried to make it gender neutral.

It’s The Thought That Counts

A shadow was cast over the pages of your book as Bill stood in front of you. Clearing his throat to get your attention, you rushed to finish reading the page you were on before looking up to meet his gaze.

“Mr. Williamson. What can I do for you?” you smiled sweetly, hiding your annoyance that he had intruded on your peace and quiet.

“I just saw this…and…er…” he paused, rubbing his arm while his face turned crimson, “I just thought you’d like it” he spat out, quickly placing something on the top of your open page. You looked down to see a stunning silver necklace, adorned with a ruby pendant.

“Oh my gosh, Bill, it’s stunning” Looking up to thank him, you found yourself disappointed that he had already moved away from you, heading to the other side of camp as fast as his legs would take him. Nevertheless you undone the clasp and proudly placed the gift around your neck, tucking the pendant down your shirt as not to draw too much attention to it.

“Any chance you could help me with the laundry?” Tilly asked as she walked back over to your shared tent, “Karen was meant to help, but decided to go into town for drinks instead”

“Drinks? It’s only mid afternoon. But then again why am I surprised?” you commented as you moved over to the washing tub. Starting off by picking up a dirty item of clothing you leaned over the bowl of water and got to work, making idle chatter with your friend. As you vigorously scrubbed one of the men’s muddy shirts you heard something splash into the dirty water.

“What was that?” Tilly asked fishing the offending item out. Clutching your chest, only to realise it was no longer there, you recognised your gift from Bill was now sitting in the palm of the hand of your friend.

“Ain’t it pretty?” you gushed “It seems I have an admirer.” You reached out to take it back from her, but she quickly pulled her hand away.

“Who?” she teased with a hint of bother in her voice.

“Now that would be telling wouldn’t it? Now come on & hand it back over.”

“It’s just that I stole a necklace, that looked exactly like this one right here, not two days ago from some stuck up woman in Saint Denis,” she looked over the item, “but I put it straight in the donations box.”

You both looked at each other and quickly read the other’s mind. In a flash, you both stood up from your chores and chasing her you ran towards Dutch’s tent. Tilly opened the ledger and showed where she had filled in the details of her haul, while you opened the tin to find money & various items inside – but no silver necklace.

“Looks like whoever’s sweet on you is also a thief”

“You can talk, you just admitted that you stole it in the first place” you scowled yanking the necklace from her hands.

“That’s different, that old bat deserved it” Tilly protested snatching it back “So come on, who gave it to you?”

After a moment of silence you reluctantly whispered his name. “It was Bill, but maybe he had a good reason?” you pleaded as she marched over to the campfire where he was sitting alongside Javier & John, enjoying a beer.

“Bill Williamson, you pathetic man” The other two men turned to face Tilly, wondering why she was so riled up.

“What? I-I ain’t done nothing” he stuttered as she held the piece of jewellery in front of him.

“You didn’t steal this from the box?”

“No…I…” he clammed up, unable to defend himself.

“Everybody knows you don’t steal from family” she yelled, throwing the necklace straight at him before marching back her pile of laundry.

“Well…I….didn’t steal it,” he turned to look at the disappointment in your eyes “I’d paid for it...I swapped it for money – honest I did”

“Williamson you’re such a dumbass,” John snickered “What did you even want with it anyway?”

“I mean did you think the red jewel would bring out the colour of your eyes? Because you’re sorely mistaken mi amigo,” Javier ribbed him “An emerald is better suited for your complexion”

“Shut up, just shut up the pair of you” he growled rising from his seat, storming past you as he headed towards his tent. After tutting in disgust at his so-called friends, you walked over to the tent & sat next to him on his bedroll.

“Well I can’t say that was one of your better thought out ideas” you told him taking hold of his hand “But, I suppose, it’s the thought that counts isn’t it? And it was a very lovely thought indeed” You patted his hand and softly kissed his cheek before leaving to rejoin Tilly and her chores.

#bill williamson x reader #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfic #fangirl writes #fangirl answers #husbandits

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readablenoise · 5 years

Text

Florida’s Best Live Acts of 2019

With a new year, and new decade ahead of us, we recap the best Live Acts Statewide of this past year

Florida- 2019 has been a prosperous music for local music in the state.

With a plethora of albums, EP’s and concerts released before the new decade, in addition to new acts emerging from the already electrified soil, we decided to take our focus on the medium that we believe best proves the true mettle of a band: our selections of the Top 10 Live Acts in Florida.

This proved to be a much harder list than expected, with a great many acts having captured our heart in 2019. However, we stand by this list, and feel that these acts should be the ones you keep your mind, ears and excited soul on in 2020…

The Guttertones (Rock)

(photo: Jenelle DeGuzman)

Having formed in just 2019, the duo, composed of Brennan Curtin (drums) and Adam Sheetz (guitar/vocals) perform with the intensity of an act that have been honing their craft for 10 years. Debuting at Bumblefest, their live performances are something inexplicably powerful; with just a guitar, drums and a vox microphone, they can draw in a crowd like flies to sugar, and it helps that the sound coming from the amps is a honey suckle drawl of perfect Southern inspired rock meets the grit of Detroit distortion, all wrapped up in West Palm Beach flair.

They are an act that increasingly better themselves after every viewing, and for that reason and many more, we believe the duo to be one of the best on this list.

https://www.facebook.com/theGutterTones/

Spirit & The Cosmic Heart (Dreampop/Shoegaze)

(photo: Roberto Badillo)

The Lakeland based act has been one we’ve kept on both your radar, and ours, since early this year. Churning and evolving like the Atlantic itself, the group made continued evolving and with each new emergence, seem to just keep getting better.

With their 2nd EP, “Memories” released mid-2019, they are one of the few acts, both locally and internationally, that can sound just as good on record and yet somehow, different. Our best example of this being our personal favorite, “Endlessly”. While the track is an intense Cure meets Mama’s and Papa’s build-up of dreamy romance live, the 5 piece have created an almost alternate reality version of the track on record that explodes just the same, in a different way. And it’s truly the best way to describe the act; something haunting that sparks something individually different, upon every song and every viewing.

https://spiritandthecosmicheart.bandcamp.com/

Donzii (Post-Punk)

(Photo: Jen.cray)

Another of our unabashedly favorite local acts, experiencing the 5 piece in any of the five senses, is akin to visiting one of the great art museums of the world- each time.

With visuals being orchestrated by frontwoman Jenna Balfe, a whirlwind mixture of Siouxsie Sioux and Poly Styrene, every performance Donzii puts on is a different painting, in a different time, all along the already powerful hypnotic music that follows from the chemistry of the act themselves. “Sand”, to our ears, is one of the best tracks of this decade by any artist in recent memory internationally. It’s a large claim to make, but an act like Donzii truly come every once in a lifetime, and we are grateful to be living in the same era of music as this incredible band.

https://donzii.bandcamp.com/

Jaialai (Psychedelica/Alternative)

(Photo: go.cuna)

While the sound have been a local flavor favorite, we got our first powerful dose of the sound live, at 1306 Miami earlier this year and it was something unlike anything else we’ve seen. Carrying the force of a hurricane inside of a tornadic explosion of guitars, drums and build-up, the performance we viewed consisted of moshing, dreamy visuals and near Renaissance punk vibes, something that is hard to duplicate not due to the sound, but the sheer amount of power it takes to carry such a beautiful weight.

If you have the chance, we highly recommend catching this act in any venue, and watch as you leave out of breath and captivated.

https://jaialaiofficial.bandcamp.com/

The Spoondogs (Rock/Punk)

The Orlando based sound helped to close out Bumblefest 2019, and demonstrated a performance so great, it never left our mind.

Take The Rolling Stones, Warsaw and just a touch of surf-esque orchestration and you have a truly potent mixture that could fit in any decade and still bring the crowd to a absolute frenzy, something they did to a full house of the Patio Stage in Respectable Street, having those in attendance so enthralled, some stood on tables just to get a glimpse of the hailstorm of guitars that the act wield so well, both live and in recording. If you’re a fan of the above examples, Robert Plant in his prime or classic punk in general, we recommend listening in all methods, ways and feelings possible.

https://spoondogs.bandcamp.com/releases

Tape Studies (Post/Instrumental Rock)

Let us tell you a story of romance, ambition, love, the feeling of falling and a thousand sunsets; or better yet, let Tape Studies do it for you. We have expressed our endless respect for the post-rock genre due the basis of composition being that of a storybooks. The unspoken words of feeling itself, and all those moments you didn’t quite know what to say, wishing instead that music would flow out of your lungs. The Northern Florida trio are this exactly, and after watching them perform at Will’s Pub, they also embody the belief that while an orchestra can fill a room, a group with passion can act as a hundred orchestras; something they do effortlessly. With a new album in the works, we greatly look forward to the opportunity of seeing the act again, and we await for you to do the same.

https://tapestudies.bandcamp.com/releases

In Motion (Post-Hardcore/Emo)

While the trio have been on our list since mid-2019, they are also our pick for the Best Album of 2019. The post-hardcore genre is one that, while often seen, is very scarcely done right justice and we are proud to say that it’s one they not only excel in, but have brought back incredible light back into. Having seen the act perform as both an unplanned trio and in it’s complete package, we have been thoroughly astounded each and every performance by the wall of enormous sound the Hobe Sound based produce. It’s not hard to see the trio truly love what they do, and we love watching them.

https://inmotionfl.bandcamp.com/

Glass Body (Punk)

This Miami sound is one you read about in the history books. The kind you see in black and white pictures of bands you wish you were able to see, giving performances that seem to bleed sound from image alone and you wish on the stars above you could have viewed. And we’re happy to say, you can and you must. Performing in the small, intimate space of Kismet Vintage in West Palm Beach, the trio are pure, and pardon our language, fucking amazing punk. With incredible Pixies-esque drones meets Sex Pistols explosion, frontwoman/bassist Bridget helps orchestrate performances that are a legendary joy to watch, and one we hope you’ll carve into your concert tablets in 2020…

https://glassbody.bandcamp.com/

Kalistik (Metal/Doom)

(Photo: Keith McCullough)

With the debut EP freshly released, and wonderfully, darkly seductive, the Winter Haven group while fresh on our list, are not one to be taken lightly. Having made their powerful debut performance at Jessie’s Lounge (the videos of which can be seen on their Facebook page), they became one of our Florida Project acts simply due to the intensity of the performance. Bringing 70’s post-punk, doom and just the slightest touch of psychedelic elements in an impressive whirl, they are an act we cannot wait to get more in the coming year and are grateful we can jam to on our earbuds in the meantime…

https://kalistik.bandcamp.com/releases

Death of a Deity (Thrash/Metal)

(Photo: Jenelle DeGuzman)

The metal scene is one that thrived in 2019, due in part of the incredible acts that have emerged in genre in the past year alone. And while our next picks have been favorites of the South Florida scene, after having the pleasure of seeing the Loxahatchee based act perform at Propaganda Lake Worth late this past year, they make our list for the sheer of power they hold in their ferocious chemistry.

With a swirling, impressive storm of guitars and Abe Cunningham meets John Bonham-esque drums, they succeed in the difficult task of checking of not just one, but all marks of a great rock show: Heavy, orchestrated chaos, headbanging worthy composition and most importantly, enjoying every moment of it, while having all those in their grasp feel the same. With a new album on the horizon, and the preview of those tracks shared during their live performances solidifying our belief in DOAD being one of the great live acts in Florida, we cannot wait to headbang again.

https://deathofadeity.bandcamp.com/

Rose Dickeson (Pop/Jazz)

One of the last, great and most promising examples of the power of, to quote Prince’s album, a piano and a microphone, the effortless composition that radiates from the Port Saint Lucie duo is an unforgettable of Fiona Apple earnesty, Regina Spektor vocals and the soul of Nina Simone, they are an act that are vastly underrated and incredibly potent. If you have a chance to see the act perform, it’s one we highly advise not passing, as they offer experience in the shape of sonic roses you’ll never forget the scent of.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=op53J4l1TV4

Makoto (Instrumental/Math Rock)

Our final selection for this list, will not be met with the usual “last but not least” blush response but calculated reasoning. The Southern Florida based act are the final cut on our list for the same reasoning that fireworks cap off another rotation around the Sun; for the power lightning storm that roars into the night, and what better way to describe the act than this? As we spoke of in our review of Bumblefest, we thoroughly believe that they should have been given a headline set and we believe 2020 will see them perform that slot at festivals both near and far, for the incredible, anthemic performances they emanate both in record and live. Makoto deliver the types of performances that have your feet sore from jumping, hair in a tizzy from rocking out and most importantly, leave you breathless. It’s a talent they are as skilled at as they are in composing near perfect rock orchestrations. And one we know, will leave you in awe.

https://makoto.bandcamp.com/

We hope you fill your heart with great, new and wonderful music in the new decade. And now, to quote a certain wizard, “ Let us step into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.”

-Jenelle DeGuzman

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bountyofbeads · 5 years

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A Tale of Two Jeffreys: How the Virgin Islands Welcomed a Rich Sex Offender—and Punished a Poor One

https://news.yahoo.com/tale-two-jeffreys-virgin-islands-100129832.html

A Tale of Two Jeffreys: How the Virgin Islands Welcomed a Rich Sex Offender—and Punished a Poor One

By Michael Daly, Special Correspondent | Published 07.28.19, 6:01AM ET | Daily Beast | Posted July 28, 2019 |

From the Virgin Islands comes a tale of two Jeffreys, and the difference great wealth can make when it comes to sex crimes—until it doesn't.

Both Jeffreys were convicted of shameful crimes that required them to register as sex offenders in whatever state or jurisdiction they resided.

Jeffrey Epstein pleaded guilty in Florida to engaging a minor in prostitution in a 2007 plea deal only a super-rich guy could have swung. He did 18 months locked up, mostly in a private wing of the Palm Beach County jail, where he only stayed at night, returning each morning to “work release.”

He then proceeded to prove that a registered sex offender with enough money in the Virgin Islands can just continue to come and go from a private island off the coast of St. Thomas, with an ever-changing entourage of girls who appeared to be barely in their teens. He would announce his periodic return by raising the American flag over the opulent hideaway identified on the maps as Little Saint James Island, but known to locals as “pedophile island.”

Jeffrey No. 2—Jeffery Cole—was convicted in Ohio of a misdemeanor charge of voyeurism in 2009. He was a schlub of modest means, but his offense was relatively minor (if creepy) and he needed neither wealth nor influence to receive just a suspended sentence of 90 days and two years probation.

“The underlying conviction, which requires Mr. Cole to register as a sex offender, did not involve a minor, physical violence, or physical touching of any kind,” his present attorney, Melanie Turnbull, noted in court.

We Found Red Flags All Over Jeffrey Epstein’s Jail Records

Once he successfully completed probation, Cole moved to Georgia, where he registered as a sex offender. He moved to the Virgin Islands in 2018 and has not been charged with engaging in further voyeurism or any other crimes.

The problem for this Jeffrey was that he failed to register promptly in his new home as a sex offender. The U.S. Attorney for the Virgin Islands, Gretchen Shappert, did not miss an opportunity to convey through the media how seriously her office takes such matters.

“USVI resident indicted for not registering as sex offender,” the headline in a local news outlet read.

That February 28th article was accompanied by a photo illustration that showed a parked auto with a driver-side front door emblazoned with the words “SEX OFFENDER In This Car.” It also pictured a house with a sign out front reading, ”SEX OFFENDER LIVES HERE.”

On April 12, Cole entered into a plea deal where he faces a sentence of no more than a year.

“St. Thomas Resident Pleaded Guilty to Failing to Register as a Sex Offender,” the U.S. Attorney’s press release announced.

In the meantime, on March 15, the other Jeffrey flew into St. Thomas aboard his private jet. He made his annual check-in at the local sex registry office, a gesture that can now be seen as a kind of mockery, as it’s been revealed that he had been seen still bringing young girls to his private island.

“Everybody was like, ‘Oh, yeah, that’s pedophile island,’” remembers a Wall Street numbers cruncher turned pizzeria owner who arrived in the Virgin Islands from New York in 2009.

Where were the authorities when it came to this Jeffrey?

Epstein’s Coney Island Days: From Math Nerd to ‘Arrogant’ Prick

At least four members of the local legislature accepted significant campaign contributions from Southern Trust Company, Inc., one of a host of business entities Epstein founded in the Virgin Islands. Those companies began with L.S.J, LLC, through which he bought his private island for $7.95 million in 1998.

Epstein had hired Cecile de Jongh, wife of former Virgin Islands Gov. John de Jongh, as the office manager for Southern Trust, which was granted income tax breaks of up to 90 percent by the U.S. Virgin Islands Economic Development Authority. The former first lady also managed the Epstein VI Foundation, which supported everything from brain research at Harvard to the girls’ volleyball team at St. Croix Central High School in the Virgin Islands.

After Epstein was arrested in Florida for a sex crime involving a minor, a Virgin Islands newspaper called The Avis ran an article suggesting that Cecile de Jongh’s connections with Epstein might muddy her husband’s political prospects. The Avis also noted that the arrest called into question whether the girls’ volleyball team should have jerseys bearing the name Epstein.

A purported grassroots movement collected 5,000 signatures on a petition accusing The Avis of yellow journalism. Epstein attorney Gerald Lefcourt issued a statement saying, “The grand jury and the prosecutor's office... determined that no serious offense had occurred.”

Really.

Epstein kept partying on Pedophile Island. He is said to have met some resistance when he sought to buy the nearby, larger island of Great St James. The blue-blood Danish family that owned it is said to have been reluctant to sell to someone with Epstein’s unsavory reputation. But he appears to have managed to acquire it anyway in 2016 by cloaking the buyer’s identity with a company called Great St. Jim LLC. He is said to have paid $18 million.

Epstein immediately applied for a permit to erect two 80-foot flag poles, arguing that the 45-foot limit on the books should not apply to his property. No doubt at least one of the poles would be used to fly an American flag and announce for everyone to see when the owner of Pedophile Island was back.

But construction of a compound on the bigger island was delayed by environmental concerns that even somebody as well-connected as Epstein could not just circumvent.

And there was far greater trouble brewing for Epstein as the result of a determined reporter, Julie Brown of the Miami Herald.

Brown revealed and documented the unconscionable plea deal Epstein had been granted. The Manhattan U.S. Attorney launched a new investigation.

In reviewing the 2007 Florida case, the FBI noted a court document reporting an incident that when agents served Epstein’s personal assistant Lesley Groff with a grand jury subpoena, she excused herself, purportedly to check on her child. She is said by the court document to have used the moment to telephone Epstein, who was headed in his private plane from Palm Beach to Teterboro Airport in New Jersey across the Hudson River from New York. He was in the company of another assistant, Nadia Marcinkova, who has been accused of complicity in his sex trafficking.

“Mr. Epstein became concerned that the FBI would try to serve his traveling companion, Nadia Marcinkova, with a similar grand jury subpoena,” the document reports. “In fact, the agents were preparing to serve Ms. Marcinkova with a target letter when the flight landed in Teterboro. Mr. Epstein then redirected his airplane, making the pilot file a new flight plan to travel to the US Virgin Islands instead.”

The American flag no doubt again went up over Pedophile Island as the FBI stood thwarted at Teterboro.

A dozen years later, the FBI took great care that Epstein received no warning. He flew unsuspecting on July 6 from Paris to Teterboro and a waiting pair of handcuffs.

On July 8, Epstein was arraigned in Manhattan federal court on charges of trafficking in underage girls. He was remanded as a flight risk and a danger to the community. He was consigned to the Metropolitan Correctional Center, briefly in general population but within hours assigned to the Special Housing Unit due to threats from inmates who apparently take a dim view of “short eyes,” as child molesters are known behind bars.

Epstein must have considered the arrest a possibility, for some time ago he commissioned an artist to paint a mural in his Manhattan mansion of him in a prison yard. Neither he nor the artist seem to have foreseen that he would find himself locked up 23 hours a day in an eight-by-eight foot cell infested with cockroaches and rodents. A thickly screened single narrow window faces a brick wall and lets in only enough light to tell night from day. Mold is said to grow on the walls. Water seeps in under the door from a shower to which he has access only once every three days.

For two weeks, Epstein’s cellmate was an ex-cop named Nicholas Tartaglione, who is accused of a quadruple murder. Tartaglione says the two became “friends,” whereby he joined a list that once included two presidents, Donald Trump and Bill Clinton. A realtor who asked not to be identified recently told The Daily Beast that Trump exclaimed at a business gathering at Tavern on the Green some years ago that Epstein was “my best friend.”

Tartaglione has reportedly told authorities that he saved Epstein from a suicide attempt. But Trump may not be the only liar on Epstein's list of pals. Tartaglione ended up in the Special Housing Unit after he was caught with a cellphone that he insisted had just been given to him by another inmate. Tartaglione then moved to keep the government from inspecting the phone’s contents on the grounds it may have privileged communications with his lawyer and with his wife. Never mind it was supposedly not his.

Epstein is now said to be on suicide watch. He is 66 and, if convicted, he stands a good chance of dying in prison even if he takes the best possible care of himself. He may have finally landed in a situation where all his money cannot save him from suffering the consequences of his actions.

Also behind bars is the other Jeffrey, having been remanded when he entered his guilty plea in April.

Cole had been free on his own recognizance since his arraignment, the court having deemed him to be neither a flight risk nor a danger to the community. His attorney petitioned for him to remain at liberty pending sentencing, which is set for August 15.

The attorney noted that Cole is a 57-year-old graduate of Ohio State University with a Bachelor of Science degree in landscape architecture, had been steadily employed for more than 30 years and was presently a fleet manager at a car rental company. He would be able to continue working there until his day of reckoning.

The judge remanded Cole nonetheless. Cole was shipped off to the Metropolitan Detention Center in Guaynabo, Puerto Rico. His attorney has since filed a motion to expedite matters.

“The current sentencing date inevitably results in a period of incarceration of four months,” the petition noted, adding that Cole was eligible to receive probation and no time at all.

As of Saturday, the sentencing was still set for August 15. Cole remains behind bars in Guaynabo. But he will almost certainly be free within the next few months.

And you can bet that this Jeffrey would not trade places with the other one for all the money in the world

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sjecblogarchive · 7 years

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HOLY WEEK 2017 RECAP: PHOTOS, VIDEO & SCRIPTURE READINGS

04/17/2017 BY SJECWARRENTON

Thank you to everyone who made this year’s Holy Week so special! So many hands go into every service and every church activity – you can learn more about our clergy, music programs, children’s ministry, ushers, acolytes, altar guild, flower guild and so many other parts of the Saint James’ community throughout our website.

Below you will find photos and video of each service in Holy Week, and Scripture readings for each day of the week. We know that Holy Week can be an overwhelming time, with so many services and so many stories packed into such a short time. We hope that you will reflect on each day, and the power of each moment, at your own pace.

PALM SUNDAY

COLLECT

Almighty and everliving God, in your tender love for the human race you sent your Son our Savior Jesus Christ to take upon him our nature, and to suffer death upon the cross, giving us the example of his great humility: Mercifully grant that we may walk in the way of his suffering, and also share in his resurrection; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

THE GOSPEL: MATTHEW 21:1-11

When Jesus and his disciples had come near Jerusalem and had reached Bethphage, at the Mount of Olives, Jesus sent two disciples, saying to them, “Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately you will find a donkey tied, and a colt with her; untie them and bring them to me. If anyone says anything to you, just say this, `The Lord needs them.’ And he will send them immediately.” This took place to fulfill what had been spoken through the prophet, saying,

“Tell the daughter of Zion, Look, your king is coming to you, humble, and mounted on a donkey, and on a colt, the foal of a donkey.”

MORE SCRIPTURE READINGS

Psalm 118:1-2, 19-29

SERMON

Watch the full service

https://youtu.be/kId6OfNx1vU

MONDAY IN HOLY WEEKCOLLECT

Almighty God, whose most dear Son went not up to joy but first he suffered pain, and entered not into glory before he was crucified: Mercifully grant that we, walking in the way of the cross, may find it none other than the way of life and peace; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

THE GOSPEL: JOHN 12:1-11

Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.

MORE SCRIPTURE READINGS

Isaiah 42:1-9

Psalm 36:5-11

Hebrews 9:11-15

Mark 11:12-19

TUESDAY IN HOLY WEEKCOLLECT

O God, by the passion of your blessed Son you made an instrument of shameful death to be for us the means of life: Grant us so to glory in the cross of Christ, that we may gladly suffer shame and loss for the sake of your Son our Savior Jesus Christ; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

THE GOSPEL: JOHN 12:20-36

Among those who went up to worship at the festival were some Greeks. They came to Philip, who was from Bethsaida in Galilee, and said to him, “Sir, we wish to see Jesus.” Philip went and told Andrew; then Andrew and Philip went and told Jesus. Jesus answered them, “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life. Whoever serves me must follow me, and where I am, there will my servant be also. Whoever serves me, the Father will honor.

MORE SCRIPTURE READINGS

Isaiah 49:1-7

1 Corinthians 1:18-31

Psalm 71:1-14

Mark 11:20 – 13:32

WEDNESDAY IN HOLY WEEKCOLLECT

Lord God, whose blessed Son our Savior gave his body to be whipped and his face to be spit upon: Give us grace to accept joyfully the sufferings of the present time, confident of the glory that shall be revealed; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

THE GOSPEL: JOHN 13:21-32

At supper with his friends, Jesus was troubled in spirit, and declared, “Very truly, I tell you, one of you will betray me.” The disciples looked at one another, uncertain of whom he was speaking. One of his disciples– the one whom Jesus loved– was reclining next to him; Simon Peter therefore motioned to him to ask Jesus of whom he was speaking. So while reclining next to Jesus, he asked him, “Lord, who is it?” Jesus answered, “It is the one to whom I give this piece of bread when I have dipped it in the dish.”

MORE SCRIPTURE READINGS

Isaiah 50:4-9a

Hebrews 12:1-3

Psalm 70

Mark 14:1-10

MAUNDY THURSDAY

COLLECT

Almighty Father, whose dear Son, on the night before he suffered, instituted the Sacrament of his Body and Blood: Mercifully grant that we may receive it thankfully in remembrance of Jesus Christ our Lord, who in these holy mysteries gives us a pledge of eternal life; and who now lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

THE GOSPEL: JOHN 13:1-17, 31B-35

Now before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. The devil had already put it into the heart of Judas son of Simon Iscariot to betray him. And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” Jesus answered, “You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.” Peter said to him, “You will never wash my feet.” Jesus answered, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.”

MORE SCRIPTURE READINGS

Exodus 12:1-14

1 Corinthians 11:23-26

Psalm 116:1, 10-17

Mark 14:12-72

SERMON

Watch the full service

GOOD FRIDAY

COLLECT

Almighty God, we pray you graciously to behold this your family, for whom our Lord Jesus Christ was willing to be betrayed, and given into the hands of sinners, and to suffer death upon the cross; who now lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

THE GOSPEL: JOHN 18:1 – 19:42

Jesus went out with his disciples across the Kidron valley to a place where there was a garden, which he and his disciples entered. Now Judas, who betrayed him, also knew the place, because Jesus often met there with his disciples. So Judas brought a detachment of soldiers together with police from the chief priests and the Pharisees, and they came there with lanterns and torches and weapons. Then Jesus, knowing all that was to happen to him, came forward and asked them, “Whom are you looking for?” They answered, “Jesus of Nazareth.” Jesus replied, “I am he.” Judas, who betrayed him, was standing with them. When Jesus said to them, “I am he,” they stepped back and fell to the ground. Again he asked them, “Whom are you looking for?” And they said, “Jesus of Nazareth.” Jesus answered, “I told you that I am he. So if you are looking for me, let these men go.”

MORE SCRIPTURE READINGS

Isaiah 52:13-53:12

Psalm 22

Hebrews 10:16-25

The other Gospels’ accounts of Good Friday are as follows:

Mark 14:43 – 15:47

Matthew 26:47 – 27:66

Luke 22:47 – 23:56

SERMON

Watch the full service (evening)

Watch the full service (noon)

HOLY SATURDAY (EASTER VIGIL)

COLLECT

O God, who made this most holy night to shine with the glory of the Lord’s resurrection: Stir up in your Church that Spirit of adoption which is given to us in Baptism, that we, being renewed both in body and mind, may worship you in sincerity and truth; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

(click any photo for a larger view)

THE GOSPEL: MATTHEW 28:1-10

After the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. And suddenly there was a great earthquake; for an angel of the Lord, descending from heaven, came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men. But the angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said.

MORE SCRIPTURE READINGS

Genesis 1:1 – 2:4a

Exodus 14:10-31

Exodus 15:20-21

Isaiah 55:1-11

Ezekiel 37:1-14

Zephaniah 3:14-20

Romans 6:3-11

Psalm 114

SERMON

Watch the full service

EASTER DAY

COLLECT

Almighty God, who through your only-begotten Son Jesus Christ overcame death and opened to us the gate of everlasting life: Grant that we, who celebrate with joy the day of the Lord’s resurrection, may be raised from the death of sin by your life-giving Spirit; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

(click on any photo for a larger view)

THE GOSPEL: JOHN 20:1-18

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb. So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said to them, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” Then Peter and the other disciple set out and went toward the tomb. The two were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He bent down to look in and saw the linen wrappings lying there, but he did not go in. Then Simon Peter came, following him, and went into the tomb. He saw the linen wrappings lying there, and the cloth that had been on Jesus’ head, not lying with the linen wrappings but rolled up in a place by itself. Then the other disciple, who reached the tomb first, also went in, and he saw and believed; for as yet they did not understand the scripture, that he must rise from the dead. Then the disciples returned to their homes.

MORE SCRIPTURE READINGS

Jeremiah 31:1-6

Colossians 3:1-4

Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24

Matthew 28:1-10

SERMON

Watch the full service

#Holy Week #Learn #Music #Prayers #Worship #Easter #Easter Vigil #Fr Ben #Fr Randolph #Good Friday #Gospel of John #Gospel of Matthew #Holy Saturday #Lectionary #Maundy Thrusday #Palm Sunday #Photos #Pray Sermon #Video

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hydecurator · 4 years

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Christian Narrative Painting

Those of you who took an Art History survey course undoubtedly learnt the name of Giotto. Between 1303 and 1306, he decorated the Arena Chapel in Padua, Italy with frescos that narrate the life of Christ. This artistic and architectural commission fulfilled the principal functions of religious art outlined in my previous posting. It provided a setting for the performance of the liturgy; it provided a visual education in the fundamental Christian narrative and tenants of the faith; and it was an expression of power, wealth, and status. The chapel was commissioned by Enrico Scrovegni (d.1336), a notable Paduan businessman whose wealth and status derived from money lending. Termed usury by the Church is was a tainted profession. Scrovegni sought to earn merit for his soul through this act of religious patronage as well as from the masses said for him and his family daily at the chapel’s altars. The beauty of the chapel’s decoration was as much a statement of his taste, wealth, and social status as it was a gift to God and the Virgin Mary, to whom the chapel was dedicated.

Giotto told the story of Holy Week, from Christ’s entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday to His appearance to Mary Magdalene following his resurrection on Easter Sunday, in twelve episodes. Giotto’s style was revolutionary. With simple, volumetric figures that convincingly occupied a definable space, he created dramatic tableaux that narrated the events clearly, concisely, and with great emotion.

Giotto (Italian, 1267-1337), The Last Supper, 1303-05, The Arena Chapel, Padua. Wikimedia Commons.

Two scenes mark the events liturgically commemorated on Maundy Thursday: Christ’s last supper with his disciples, and His washing of their feet. It is tradition in Britain on Maundy Thursday that the Queen distribute specially-minted maundy money, in lieu of washing feet, which her medieval forebears once piously did. The Pope still imitates Christ’s act of humility.

Giotto (Italian, 1267-1337), Christ Washing the Feet of His Disciples, 1303-05, fresco, The Arena Chapel, Padua. Wikimedia Commons.

Leonardo da Vinci (Italian, 1452-1519), The Last Supper, 1495-98, fresco, Santa Maria delle Grazie, Milan. Wikimedia Commons.

Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper (1495-98), must be one of the most famous religious paintings ever created. The painting performs several functions. Firstly, it narrates the apostles’ reaction to Christ’s announcement that one of them will betray him. With Christ seated in the middle of a long refectory table, silhouetted against an open window surmounted by a semi-circular pediment (Leonardo’s subtle introduction of a halo), it places Christ dogmatically at the center of the Eucharist. And finally, as it was painted on the walls of the monks’ dining hall at the monastery of Santa Maria delle Grazie, Milan, it reminded the monks that they were Christ’s latter-day disciples. Their community meal was a meal in communion with Christ and his followers. [As a side note, The Hyde’s St. James the Less from the workshop of El Greco comes from a series depicting Christ and the twelve apostles originally commissioned for a Spanish monastic dining hall.]

Domenikos Theotokopoulos "El Greco,” (Greek, active in Italy and Spain, 1541-1614), St. James the Less, ca. 1595, oil on canvas, 34 5/8 × 30 in. The Hyde Collection, Glens Falls, New York, Gift of Charlotte Pruyn Hyde, 1971.18.

The most popular defense of religious art throughout the Middle Ages and Renaissance was that written by Pope Gregory the Great, ca. 600: “What writing (scriptura) does for the literate, a picture does for the illiterate looking at it, because the ignorant see in it what they ought to do; those who do not know letters read in it.” Pictures provided the clergy with the means of teaching an illiterate congregation Biblical stories, stories of the lives of the saints, and other essential truths. It was even possible to catechize the viewer and to convey doctrine through images.

As one walks through The Hyde, there are many examples of religious narrative art. Most have been excised both from their narrative sequence and context. Take, for instance, the jewel-like piece of twelfth-century stained glass that hangs in the main stairs of Hyde House. It depicts Christ’s presentation in the Temple. We can surmise that it was part of an Infancy cycle that depicted Christ’s birth.

Anonymous (French), Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, ca. 1195, stained glass ( 24 7/16 x 23 in.), The Hyde Collecction, Glens Falls, New York, Bequest of Charlotte Pruyn Hyde, 1971.112. Photo credit: Michael Fredericks.

In storage, there is a second stained glass panel removed from the cathedral of Saint-Ouen, Rouen, France that depicts Christ’s Entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday and presumably came from a window depicting His Passion.

Anonymous (French), Christ’s Entry into Jerusalem, ca. 1325, stained glass (20 1/16 x 13 5/8 in.), The Hyde Collection, Glens Falls, New York, Bequest of Charlotte Pruyn Hyde, 1971.114. Photo credit: Michael Fredericks.

Narrative sequences commonly filled the predella or base of an altarpiece. They were invariably related to the life of the saint honored in the altarpiece above. The dimensions of the Annunciation (ca. 1492) panel by Sandro Botticelli (1445-1510) in the Music Room suggest that it was part of a predella, presumably from an altarpiece dedicated either to the Virgin Mary or to Christ’s infancy.

Sandro Botticelli (Italian, 1444-1510), Annunciation, ca. 1492, tempera on panel, 11 1/2 × 15 1/4 in. The Hyde Collection, Glens Falls, New York, Gift of Charlotte Pruyn Hyde, 1971.10. Photo credit: Joseph Levy.

Across the room, the rectangular panel by Tintoretto depicting St. Helena Finding the True Cross is also a predella panel. The mother of the Roman emperor Constantine (272-337), St. Helena (ca. 248-328) was famous for her discovery of the buried cross upon which Christ was crucified, and for her founding of churches in the Holy Land, particularly those of the Nativity and Ascension.

(Jacopo Robusti) Tintoretto (Italian, 1518-1594), The Discovery of the True Cross, ca. 1560-1570, oil on canvas (12 1/2 in.) The Hyde Collection, Glens Falls, New York, Gift of Charlotte Pruyn Hyde, 1971.48. Photo credit: Steven Sloman.

The Dance of Salome (ca. 1480) by Matteo di Giovanni di Bartolo (1435-1495) is also a predella panel. It likely brought to a conclusion episodes from the life of St. John the Baptist.

Matteo di Giovanni di Bartolo, (Italian, ca. 1435-1495), The Dance of Salome, ca. 1480, tempera and gold leaf on wood panel (17 1/4 × 20 3/4 × 2 3/4 in.), The Hyde Collection, Glens Falls, New York, Gift of Charlotte Pruyn Hyde, 1971.28.

Matteo derived the scene’s composition from Donatello’s bronze font in the Baptistry in Siena (ca. 1427). The scene provided Donatello (1386-1466) with the opportunity to flaunt his ability to create the illusion of recession through the new technique of linear perspective. He created the image of three spaces, one behind the other, each connected through an open arcade. In each he set a different event. In the far distance, John’s head is carried from his cell by the executioner; in the middle room, musicians play; and in the foreground space, a servant presents Herod with the severed head.

Donatello (Italian, 1386-1466), Feast of Herod, 1423–1427, bronze, Battistero di San Giovanni, Siena, Italy. Photo credit: I. Sailko. Commons.wikimedia.org

Matteo simplified the arrangement. He kept the arcaded division of spaces but removed the figures from all but the foreground scene. Rather inexplicably, he introduced across the front plane of the panel free standing columns. While they complete the architecture of the banqueting room, they disrupt the narrative, which is undoubtedly why Donatello employed artistic license and omitted them. Matteo’s servant rushes forward on bended knee in the center of the panel, but his outstretched arms are obscured by a column and the platter with the saint’s decapitated head seemingly levitates on its own. Matteo allows the rational of the architectural setting he so proudly created to disrupt the visual denouement of his narrative.

Accurate to a fault with the architectural logic of his constructed space, Matteo, probably unintentionally, recorded a fact about Renaissance interiors that we might otherwise overlook. Large halls were used for multiples purposes. At mealtimes, tables were set up and removed shortly afterwards. It is clear that Herod’s dining table is a board on trestle legs. The table in Leonardo’s Last Supper is of similar construction. Tables, benches, and chairs were collapsible as we see in these instances.

It is debatable how visible predella panels were to the congregation, as it was often kept at some distance from an altar by choirstalls and screens. The predella rested upon the top of the altar. It functioned as a stand to elevate the altarpiece’s main panel above the heads of the officiants. Candlesticks, liturgical vessels like the chalice and paten, and the bodies of the officiants would have obstructed one’s view. Predella scenes were most clearly visible to the officiants. It is interesting to note with regard to this image that the Baptist’s beheading had long been interpreted by the Church as a precursor both to Christ’s execution and the presentation of the host on a paten during the Mass. With this particular scene, the priest looked upon an antecedent to his own actions.

The most popular Biblical stories were frequently illustrated in a single scene rather than as part of a narrative sequence. The Adoration of the Magi was a very popular story throughout Europe during the Renaissance and Baroque. Artists gave free range to their imagines as th ey depicted eastern wise men in exotic clothing accompanied by strange animals and large entourages. Collectors enjoyed have such visually pleasing paintings to look at all year round. The Hyde’s example, painted by an unknown Mannerist artist in Antwerp is typical of the type commonly found in the homes of well-to-do merchants in that city.

Antwerp Mannerist, after Jan de Beer (Flemish, ca.1475-ca.1528), Adoration of the Magi, ca. 1520, oil on oak panel, 29 x 25 1/4 in. The Hyde Collection, Glens Falls, New York, Gift of Charlotte Pruyn Hyde, 1971.2.

An Old Testament story not so well know today hangs over the stairs in Hyde House. It is Paolo Veronese’s Rebecca at the Well (ca. 1570). According to the story in Genesis (24: 1-28), Abraham sent his servant to find a wife for his son Isaac. The servant asked God for a sign to indicate he had found the right woman. Rebecca gave it when the servant asked for water. In return, he gave her jewelry, which Veronese has her delightedly display on her wrist.

Paolo Caliari Veronese (Italian, 1528-1588), Rebecca at the Well, ca. 1570, oil on canvas (28 1/8 × 31 3/4 in.) The Hyde Collection, Glens Falls, New York, Gift of Charlotte Pruyn Hyde, 1971.57. Photo credit: Steven Sloman.

This painting was not part of a narrative cycle, but rather a stand-alone image. If it graced a home rather than a church, it was likely intended to instruct a young girl or wife in the virtue of accepting patriarchal authority. For in the Renaissance, Rebecca was a role model for the good wife. She was maidenly and accepted the choice of husband made for her. Described as “very fair to look upon,” artists took full advantage of the opportunity to paint beautiful young Rebeccas, blond and bedecked in bling.

Finally, the Crucifixion was undoubtedly the most frequently painted Biblical event. I shall examine the power of that imagery in a future post.

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sagar77777 · 4 months

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Palm Reading And Photo Reading In Saint John, Canada

Palm Reading And Photo Reading In Saint John, Canada Astrologer Srimatha is serving everyone by means of showing him the right direction to get out of trouble. Love, profession, relationship, budget and there are many things that he guides. In his popular paintings experience, he has helped human beings, however by no means allowed them to trust in superstitions.

#childlesscouplesprobleminsaskatooncanada #courtcaseprobleminguelphcanada #getlovebackinottawacanada

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homedesignlog-blog · 6 years

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25 Modern Bedrooms Ideas For An Elevated Night's Rest

Allow’s face it, a modern bedroom layout can simply impress. not only is it sleek and present, the simplicity of a modern room promotes a way of tranquility–and because of this–an even night time’s sleep. at the comparable time, bedrooms can also be a conundrum for those of us with a swish modern aesthetic. How do you make an area that is inherently stuffed with pillows and comfortable bedding also be a excursion de force of polished layout? Fortunately, it isn't an insurmountable dilemma; these 25 brand new bedrooms will give you the entire thought you want to do it right. 1 of 25

Jane Beiles Wide Plank Up To Date Partitions A summer season camp-grew to become wintry weather house is clad in light pine shiplap, which contrasts with the arboreal inexperienced window trim. Up To Date sconces and bedding–together with a pop of purple within the headboard–helped reimagine a cabin-like bed room into a latest oasis. 2 of 25

Claire Esparros Industrial Up To Date Within The NYC loft of Homepolish co-founder Will Nathan, the industrial sort of the house used to be accentuated with minimum furnishings and brand new accents, including a low-profile bed, matching nightstands, a neutral rug, and a black & white palette. THREE of 25

Stephen Kent Johnson Modernized Antiques With accents like a nineteen sixties wall sculpture and vintage French tole clocks, this bedroom manages to exude brand new magnificence. thanks to a palette of wealthy grays, a layering of textures, and clean-covered silhouettes, the gap has an overarching sense of modernity. 4 of 25

Emily Andrews Images Faded Colors A Chelsea house's master suite relies on just a few commentary pieces to reflect a serene and modern aesthetic. The customized walnut bed, matching dresser and side table, and coordinating paintings make the minimalist space exude a contemporary feel, 5 of 25

Patrick Cline Minimalist Millwork A recessed bedside niche, low-profile mattress, and fan-shaped cerused oak headboard channel a spa-like vibe on this modern master bedroom. 6 of 25

Marco Ricca Monochrome Modern In a spacious Tribeca master suite, an announcement black mattress body contrasts the white walls and bedding. Modern sconces and a BDDW front room chair tie the space in combination. 7 of 25

R. Brad Knipstein Mid-Century Modern In a mid-century brand new California home, a customized wall-fixed bed adds architectural passion, even as the low profile layout of the bedside desk and bed body boast a signature modern aesthetic. EIGHT of 25

Trevor Tondro Up To Date Accessory Wall The mattress on this Palm Springs main bedroom got here with the home and is dressed in Barbara Martin linens with a blanket and shams through Hermès. The painting is via Daryl Edwards and the wooden display and marble bedside tables are property-sale finds. NINE of 25

Björn Wallander Blank Silhouettes Within The main bedroom of a Tahoe vacation house, an armchair and stool by means of Minotti, upholstered in a Holly Hunt leather, are paired with a side table via Jonathan Adler; the bench and dresser are through Lawson-Fenning, and the drawing is through Ching Ho Cheng; the wall is painted in Bank Vault by Dunn-Edwards, and the carpet is through Decorative Carpets. 10 of 25

Miguel Flores-Vianna Coordinating Finishes Within The master bedroom of a California house, the linen coverlet is by Space, the photograph above the bed is by Olafur Eliasson, and the thirties lamp on the custom-made desk is through George Carwardine; the capiz-shell pendant is vintage, and the redwood closet doorways are unique. 11 of 25

William Waldron Up To Date Boho In a TriBeCa condominium's main bedroom, the bed is through Meridiani, the wall lamp is by means of Serge Mouille, the vintage Poul Kjaerholm daybed retains its original leather-based, and the side table is through Wyeth; the console is a antique piece by way of Paul McCobb, and the circa-1970 Beni Ourain rug is from Double Knot. 12 of 25

Björn Wallander Photo Wall A bedroom in a NYC penthouse features a bed through DucDuc, a Saarinen Womb chair by way of Knoll, and a pendant gentle via Kartell; the map decal is by means of Dezign With a Z, and the felt rug is via Patterson Flynn Martin. THIRTEEN of 25

Max Zambelli Low-Profile The Whole Thing In The master suite of a contemporary Tuscan home, the bed and bedside desk are Lissoni designs, for Dwelling Divani and Porro, respectively. 14 of 25

Richard Powers Curved Furniture In a Palm Beach house, the main bedroom's settee by means of Gastone Rinaldi is upholstered in a Bergamo material, the rug is by V'Soske, the partitions are coated in Venetian plaster, and the adjacent closet structure is sheathed in acrylic panels; the drawings above the mattress are by means of Ciprian Muresan, and the pictures within the hall are through Mircea Cantor. 15 of 25

Trevor Tondro Rich and Sultry Fabrics In a contemporary New York master bedroom, a bed by Minotti is dressed in linens by E. Braun & Co., the bedside table is from Philippe Hurel, the custom rug is by way of Tai Ping, and the walls have a custom textured finish by means of Atelier Highest Quality. 16 of 25

William Abranowicz Up To Date Zen Within The master bedroom of a San Francisco loft, the headboard is roofed in a Rogers & Goffigon material, the mattress linens are by way of Sue Fisher King, the bedspread is antique Belgian linen, the walls are painted in Benjamin Moore’s Super White, and the artwork is through Joan Mitchell. 17 of 25

Simon Upton A Futuristic Headboard In The bedroom of a West Village house, the vintage Cityscape headboard is through Paul Evans, the mattress is wearing Casa del Bianco linens, the bedside tables are ebonized mahogany, the nineteen fifties American lamps are from Wyeth, and the carpet is by means of Beauvais Carpets. 18 of 25

Richard Powers An Announcement Chair The grasp bed on this NYC apartment is upholstered in a Holly Hunt silk and wearing Schweitzer linens; the stainless metal chair (right) is by way of Maria Pergay, and the Philippe Hiquily chair bought at Sotheby’s has cushions in a Fortuny fabric; the curtains are of a Holland & Sherry silk satin, the carpet is by means of Beauvais, and the partitions are sheathed in a Rubelli cotton velvet; the sculpture is via Rebecca Warren, and the portray to the left of the bed is by Richard Prince. 19 of 25

Ricardo Labougle Modern "Molding" The bed within the master suite of a London townhouse is wearing a customized quilt produced from a Dedar cloth, the letter-shaped stools are from Andrew Martin, and the walls are sheathed in a Jim Thompson silk with hand-sewn crimson silk borders; the drawing over the mantel is by Lluis Lleo, and the paintings over the bed, which is inscribed with Buddhist words, used to be bought in Singapore. 20 of 25

Douglas Friedman Round Geometrics In a playful New York apartment, a mattress through Christopher Ostafin and a nineteen nineties bench by means of Campion Platt within the master bedroom; the circa-1950 chair by means of Illum Wikkelso is from Hostler Burrows. 21 of 25

Richard Powers Brand New Furnishings Meets Playful Design The bed, dresser, and aspect tables in the master suite of a Mexican house are by Roche Bobois; the Eames chair and ottoman are via Herman Miller, the bedside lighting are through FontanaArte, and the wall is painted in Patagonia by Comex. 22 of 25

Richard Powers Brand New Maximalism The mattress within the master suite of an upstate Ny home is upholstered in an Edelman leather-based and wearing Pratesi and Frette linens, the bedside tables are through Jallu Ebénistes, the Carol Egan stool from Maison Gerard is upholstered in a Toyine Sellers cloth and the circa-1970 Mazzega ceiling gentle was found at a Paris flea marketplace. The partitions are upholstered in a Ralph Lauren wool suiting, the ceiling is covered in a Stark tea-leaf paper, the custom wool carpet is by way of Hokanson and the paintings over the bed is by Richard Serra. 23 of 25

Trevor Tondro Within The master bedroom of a Pacific Palisades home, the customized mattress is dressed with linens by Deborah Sharpe Linens and a Frette coverlet; the photograph is via David Drebin. 24 of 25

Douglas Friedman The Ralph Lauren bed in Andy Cohen's master suite is upholstered in a Maharam plaid by way of Paul Smith and dressed with Pratesi linens. The vintage leather-based bench is from Black Swan Antiques, the customized nightstands are by Blend Interiors, the vintage Pierre Giraudon inexperienced-resin lamps are from John Salibello, and the sconces are via RH Modern. The rug is from Crate & Barrel and the walls are lined in a Ralph Lauren House wallpaper. The photograph over the mattress is by way of Micheal McLaughlin, and the "Sweety" image to the best of the bed was once taken by means of Cohen at a carnival outdoor Saint-Tropez. 25 of 25

Simon Upton In a minimum condo, the neon wall sculpture within the master bedroom is by Glenn Ligon, and the Corian platform bed, a customized design, is dressed with Belgian linens; the circa-1960 bedside tables are by Joseph-André Motte, and the walls are sheathed in a Marmorino wall finish Read the full article

#bedroomdecorating #bedroomdecoratingideas #BedroomInteriorDesign #bestmodernbedrooms #modernbedroomdesignideas #modernbedroomideas #modernbedroompictures #moderndesignideas

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marienela · 6 years

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With the exhibit officially opening on May 10, 2018, there was so much hype about the “Heavenly Bodies: Fashion and the Catholic Imagination” exhibit at The Met, that when I finally made it to the Museum a month later, I was worried that it will not live up to my expectations.

But, when I was greeted by mannequins wearing Dolce & Gabbana at the entrance, I knew I would not be disappointed. I was not even halfway through the exhibition when I saw the “Evening Ensemble” from the House of Dior by John Galliano Autumn/Winter 2000-2001 Haute Couture Collection.

Its plaque described it as crafted with “white silk gros de Tours, embroidered gold paillettes and bugle beads, gold, orange, brown and clear crystals, gold silk and metal thread, and gold metal passementerie.”

It then continued to say “the lavish materials and ornate embroidery of this haute couture ensemble by John Galliano for Christian Dior evoke the baroque splendor of the liturgical vestments. Stylistically, it is based on the cope, a long cloak fastened at the chest with a clasp, and the mitre, a form of headdress reserved for bishops and the supreme pontiff. The embroidery required the combined efforts of the Maison Lesage and Broderies Vermont ateliers, which might explain the inscription at the back of the ensemble: “Dieu est mon Maitre” (God is my Master). Such an expression of the highly specialized skills of the haute couture is a reminder that fashion, not unlike the Roman Catholic Church, is defined by a system governed by hierarchy.”

As I admire the piece, my thoughts went to Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI when he became a religious fashion icon thanks to a Newsweek article (November 20, 2005) headlined, “The Pope Wears Prada” in reference to the red shoes the pontiff seems to be always wearing.

Unbeknown to many, the red shoes are a Catholic tradition that dates back centuries. It is red because it symbolizes the blood of Christ. All modern Popes have worn them. That the world just noticed them now can perhaps be attributed to the internet era we live in. Twenty-four hours news and every millisecond count because Google updates every second.

Then in 2007, in a surprising move, Esquire magazine named Pope Benedict XVI “Accessorizer of the Year,” again in honor of his red shoes. It’s as if the fashion world discovered Catholicism for the first time!

As a cradle Catholic (someone who has been baptized as Catholic as an infant and still practices the faith), I was surprised that many did not realize how beautiful and colorful are the vestments of the Catholic church.

To use a fashion vernacular, wardrobe changes are part and parcel of the Catholic liturgical calendar when it comes to the robes that the clerics wear during the year. The General Instruction of the Roman Missal (GIRM) provides the norms for liturgical colors.

White is used in the offices and masses during the seasons of Easter and Christmas. Red is used on Passion Sunday (Palm Sunday) and Good Friday, Pentecost Sunday. Green is used in the offices and Masses of Ordinary Time. Violet is used in Advent and Lent. It may also be worn in Offices and Masses for the dead. Black may be used, where it is the custom, in Masses for the dead. Rose may be used, where it is the custom, on Gaudete Sunday (Third Sunday of Advent) and Laetare Sunday (Fourth Sunday of Lent). Hence, at the exhibit, I was actually so happy to see the colors!

Yet, I would be remiss if I did not mention here that these vestments and their influence in fashion is just one of the many manifestations of the secular Catholic imagination. Noted sociologist and Roman Catholic priest Father Andrew Greeley explained it best in his book, “The Catholic Imagination.”

“Catholics live in an enchanted world: a world of statues and holy water, stained glass and votive candles, saints and religious medals, rosary beads and holy pictures. But these Catholic paraphernalia are merely hints of a deeper and more pervasive religious sensibility that inclines Catholics to see the Holy lurking in creation. The world of the Catholic is haunted by a sense that the objects, events, and persons of daily life are revelations of Grace.” He calls this the “Catholic imagination.”

And like Father Greely’s book that some called “blasphemous,” the same are said about the exhibit “Heavenly Bodies.” Yet, as a Catholic, I see it as a good sign. Because there is dialogue. After all, for me, that is what Catholicism is all about. Every mass celebration is a dialogue and communion with God.

HEAVENLY BODIES: Fashion and the Catholic Imagination May 10 – October 8, 2018 At The Met Fifth Avenue and The Met Cloisters Sunday–Thursday: 10 am–5:30 pm Friday and Saturday: 10 am–9 pm

If you cannot see the exhibit, there is an accompanying catalogue available at Amazon.com. But, I do not recommend it. I bought one at The Met while I was still high on the exhibit then was totally disappointed when I was reading it because the photos were not photos but rather a collage of scans of the garments. Thus, it did not represent what I saw in the exhibit.

Still, if you want a copy, here is the link: Heavenly Bodies: Fashion and the Catholic Imagination

Fashion and the Catholic Imagination #MetHeavenlyBodies With the exhibit officially opening on May 10, 2018, there was so much hype about the “

#Catholic imagination

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realsamcalloway · 6 years

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6/4/18 - Interview with So-Cal Band, The Flytraps (www.brodydallechronicles.com)

Originally posted June 4, 2018 and appearing on www.brodydallechronicles.com.

The Flytraps on Opening for The Distillers, All Their New Fans & Tequila

By Sam Bone

Social media is fucking amazing and, in some cases, can lead to ‘mind-blown’ moments—Checking out a live show for a band that’s piqued your interest, combined with the option to stalk prey on social media like a salivating, hungry wolf, circling a potential kill.

The story goes that this is how Brody Dalle wrangled up the Los Angeles-based band, The Flytraps. Understanding and enjoying a band and then metaphorically passing on notes with scribbled hearts along with “Call Me” underneath, eventually led to the band being tapped to open for The Distillers reunion and return to the stage after 14 years.

In a nutshell and to recap:

Iconic female-fronted punk band from the 2000’s reunites and announces a short, six-date tour.

It’s been 14 years since the bands’ members were all in the same room, “plugged in” together.

Most of the tour sells outs 24 to 48 hours after it goes on sale.

Fans ask themselves: is this real life?

I chatted with The Flytraps’ Elizabeth Boyd in early April this year, and to say that she, along with her band, were “boggled” about the request to support The Distillers is a complete understatement; Was it some type of critical error? Was someone playing a super-fucked up prank? Did someone miss hear the word “Flytraps” when the actual band requested was The “Flatjacks?” (If this is a real band in existence, I’m sorry-- Not for the reference to your band, but for the fucked-up name.)

The truth is that they were sought after by Brody Dalle herself. I had to reassure Beth’s palpitating heart that Brody handpicks her support. It’s not an oopsy-doopsy... it’s a female Uncle Sam, pointing at your band attentively while declaring “I WANT YOU.” And, the odds are likely .0748 out of 1,000,000 that Brody Dalle would pluck your band off the Los Angeles Female-Fronted Band Tree.

A few days after the tour concluded and The Flytraps departed Dallas back to Los Angeles, I had the chance to chat with the band about their time with The Distillers, the reception by the sold-out audiences and the band’s promising future.

BDC: Sam Bone | K: Kristin (Lead Vox, Bass) | BB: Beth (Lead Guitar) | FR: Fabian (Drums) | CY: Chloe (Rhythm Guitar)

BDC: To start and in keeping with the current chaos, what are your guys’ current feels and how has that changed since The Flytraps were formed in 2010?

BB: Our sound has changed a lot in the last 8 years and we’ve also had a few lineup changes as well. Compared to some of the old stuff, the songs are faster, heavier, and nastier than ever.

K: Well when we started the band I would say we sounded more like if The Mummies and The Pleasure Seekers had a blood orgy. Now we are more like if Suzi Quatro had KISS as prisoners in her Sex Dungeon. But one thing has been a constant since day one: ROCK & ROLL OR FUCK OFF!

BDC: What was it like touring with The Distillers; how was the reception from their fans?

BB: Touring with The Distillers really seemed to be a turning point for us and it was a crazy experience playing to their sold-out crowds. We got a great response from their fans and definitely made a lot more of our own. We are so grateful to have been invited to open for them and had a great time hanging out with the band and crew.

FR: It was amazing, and the fans were more than we could ask for. Everyone was very welcoming and nice to us.

BDC: Any funny or over-the-top memories you want to share from the tour?

K: It wouldn’t be very smart to reveal how over the top we get… all I can say is we are out-doing ourselves constantly.

BB: Probably a few that shouldn't be shared, haha.

BDC: I noticed that your catalog contains one full-length (She-Freak, 2013) and then sporadic releases of singles/EPs. I know the music business can suck and it’s tough to maximize and stretch a buck; How do you guys handle that and how can you make more money (so us fans know the best way to support you)? How has this changed (-or stayed the same?) since 2010?

K: In the beginning, almost everything we did was self-released and in limited numbers; Recorded in a garage done by us or a friend. We've released several demo albums such as Worst Coast and Demos from the Deep. She-Freak was released by our friend Cumstain and his Oakland-based tape label Slop Bop. Since then we’ve just released a 7” on Outro Records and a 12” EP “Sunset Strip R.I.P.” on our label Power Plant Records, split with our friends from Burger. We have all of this and other weird shit for sale on our website. Also, we will be releasing Vol. 2 of our foot fetish calendar Flytraps Foot Feast this winter.

BB: Buying our merch definitely helps out a lot, especially when we are on tour.

BDC: Keeping about sales, I chatted with Beth off-and-on during April and May, she said you guys sold through merchandise at an unexpected rate at The Distillers shows. That has got to feel awesome. Did you anticipate that level of reception?

CY: No, we didn’t at all-- We ran out of shirts half way through the tour! We didn’t expect so much support.

BB: Wish we had brought more! We sold out of shirts I think before our last show and completely out of vinyl by the end.

BDC: Kristin, I read in an old OCWEEKLY interview that the po-pos used to frequently stop by your old rehearsal space and tell you to simmer it down. If you could run in to those same cops today, what would you say?

K: When the cops would come to our practices they were usually surprised to see me answer the door because we were all beach rats, had no air-conditioning and we would usually be in bikinis. The cops were pretty cool about it. If I saw them today I would probably say SUP?

BDC: What are your thoughts about Burger Boogaloo in June? I mean c’mon now—John Waters, DEVO, Mudhoney and The Mummies! I read somewhere that The Mummies are one of your band’s influences. Have you met them before and if not, are you prepared?

BB: Russell Quan from The Mummies is an old friend of ours. We have played with a couple of his bands before, but this will be our first time playing with The Mummies!

K: We are so stoked to be on Boogaloo this year, it's an insane line-up. You forgot to mention The Damned!! Whoever doesn't have their tickets better get to it because it’s for sure gonna sell out!

BDC: Speaking of insane line-up—how do you handle nerves? Do you get nervous? Do each of you deal with it differently and/or is there that one member of the band who balances everyone out?

K: I get more excited than nervous. Pre- show I’ll get a burst of adrenaline… It’s better than any drug, but drugs can make it even better!

CY: Tequila

BB: I haven't figured that one out yet… Sometimes, on stage, I will just stare at one person until they seem to feel uncomfortable and it will make me feel better.

FR: Booze tons of it. Yeah, I still get nervous before every show, I think we all do. I've noticed I become quieter. Just depends on the head space I'm in.

BDC: Oh, and curious—pre-show rituals? Please explain.

K: Usually passing around a bottle of tequila and praying to our patron saint, Rosemary Kennedy; JFK’s sister who was lobotomized at 23.

FR: Getting all dolled up together.

BDC: I feel that we're all about to witness a real revolution when it comes to female rock musicians, and as a male who happens to be a hardcore feminist, I'm all-fucking-for-it. What are your thoughts on being musicians in this Pussy-Grabber-in-Chief Era? I just read how the Trump admin is cutting Federal funding to clinics who deal with women's health. With the stage as a platform, and girls and guys looking up at you with shimmering eyes, do you feel any obligation to revolt or speak out?

K: Pussy-grabbing has been going on behind the scenes for a long time, in politics and show business. It’s finally coming to light because now is the time for truth and progress. We are so lucky to be born in this current age where we can be ourselves and make our own rules.

BDC: What is next for you guys? What can fans anticipate? What's the future hold?

K: We have a lot of things happening; New videos, more records, more tours. We’re playing a new festival in Twentynine Palms, California in October called The Pilgrimage Campout. Keep a look-out. We're comin’ for YOU!

The Flytraps official website | The Flytraps on Facebook

Certain elements, such as links and photos, may have been removed from the original version of the above article.

#the flytraps #brody dalle #the distillers #the distillers 2018 #sam bone #trsb #sunset strip #sunset strip r.i.p.#trump #tequila #writing sample #author #interviews #los angeles punk #la music scene #kristin cooper #elizabeth boyd

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