#Peaker

[energynews247]

EPA’s proposed carbon rules omit both the peaker problem and the peaker solution

Shelley Robbins is a project director at Clean Energy Group. In May, the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency released a draft carbon emissions regulatory framework for the nation’s fossil-fueled power plant fleet, and by the early August deadline, a plethora of comments were submitted in response, including comments by Clean Energy Group. The EPA proposed designating both hydrogen co-firing…

[leahschier]

Understood. Ultreïa. 👣 - #camino 💛 #peregrina 💙 #mswarrior 🧡 #peaker 💜 (at Port Aransas, Mustang Island) https://www.instagram.com/p/CoaWfBoPB8q/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[everythingelseisextra]

Only The Wild Ones

Moodboard by @runnning-outof-time (thank you so much!)

Your whole life, you've been running, desperately seeking safety from a past you want to forget. You spend your time working yourself into exhaustion, then getting up the next day to do it all again. When a powerful but vulnerable Thomas Shelby comes into the picture, you're convinced, for once in your life, to stand and fight.

Part One: Everything Is Fine

Part Two: Commit To The Bit

Part Three: Treasure The Memory

Part Four: Petty Criminal

Part Five: Give Yourself A Reason

Part Six: My Body Is Here

Part Seven: Lingering In Doorways

Part Eight: First Time

Part Nine: Stand Your Ground

Part Ten: Work

Part Eleven: You're Like Me

Part Twelve: Run, Little Girl

Part Thirteen: Horse To Water

Part Fourteen: Come Home (Tommy's POV)

Part Fifteen: David and Goliath

Part Sixteen: Cain (Tommy's POV)

Part Seventeen: The Ends Of The Earth

Part Eighteen: Love Song (Tommy's POV)

Part Nineteen: No Harm

Part Twenty: Scar Tissue

[hitku]

by Annie Peaker

[aura-bug]

anyways I think the plot of ykw2 would be drastically improved if guns were involved

[babababababababababa7]

why am i hype about the letter q brahh

[dozydawn]

E.J. Peaker in Getting Away From It All (1972).

[yearningforunity]

Untitled

(Charles Peaker Street Speaker, head of ANPM after Carlos Cooks passed away, on 125th street), ca. 1968; printed 2016. 

Photograph by Kwame Brathwaite.

[p-redux]

From Anon...

No, Anon, that's NOT Molly Melville. The Anon is referring to this video 👇

https://twitter.com/LadyT510/status/1721801888994390118?t=hEzqqd1jJXgUzCGyFzwOjg&s=19

Copy and paste the link to view it. I'm not sure why it's not automatically posting the video. But here are some screencaps from it. 👇

You can see part of her face here. 👇

That is NOT Molly Melville. I was told the redhead was Sam's assistant.

[ulrichgebert]

Hello, Dolly! haben wir jetzt auch wirklich viel zu lange nicht mehr angeschaut. Dafür kommt es allerdings relativ oft vor (siehe hier).

[twittercomfrnklin2001-blog]

Graduation Day

The fact that Linnea Quigley doesn’t take her top off to die (don’t’ worry, horndogs; she doffs it earlier to seduce her chorus teacher into passing her) is one of the few distinctions of Herb Freed’s GRADUATION DAY (1981, Peacock, Prime, Tubi). A high-school athlete wins a race in a record 30 seconds, then collapses and dies. Months later her sister (Patch Mackenzie), a Navy ensign, comes home to accept the girl’s trophy at graduation. And then the killing starts. Someone wearing sweats and black gloves starts bumping off the track team while timing the crimes with a stopwatch to make sure they happen in 30 seconds. They don’t, but the killer and filmmakers seem to ignore that. There are certain traditions of the genre that, surprisingly, can result in effective plotting. Freed ignores them at the viewers’ peril. For one thing, the final girl needs to be in the killer’s crosshairs or there’s nothing at stake for her. That’s not the case here. Not only is the final girl uninvolved in the killings; there’s no clear sense who the central character is. We spend time with the coach (Christopher George, who tries to deliver a performance and has some decent moments), the principal (Michael Pataki) and various students, but there’s no sense of who besides the unseen killer is driving the plot. Mackenzie and George are treated as suspects, but when the killer turns up masked halfway through the film, it’s obviously neither of them, leaving the big reveal to come out of left field. At one point, Mackenzie finds a few bodies, including a severed head from someone we’ve never seen before. The filmmakers had the character’s head made but then fired the actress for refusing to do a nude scene and didn’t have the money to do a new head modeled on her replacement. The band Felony shows up at a roller disco party to offer some androgyny that’s more interesting than the film’s relentless showcasing of bosoms and butts, but they’re only on for one number. There’s also one decent sequence in which a gymnast’s routine is scored to Rimsky-Korsakoff. Then Freed wrecks it by having her flash back to the runner’s death. This and some other sequences are done with intrusively rapid cutting. It’s as if the director had seen Abel Gance’s NAPOLEON (1927) and said, “I can do that.” No, sir, you can’t. In an even bigger gaffe, at one point Mackenzie flashes back to memories of the same scene, which she never witnessed. She should count herself lucky she only had to see it once. The viewers have to sit through it three times. E.J. Peaker turns up and is rather funny. So does Vanna White. She isn’t.

[everythingelseisextra]

Work

Part Eleven: You're Like Me

Description: After a miscommunication, Tommy apologizes in the only way he knows how. Warnings: Language, self-hatred, Thomas being inept at communication Word Count: 2439 Tag List: @theshelbyslimited @ttaechi @weaponizedvirtue @majesticcmey @optimisticsandwichgladiator @zablife @princesssterek @mm0thie @callsignvenus @ay0nha @mgdixon @babayaga67 @shelbydelrey @look-at-the-soul @globetrotter28

You are brave. You insist on this in the cab, and you insist on this when you walk up the driveway, and you insist on this when you knock on the door. You have courage. You think this as you settle in the dining room, at the edge of the long wooden table, the high ceiling and portraits and pale yellow lamps and grandfather clock making you small, insignificant. You speak with strength. You tell yourself this as Tommy walks in, checks on you, and all you can do is nod when he asks if you’re ready. You are worthy of him. This one is the hardest for you to master, the hardest for you to hold onto. You remind yourself this as you hear him greet her, hear their footsteps in the hallway.

When she appears in the doorway, all drawn back shoulders, piercing eyes and impeccable fashion, you lose all sense of yourself. You stand and bow your head, as if a queen has appeared in Arrow House, which in a way, she has. Like Tommy’s, her eyes flick over you like a cat watching a bird, that intensity and deep rooted sense of predatory analysis. She walks right up to you, and you resist the urge to step back, to remove yourself from her aura. 

“Polly Gray.” A cigarette dangles from her lips and her outstretched hand is steady, stable, while the one you reach out to shake with shakes slightly. When you don’t respond with your name, her thin smile widens slightly and she tilts her head. “And you are?”

You open your mouth to speak, to give her something, anything, and nothing comes out. Frustrated and embarrassed, you look to Tommy for help, but he gives the slight shake of his head, barely moving it. You’re on your own. 

Polly glances back at him, amusement in her sharp brown eyes. “Does she talk?”

“When she wants to.” His answer is immediate. His gaze flickers between the two of you, so neutral that you can’t read what he thinks, whether there’s shame in those deep blue eyes. Whether he regrets choosing you, out of all the women in Birmingham and England and Warwickshire. 

“Now would certainly be the time.” She looks back at you, expectant. “Have you not got anything to say for yourself?”

You bite your lip, gaze still on the ground beneath you, desperately wanting to speak, to be strong, to be the person you want to become. You know you can, know you’re capable, but your voice gets stuck and your heart freezes and your lungs stop working and suddenly you’re frozen in a panic you feel in your body but not in your mind. 

“I think speaking is a base-level necessity, Thomas.” She turns and starts the long walk out of the room, slowing as she passes him. “You could do better.”

“You don’t even know me.” You step forward, dragging your gaze off the ground to stare at the back of her head. She’s paused, listening as your cracked and clenched voice reaches her. “You have no idea what my life has looked like, and you decide that I’m not good enough just because I can’t always get the words out?”

She chuckles and turns to face you, that reserved smile back on her lips. “That’s more like it.” 

Your brow furrows. “Forgive me if I’m not as thrilled as you are.”

“Tommy told me you’d take some convincing. Worth the work, he said.” She moves back towards you, slow, languid, a panther pacing.

“Did he, now?” You shoot a look at him, and find his eyes away from you. “You planned this, did you?” 

He takes a drag from his cigarette, gaze still pointedly elsewhere. “Had to. Only way to get you talking.” 

“I see.” Your voice grows tight. “Was I all you expected, then, Mrs. Gray? Do I meet your expectations?” 

“It’s Polly.” Her smile stays, almost threatening in its own right, proof that no matter what you say, you will not shake the ground she stands on. “You don’t need to be like that. Tommy’s been needing a good woman on his arm. Glad to see he’s found one, after how the last one worked out.”

You laugh humorlessly. It’s supposed to be a compliment, you know this, but Polly also must know that any intelligent woman wants to be more than an ornament on a man’s arm, a trophy for him to parade. She underestimates you, views you as another pretty face, and you don’t know how to prove her otherwise. She’s not to be taken at face value, either. The Shelby’s, the whole lot of them, hide beneath a facade. Arthur’s is brute strength, John’s is humor, Tommy’s is intensity, and Polly’s is charm. Ada seems to be the only exception. 

“I think I do need to be like that, actually.” You cross your arms, fingers playing at the shirt you wear. “I’m stepping from one dangerous world to another. I’d rather keep my guard up, thanks.” 

“Danger comes from wanting more than what you have.” She glances at Tommy, quick and sweeping. “I doubt you’ll do that.” 

You’re at a loss for words. How do you explain to her that you never had the privilege of wanting more? How do you explain that you’re stuck as a child learning to crawl, and you can’t lift your head to see that others can walk? Her words point towards Tommy but squash you at the same time, making you simple and lesser.

“This is wanting more.” You look down. “This is more than I’ve ever had.” 

Your vulnerability earns you silence. You think that, in their world, no one wants to admit that they’ve been hurt, that they’ve been on the ground looking up at the sky, wishing they could fly like the birds. No one wants to admit that they’re human. And you just did exactly that. After a moment, you look up at them, afraid of what you’ll see but even more afraid of what you might miss. 

Polly’s eyes lock onto Thomas’. Quiet communication flows between them, something so quick that you can’t follow. Within a couple seconds, Tommy gives her a subtle nod, and she sighs. Her eyes shift back to you, searching your face for something. You swallow hard. Keep your head up, your shoulders back. Meet her eyes and let her peer into you. 

“I hope you know what you’re getting into,” she says to you, her tone softer than before, more welcoming. 

“I do.” You think it might be a lie. You think you’re stepping into a storm that you’ve never weathered before, thinking that you can save yourself while battling the wind.  

“And you.” She turns to face Tom again. “I hope you tell her what you’re doing.”

“I do.” His eyes flick to yours, and you immediately look away. You don’t feel warm towards him at the moment, don’t feel like allowing him the privilege of silent connection. 

“Alright.” She smiles faintly at you, then turns to start her walk out of the room. “Then my job here is done. See you at the meeting, Tom.” 

You watch her go, your heart in your throat. You close your eyes and fall into a brief fantasy where everything is simple and everything is good. In this world you aren’t battered or bruised, aren’t scarred or scared, and you’re brave enough to speak without being manipulated to do so. In this world you know that his ‘I do’ was not a lie like yours. In this dream you hold a knife and your hand does not shake when you lift it.

Tommy clears his throat and you open your eyes and the world of your creation disappears, and you’re left with the coldness of the dining room, the emptiness of the fifty seats, all but one unoccupied. You sit back down and place your head in your hands, your elbows on your knees. 

“Thomas,” you say, a little hesitant, a little scared. Now that Polly is gone, now that your own mask has dropped, there’s hollowness to your chest and a strange pulling sensation on your eyes, like you haven’t slept in days. “Am I just… work to you?” 

He stays where he is, leaning against the wall to your right, his suit jacket in one hand and his cigarette in the other. As usual, he seems to be searching for something in your expression, eyes observing the subtle changes in your face like one would study a newly-discovered animal. His jaw works slightly and he looks away. “Sometimes you are. Sometimes you aren’t.” 

You look down at your hands in your lap, your fingers pulling at each other until they hurt, then relaxing. “Oh.”

“Everything’s fucking work.” He gestures vaguely, voice too tense to be calm but too casual to be conflict.

“I’m not supposed to be work,” you say quietly. “I’m not supposed to be part of that.” 

He pauses, dropping his arm with the cigarette to his side and furrowing his brow slightly. He opens his mouth to speak, but you stand and speak before he can. 

“I need to get to the horses. I better go.” You start for the door, half hoping he’ll follow you, try to convince you to stay, but he doesn’t. He stays where he is, watching you go in silence, his brow still furrowed in that strange, almost confused expression. 

You work in the orange hour of the evening, sweating and thirsty and hungry and ignoring all of it. Work, work, work, all of it a reminder that you yourself take up too much energy, that you’re a burden on those around you. You squint in the falling light and convince yourself that the extra liquid in your eyes comes from the dryness of the coming cold. 

You thought that, maybe, he’d tolerate you. That his lying and stealing and cheating and all the crime that creep through his bones would balance you out. That all the pent-up anger and vulnerability and broken promises and the gentleness of your touch would make up for the fact that it was you he was looking at, you he was pursuing. You didn’t want to be saved, you wanted to feel worthy of being saved. 

You’re a chore. You’re work. 

You retire to your house long after the sun has set, wiping the sweat from your brow and skipping the bath to crawl into bed. You don’t close your eyes. Staring out at the stars in the sky, wondering whether you’ll ever be small enough to fit into someone’s life. You’re a broken thing, and yet, you stare out at the sky like you did when you were a child, wanting to touch the stars even if they burned you. 

A few hours later, the clattering of machinery and the steady pound of horse hooves outside your house disturbs your stupor. You sit up in bed, trying to see through the haze of night. Squinting, the shape of a horse-drawn carriage comes vaguely into view. You catapult out of bed, pulling clothes on haphazardly, and your bare feet patter down on the cold wooden floor as you make your way to the kitchen. You unlock a drawer, open it, and pull out a gun, ready to defend yourself, unwilling to be a victim in your own home. 

You rush out into the night, and freezing air hits your face. You’re not dressed for the cold, wearing a simple short-sleeved shirt and pants. You hold the gun up, aiming carefully at the carriage from the doorstep, waiting for someone to draw a bead on. 

“Put the gun down.” Tommy’s voice calls from the carriage. You do as he says, stepping back into your house to place it back in its drawer. When you come back out, your eyes fall on a gleaming white horse, elegant and seemingly glowing in the night. 

“What the fuck?” You step down onto the driveway, slowly approaching Tommy, who holds the horse’s lead rope loosely, allowing him to hold his head up high, staring out into the darkness. 

“You didn’t get a horse from the track.” His quiet, irritatingly calm voice answers your question smoothly. “Figured you could use someone helping you.” 

“Tommy.” Conflicting thoughts bounce through your skull. You don’t want to see him, not after what he said, but he’s brought you a horse all the way from the racetrack, something that usually costs you a few months worth of savings. You open your mouth, then close it and shake your head, not knowing what to say. 

“His track name is ‘Watch Me Forever.’” He reaches out a hand to stroke the stallion’s neck. “Needs a barn name.” 

“This is the gray you liked. The one with the broken leg.”

“Paid to have it fixed. A few months of recovery and he’ll be ready.” 

“Tommy.” You resist the urge to punch his chest. “You can’t just do that!”

“Why not?”

“Now I’m— I’m in debt to you.” You shake your head. “You can’t do this.”

The stallion’s neck arches and he reaches down his soft pink nose to sniff at you, ears forward, eyes soft. Tommy is quiet for a moment, and all that’s heard between you is the warm breath of the horse. 

When he speaks, it’s not the usual, well thought out, precisely planned phrasing. It’s awkward and rambling and, you have to admit, endearing. “Gentling a horse is work. It’s not easy. Teaches you more about yourself than it does about the damn horse. Makes you a better person; more patient, kinder. It’s— It’s work, but if I could choose between that and anything else, I’d choose the horse every fucking time. Does this make any sense?” 

You stare at him, and a weight lifts off of you. “Yes. I think it does.” 

His eyes search your face, soft and beseeching. “You understand me?” 

“Thank you for explaining what you meant, Tom. I forgive you. I—” You hold back the cliches bubbling in your throat, trying to push you to say something too soon, too recklessly. “I understand you.” 

He nods, looking as relieved as you feel. His eyes turn back to the stallion, his posture straightening, his expression moving back to something harsher, more businessman-like.  “What will you call him, then?”

“I think… I think Iris is good.” You stroke his soft nose, looking at his eyes, one blue, one brown

“That’s a woman’s name.” 

“It’s a fucking flower, Tom. Flowers don’t have gender.”

He shrugs. “Iris it is, then. Iris it is.”

[ultramantr1gger]

thsat movie was pretty good

[spurkspaint]

currently fighting the urge to draw $cene art of magazine I DONT EVEN FUCKING LIKE HERRRR I HATE THAT BITCH TF?????????

[dozydawn]

E.J. Peaker in the Love, American Style episode “Love and the Serious Wedding” (1971)

[approximateknowledge]

that poll made think about mondo emerso again. somehow simultaneously the most generic yet interesting fantasy books young ak had the pleasure to read. like there's some actual interesting stuff going on beneath the surface. (*fammins* dear gog the implications. also elven bio-warfare, don't ask. also just san. one of my oldest fictional crushes... morally gray half-elf with a sick-ass wyvern go brrrr)

but above all the sheer *projection potential* for adhara in the third trilogy especially

im like 80% sure she had like, a direct hand in my egg cracking

why yes the pov character wakes without memory and has to *discover she's a woman*, and then ends up choosing a name for herself, and eventually she meets her creators and they literally deadname her

adhara is like the most trans allegory you can make a protagonist by accident

also yes she does look like that

i will not comment further, you all have eyes