#also remember when i spent all that time trying to transcribe the files from the album art...

[tornsuits]

udad cd for christmas... i feel like some ancient cycle has been completed

[lepusrufus]

Lil' Mia and Miranda thing since I dragged you guys down the rarepair hell with me~

---

Lab equipment was really not meant to blend well within a lived-in home. And it didn't. The plush carpet on top of wooden floors giving way to the smooth lab flooring that squeaked under boots not appropriate for the setting created an odd contrast. Not that that was uncharacteristic for Miranda, any of her workspaces falling perfectly under the description of an organized mess, with particular emphasis on mess.

With Rose sleeping peacefully in the room generously, suspiciously so, provided by Miranda, Mia decided to stretch her legs by walking around the manor, the baby monitor connected to her phone. The building was relatively big, albeit quite old, tucked in the woods somewhere between the Beneviento house and the factory, with a tunnel conveniently connecting it to the labs running under the town. It had close to no spatial organization, bedrooms and labs and storage rooms alternating by patterns known only by the so-called goddess, or most likely not even by her.

Mia did not trust the woman. Not with the memories of the prison cell and the kidnapping of her daughter for experiments still fresh in her mind. But, the tiredness of motherhood and the odd loneliness that came with being the only two inhabitants of the house that were capable of coherent speech as of now, had her longing for some company.

It was an easy task finding Miranda, the soft cries of Eva guiding her down a short hallway to a lab door left ajar. Inside, the woman was sat at a desk, a laptop with half written reports and notes in front of her, pushed out of the grasp of the fussing infant in her arms. Miranda was far too busy trying to calm her daughter down enough to fall asleep to notice Mia leaning on the doorframe, curiously observing the scene. Oddly human, in her failing attempt to get her child to stop crying, when at any given time she could get anyone to kneel before her and bend over backwards to her every whim. Yet a small infant was giving her so much trouble.

"Need a hand?" Mia offered with a small chuckle. Should she even offer her help?

"I am fine thank you." But a slightly louder wail from Eva came with perfect timing to disprove her words.

Miranda's shoulders seemed to slump ever so slightly as her eyes closed slowly, the usual makeup replaced by dark circles, testimony to the long hours spent going through decades of research and reports while also caring for her newly reborn daughter. It was oddly bittersweet, to see a woman so dignified otherwise all but beg the small child to go to sleep so she could finish her work.

Work, Mia concluded, that was rather essential for the whole place, and also her home for now, to continue existing the way it was. With a sigh she walked up to the desk and gently stoked Eva's short brunette hair. "Here, let me hold her. At least until you finish typing whatever it is you're doing," she said waving a hand in the direction of the forgotten computer, who's screen had turned black by now.

There were a few long seconds of hesitation, but a weary glance at the mountain of files on the other side of the desk that she was yet to go through convinced Miranda to finally allow her daughter slip into Mia's arms. It took maybe five minutes of cooing and a one sided conversation made in silly voices to turn the cries into giggles, small hands trying to grasp at Mia's finger that was ticklishly caressing puffy cheeks. Exhausted from crying, Eva's eyes slowly fluttered shut and she was gingerly lowered into a crib set by the desk, one of the many scattered around the house.

Miranda watched the scene unfold with uncharacteristic softness slipping by the icy mask of her steely eyes. Even goddesses can be caught by surprise it seemed, and whether it was due to the apparent skills that Mia had with calming Eva down or at how she was willing to help despite their precarious position was up to debate.

"Shouldn't you be better at this," Mia asked, pulling one of the chairs closer to sit in. "I know it's been, what, two or three centuries or something but haven't you done this before?"

Her question was obviously poking fun for the most part, but Miranda couldn't help the tired sigh that crawled its way from the depths of her now useless lungs.

"No, actually. I haven't," she responded curtly as she grabbed one of the files and opened it in order to transcribe its contents in a digital file. "At least not on my own," she added upon remembering the numerous subjects she helped raise during her time working with The Connections.

"Oh? Did you have a sweet loving husband once upon a time? Do tell me more," Mia said leaning her chin on her palms as if she were a teenager at a sleepover talking about crushes, although the memory of Ethan clawing its way to the forefront of her thoughts made her grimace slightly, until she pushed it back down in the depths of her mind.

It was foolish perhaps, acting like that around a woman that could, and would with the right motivation, kill her in the blink of an eye. Truth be told though, Mia was bored out of her mind, so what better way to pass the time than push Miranda's buttons, especially when she seemed too tired to retaliate.

The so-called goddess grimaced, at least ten different reasons to find the thought outrageous flashing through her mind and, settling on the most obvious one, looked at her, one eyebrow raised. "I was a nun."

Mia leaned back in her chair, looking at the black head covering hanging from a hook behind the door, together with black robes. She had to wonder if they were the same ancient ones or if she replaced them every once in a while.

"Yeah, I couldn't tell," she chuckled. "A nun turned goddess. How ironic don't you think."

"Worshipping was never quite up my alley. And neither were men," she replied flatly, turning the pages in front of her and typing the relevant information in the file she had open on the screen.

Mia's eyes widened slightly with an amused oh. "So was she raised by the convent then?"

Was this information really to be given out? Mirada did not like talking about her past, or personal information in general. Gods did not need backstories, they simply were.

She sighed. "No, no. Her parents died when she was four and with nobody else to look for her, she was brought to us." Miranda gave a small shrug, pausing to type up decades old results on lycans. "I was the newest there, so the nuns dumped her on me. I was so mad at first, but she's always been such a brilliant little girl, even back then. She would ask for a bedtime story and did not complain when I'd start reading from one of the medical books I stole from the merchant. There was just something about her that made her grow on me."

With the paragraph done, she pushed her chair back, quietly so as to not have its legs scratch against the linoleum floor, and walked to another, smaller desk pushed against a wall. From there, she walked back to the crib where the small infant was sleeping peacefully, a small doll in hand. Doll that Mia recognized immediately, as an identical one was by her own daughter's sleeping form, back in their room. It was a small replica of Angie, plush and soft to the touch, unlike its real life wooden counterpart, the white dress made of delicate silk. Both toys had been made by Donna herself as gifts.

"But as you can guess, she was well past a toddler when she was placed in my care," Miranda finished, leaving the doll just by her sleeping daughter's side.

"So you suck with babies," Mia concluded with a grin. She would have laughed, but had enough clarity of mind to be quiet.

Miranda simply gave her a tired glare before rolling her eyes. She went back to her desk and opened a new file to be transcribed, this one on the reservoir's structure.

"I can care for them," she started, an odd almost imperceptible strain in her voice. "It just gets trickier when it's my own daughter and not an act."

Mia nodded absent mindedly, eyes darting to Eva. To see a woman with such power and ruthlessness, who could level the whole town to the ground if she so pleased, show such raw genuine affection towards the child made some of the notions in her brain crumble to the ground. Miranda was still the same woman who, ironically enough, experimented on more children than she cared to count, but then again Mia was also a willing participant in said experiments so was she really that much better?

She definitely was, Mia concluded, choosing to ignore a small pang at her heart when she watched all the ice in those gray eyes melt into tenderness while looking at her daughter. Instead, she started toying with one of the many pens scattered on the desk.

"Since I'm staying here, I don't mind helping you out with her," Mia said quietly, keeping her eyes on the small giraffe doodle she was doing on a napkin.

It wasn't for Miranda's sake really. She simply wanted the best for Eva, the child completely innocent unlike the atrocities committed by her mother throughout the last few centuries. Besides, it would be nice for Rose to have a friend not unlike herself, given the yet to be understood power both girls possessed.

"There's no need-"

"Consider it a thank you for letting us stay here, without a sniper pointing at my daughter's head at all times," Mia finished, a slither of ire slipping into her tone on the last words, the memory of a rookie agent panicking and pointing his gun to Rose for the unforgivable crime of being a hungry crying child seared behind her eyelids.

Miranda sighed, an odd sense of relief washing over her. After centuries of trying to bring her back, you'd think the she would do anything to spend each and every second with Eva, not letting anyone else care for her in any capacity, but truth be told, the prospect of not facing motherhood completely alone, even if Mia was helping her solely out of some sense of obligation, did not sound half bad.

"As you wish," she finally said, going back to the half written paragraph her mind drifted away from minutes earlier.

[speech-to-text]

Speech to Text: Use Dictation Software To Write Fast

Are you looking for dictation software? Or do you want a way to transcribe speech notes into text in real-time?

Text software speech will enable anyone to transcribe and write text rather than typing. There are��10 Best Pieces of Text to Speech Software select the most suitable here.

Over the years it has become more affordable and accessible. Transcription services are another popular choice.

When I was working as a journalist, I spent a lot of time interviewing people. One of the most painful things I have to do is transcribe long interviews using the keyboard.

My fingers hurt after spending an hour pressing play and pause and play and pause and typing what the interviewees saying. I also felt pain in the playback speed. Nowadays, I use dictation software like text to speech and transcription software.

Converts previous speeches into text and transcribe first drafts of articles, blog posts, book chapters, and more. The latter is ideal for getting a copy of my work from a typist.

The use of both types of software is useful to avoid the physical pain of typing. and also it is a fast way to create documents, memos, emails, and speeches.

What is Speech to Text Software?

Speech to text or voice dictation software represents spoken transcription technology that converts spoken word into text. This will allow you to write articles, speeches, books, memos, emails, and more with your voice.

Virtual assistant apps respond to voice commands and complete predefined tasks, but speech-to-text technology is for writing spoken words or phrases.

Also known as dictation software, it can include assistive technology features to control your computer/system. It is sometimes available on a mobile app or desktop app and is compatible with various devices.

Why Use Speech to Text Software

Dictation or speech-to-text transcription is much faster than typing.

If I knew what I was writing I could type about five hundred to one thousand words in 30 minutes. On the other hand, I can write up to three or four thousand words in 30 minutes.

Talking about workflow management and turnaround time!

With technology, you don't have to invest in expensive screen reader software or pay exorbitant fees for English transcription. Artificial knowledge has allowed new dictation solutions.

With features like mobile dictation and advanced speech recognition software, spending your days typing your keyboard in Microsoft Word may end.

Digital dictation software is not only a real-time-saver, but it gives you the freedom not to rely on a keyboard to put words on paper.

Digital dictation with the help of artificial intelligence and cheap dictation tools is the future of many writers.

Dictation is ideal if you suffer from RSI or if your finger hurts from typing. You can also order to stand up while walking around the room or without using your hands.

Dictation is also ideal for writing first drafts, but if you are not ready for premium speech-to-text software, let me explain what you can use instead.

The work of any first draft only exists. You should not stop editing yourself when you are writing your first draft.

With dictation, it's hard to edit and write at the same time, which means you'll probably override your daily target word count and get that messy first draft out of your head and into a blank page.

You can not stop dictating, checking your email, browsing Facebook, or doing anything that has nothing to do with writing.

You can use your computer's inbuilt dictation system or other speech recognition programs to start speech-to-text. You can also use Android and iOS - mobile apps - to dictate on the go.

Remember to improve the voice of your dictator to make better use of dictation tools.

Writing a Book By Dictation

Writing a book according to dictation is different from typing a draft or relying on pen and paper.

For example, I wrote the last few books of my Art of Writing non-fiction book. To make this work, I had to outline most of the chapters before handling the index cards first.

Then, I had to train myself to write the whole chapter without editing the typo or solving the problems. Actually, I drafted first and then typed and then edited and rewrote the drafts.

As explained earlier, your voice typing is best for getting your first draft on paper. You still need to edit and format your book, which voice-to-text software cannot achieve.

Dictating your first book:

Keep the background noise to a minimum.

If you use a mobile device or smartphone, use a headset with a microphone.

Make sure you have a fast internet connection, especially if you're using Google Docs on a Chrome browser.

For the end leave the editing and formatting, and do it manually.

Web apps

Speech notes are free browser-based dictation software that allows you to convert your speech into text in your Chrome browser.

It's very easy to set up and once you allow your mic to be used you just have to click on the microphone icon and you're good to go.

Even if you upgrade to its premium version, speech knots are more effective than using transcription services.

You can export your files to .doc or .txt or upload them to Google Drive. It was also available on a mobile app.

Pros and Cons of Dictation Software

Dictation software - game-changer for writers. In various ways, it will improve your writing process and make your life easier.

Pros

Speeding up the writing process

Good in writing in a more conversational style

Dictate as you cook, clean, or exercise

Record notes and ideas regardless of what you are doing

Ideal for people with disabilities

Cons

Take time to customize

Finding and reading foreign names and words can be difficult

It Will did not work properly with large background noise

Editing is more time consuming

Speech to Text Software: The Final Word

Speech-to-text software is usually supported by machine learning and is automated.

A popular but more expensive option is to record an audio file and send it to a human or AI-supported transcription service.

Voice-to-text software exists for authors, such as those mentioned above, as well as Deskshare’s Dictation Pro and Philips SpeechExec Pro.I have used some but not all of them.

Try a free version to find out if dictation software is right for you and see how it fits your style. Once you have the confidence, invest and take your writing career to new heights.

 career to new heights.

[things2mustdo]

I doubt anyone needs to be reminded that the media is rotten to the core; even the most reluctant and closed-minded people are accepting this as a given now. But despite the media being widely condemned nowadays (my special thanks to Germans for bringing the word “Lügenpresse” back), few people know or understand what’s really going on in the journalistic kitchens, where the foul slop of lies that people are fed every day is cooked up. However, there is always a way in—through purposeful infiltration or, in my case, by accident.

I have an old friend—let’s call him Sven—whom I always knew as a kind-hearted and sincere man. However, these traits are also coupled with always assuming the best of people and being rather naive. Due to this, he keeps ending up in awkward and sometimes dangerous situations. One of them turned out to be a short stint as a journalist for a popular online newspaper. He barely maintained contact during his employment and eventually went completely off the grid. In about a month, he resurfaced a changed man, and not for the better. As he explained, he quit the job and then shut himself in for a while, armed with nothing but alcohol, to cope with the depression working as a journalist gave him.

Now, this probably sounds very soft to many of you, including myself. Men don’t sink into depressions or try to drink themselves out of problems. While I granted my friend the clemency of explaining his failures to him, I also recognized the usefulness of his experience and started questioning him about what he saw and heard at the job. I will relay his findings below; however, I will not disclose his true name or the name of his employer—given the “free” country we live in, this can land him in very hot water.

Whoever pays you, owns you

Sven joined the ranks of journalists to tell people the truth. To his credit, he believed he would be doing exactly that. His first assignment sounded so simple, after all—talk to a person, record the conversation, write an article, publish it. The reality turned out to be diametrically different—after our fresh-baked journalist returned from his first interview, he was immediately ordered to transcribe the recording and email it to the content manager. Half an hour later Sven received a heavily edited version of the transcript, with the parts he considered most crucial replaced with meaningless buzzwords or removed completely. When he went to the manager to voice his indignation, the manager simply replied: “This man did not pay us for an article that would disparage him. Get back to your desk.”

This was far from the only case of Sven witnessing how much pull money has in journalism. His numerous colleagues almost never produced independent content—they were too busy publishing one paid article after another. When Sven asked whether these articles should be marked as sponsored, the only reply he got was a bitter laugh. Very often the content manager would come over to his desk and say something along the lines of “Do you know the guy you are writing about is a close friend of our boss? Do not screw this article up.” Sven was also surprised to see that many interviewees (usually politicians) would not even bother to talk to him, instead referring him to their secretaries or assistants. One of them even went as far as to hand him a pre-written speech, tell him to work with it and walk away.

However, our Sven also happens to possess a burning sense of justice, which has several times led him to ignore the “recommendations” his content manager gave him, deviate from the official story and allow small snippets of truth to make their way into public view. For each of such occurrences he was called to the manager’s room, given a strict admonishment and had his paycheck for the month reduced. Any “unsanctioned” things that he wrote were quickly edited away afterwards—even if the article had already been read by thousands of people. And his was supposed to be a “neutral and objective” media outlet!

Standards? Never heard of ’em.

It was a big shock for Sven when he finally realized that his employers were beings without conscience who whored themselves out to the highest bidder. It was an even bigger shock when he discovered how nonchalantly his colleagues treated their responsibilities. Investigative journalists relied on information they got from Google searches and Twitter posts, editors and sub-editors used rumors and hearsay to write scathing op-eds, website managers just posted any content that caught their fancy as long as they could come up with a flashy enough headline for it to attract people. Fact-checking was almost unheard of, unless someone specifically paid for it.

When it came to choosing topics and writing articles, the guideline for the entire establishment was simple: do not make the people angry. Not the regular people, mind you—those were not even considered human beings, just a faceless mass that one threw articles at and got pageviews and money in return. No, the label “people” was reserved for people who mattered. This included representatives of the powers that be, well-known public figures, moneybags with fingers in the political pie and, of course, personal buddies of the outlet’s owner.

These were to be protected, coddled and praised at all costs, while everyone else was fair game. Needless to say, politics held as much sway in the outlet as money did—whenever something noteworthy happened, “protectors of truth and objectivity” immediately went to work spinning the events in a way desirable for those holding their leashes. Hit pieces against political opponents and undesirables were churned out, smokescreens were cast, facts were omitted, denied and misinterpreted. Sven confessed to me later that the day his outlet covered the parliamentary elections was the first day in his life when he spent the entire evening drinking. Journalistic ethics, a term that the media loves throwing left and right, turned out to be nothing but hot air.

In the media omelet, you are an egg

The title says it all. For top dogs in the media business, a rank-and-file worker is not just a pawn—he is a condom. Contrary to what many people think, a typical journalist’s existence is quite pathetic: underpaid, undervalued, thankless and constantly bossed around. Staff turnover in the “kitchen” is very high, and not because people are getting promoted. In this field, the term “veteran employee” frequently means a poor sod who has no alternatives and cannot quit.

According to Sven, plenty of his colleagues worked only for the sake of getting their paycheck, which explains their negligence. Grey faces, pinched mouths, shifty eyes and sour attitudes—whatever it takes to get through the day. In addition, the higher-ups avoided any responsibility for the published content: whenever an angry reader called the office and complained about an article, the guy who wrote it was immediately thrown under the bus, even if his work was reviewed and approved by the management before publication. After all, what does it take to find another office drone with half-decent writing skills?

However, Sven also describes those of his coworkers who enjoyed their job. They arrived at the office with a spring in their step, a smile snaking across their faces and a mischievous glint in their eyes. These were the “talented” favorites of the outlet’s boss—unfeeling, cold assholes who would sell their own mothers for a juicy piece of gossip that they would later smear all over the website. Whenever they got a chance to write a hit piece, spread a nasty rumor or ruin someone’s life, one could almost see them light up from within. Remember all these smug, holier-than-thou, oh-so-intellectual articles churned out by rags like Salon, Dagens Nyheter and Huffington Post? You can bet your pinky finger they were (and are) written by these people. Which brings us to the next topic.

No wrongthink allowed

As you have probably noticed long ago, the media field is a huge and accommodating Petri dish for all varieties of Kulturbolschewismus. In Sven’s case, it wasn’t just a fear-based company policy of snitching and self-censorship, but an actual agenda at work. He told me there was a flowchart hanging in the newsroom explaining what to do when reporting crimes and incidents. It went something like this: “Was the perpetrator native (white)? Y = report in detail, amplify, N = gloss the details over, downplay.”

Sven wrote an article about a national holiday once, but his content manager refused to approve it for publishing due to it being “too patriotic,” advising him instead to “write more inclusively about minorities’ participation in the festival.” Anything praising the country and its indigenous inhabitants was undesirable and omitted whenever possible, while any piece that brimmed with self-hate, praised inhabitants of other (read: African and Muslim) countries or attacked the natives and their way of life was a big hit and flew through approval like a bird.

Needless to say, the outlet’s newsroom was crammed full of women, their pet cucks and, of course, Jews. The former enjoyed absolute power regardless of their position—a simple complaint to HR was enough to fire anyone, no proof required. The cucks, represented by twig-armed, piercing-laden, wispy-bearded creatures in Che Guevara shirts, were very pleased with the way things were going, sipping lattes and snitching to HR on those who expressed ideas incompatible with the narrative. Jews were in their native element in the newsroom, doing their usual “arrogant intellectual” schtick and getting promotions out of nowhere. The majority of articles bashing natives, their culture and values came from them, as later study of the newspaper’s website showed me.

Liars for hire

So, to sum it all up: the media is not composed of good but misguided people, as many still think. On the contrary, it is a very purposeful and self-aware entity that positions itself somewhere between an unscrupulous opportunist and a loyal lapdog of the state. At best, it is faux-patriotic (“such a wonderful country we have, let’s invite more immigrants!”), while at worst, it is openly hostile towards the indigenous population of the country it exists in.

Moreover, it allows for consolidation and self-affirmation of globalist forces—the traitorous governments, the world Jewry, the multinationals, the entertainment industry and the like—against the increasingly disenfranchised and declining native population. And last but not least, the media is complicit in crimes committed in the West by non-White immigrants due to purposeful obfuscation of them and, if that fails, rabble-rousing to pressure the courts into letting the criminals off scot-free. To me, the latter reason alone is enough to send all the journalists and their owners to the gibbet.

The bottom line is to always remember that the media is not your friend in any way, shape or form, even if its lowest tier operatives fit the description of hapless victims rather than nation-wrecking enemies. The media must be opposed, exposed and boycotted at every turn until it starts bleeding money and choking on its own venom.

Read More: Is Washington Post Writer Adam Taylor A Shill Or Part Of Something Larger?

While reading  Roosh’s article about Adam Taylor and the Washington Post, I noticed quite a few things I would like to share with people here. The direct link between Adam Taylor and the Radio Free excerpt is an anomaly. Such blatant copying is a very rare thing to occur because it gives away a possible collusion between entities.

Looking for these open relationships is long and hard. The better way to analyze  the relations and motivations of certain publishers, policy makers and other manipulators  is to study the various themes they put out and where these themes repeat. While Roosh  might assume that Adam Taylor is the paid shill by himself, I’ve noticed that his writing changes to whoever publishes it. Therefore the Washington Post Worldviews section may be the one that is parroting US State Department themes not just Adam Taylor.

As is shown in Roosh’s article, the similarities between Adam Taylor’s piece and Radio Free Europe are quite telling. It is a possibility that it is a coincidence but a small one. People that try to influence public opinion go to great lengths to ensure things like this do not happen which is why I’m assuming that Adam Taylor is  part of larger machine and not a shill by himself.

Looking back at Adam Taylor’s writing for the Huffington Post, he wrote fluff pieces about gay dogs and other mass consumption items for that audience. His writing about geopolitical intrigue only takes the current form when he begins writing for the Washington Post. All his articles are the Who’s Who of what the US State Department doesn’t like. The roster includes Russia, China, Venezuela, Syria, and Zimbabwe. He writes nothing critical of any American allies.

Could this mean that his change in format indicate that someone turned him? I doubt it. Compare his work at the Washington Post to the rest of the “world views” section there, his writing is merely a contribution to a giant echo chamber and not unique to him.

As I said earlier, it’s very rare for open evidence of collusion such as the similar quotations to present themselves. A better technique to discern propaganda and collusion is to analyze trends and themes.You should look for such things as what the work attempts to convey, does it try to get you to think or act in a certain way, and does it try to get you to disregard other things.

In the Adam Taylor case, the pattern changes significantly from the Huffington Post to the Washington Post. You can also apply this trend analysis to pretty much any author. You can even apply to the contributors here at  Return of Kings and see what you get. Do the trends indicate that the publisher may dictate what the writers write about? Do the trends indicate whether or not the writers have freedom to write about whatever they want? To help you readers out on this exercise I’ll inform you there were two articles I did at the direction of the publisher. They were my article for fat shaming week and my article for #backtothekitchen.  Feel free to comment on any other trends you might notice and if they do not line up with the “about” page.

[marvelousbirthdays]

Happy Birthday, lucifersbouncingballs

October 16-WinterShock with Darcy being connected to Bucky through the 1940s - either she got sent back to that time and then back or she started there, for @lucifersbouncingballs

Bucky Barnes is not having a good week. He's been drafted into a war he doesn't want to fight, his best friend is back in Brooklyn, probably getting beaten up, and now he's being called to Colonel Phillip’s tent. That can't be good. 

His commanding officer is waiting for him outside, bristling. "This is highly irregular, Barnes, and I want it sorted out."

Bucky salutes in response, confused, and at the colonel's impatient gesture, goes in. There, standing at the desk, is the prettiest dame he's ever seen. She looks a little battered and her clothes are odd, but her face breaks into a smile when he enters.

"At last, someone I recognise! Bucky, help a girl out here would you and explain what’s going on.”

Bucky frowns. He hasn’t heard his nickname since shipping out — most folks here call him Sarge — but despite her familiarity with him, he has no idea who this woman is. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

At his question, her brows furrow. “Is that some sort of joke? Payback for how I kicked your ass at Twister last -” Her gaze falls on his left arm and she pales.

“I know your sister,” she says at last. “Has Becky ever mentioned me to you? Darcy Lewis?”

“Not that I recall, no.”

In the awkward silence, Phillips pushes through the flap. “Well, Barnes? Can you vouch for her?”

He’s about to say no, but they’re in the middle of a war. He knows — or at least suspects — what will happen to her if tells the truth. Besides, she knows his sister. Apparently. “Yeah,” he says instead. “She’s a friend of my sister. Don’t know what she’s doing here, though.”

The woman scowls, and it must say something about how long he’s been in the field that he finds that charming, too. “I’m as lost as you are. One second I’m at work in New York, working in a machine Stark swore up and down wasn’t functional, the next moment I’m here being interrogated by you lot.”

“Stark?” Colonel Phillips asks. “You work at Stark Industries?”

“Yeah, though my boss -”

“That would explain it,” Phillips mutters. “Man has the curiosity of an alley cat and the common sense of a gerbil. This sort of stunt sounds like something he would do.” He looks at the woman, who seems more calm now that she doesn’t seem to be at risk of being shot as a spy. “Now what are we to do with you? You understand that we can’t let you wander off, and Stark left for England. He won’t be back for a while.”

“A while?” She purses her lips, then sighs, as if coming to a decision. “Put me to work, then. I’ll go stir-crazy without anything to do”

“What do you do?”

“I’m an ...  administrative assistant. I transcribe, compile, and file the notes of others. I’ve been doing this for scientific research, but they’re pretty transferable skills.”

After some hemming and hawing, Phillips agrees to let her stay, ordering Bucky to show her around and shooing them out of his tent. Once they are outside and far away enough from curious ears, Darcy halts him with a hand on his arm. “Bucky, you really don’t know me?”

“How can I? I don’t think we’ve met before.” He knows all his baby sister’s friends, and this bombshell wasn’t one of them. Of course, if he was still thinking of her as his baby sister though Becky was in her twenties, it was possible that he’d missed one of her friends growing up as well. How else would she know his sister’s name?

“Becky and I aren’t close, if that helps,” Darcy says, and though something about this whole thing doesn’t quite seem right, he pushes his doubts away. After the week he’s had, he could do worse than showing a pretty girl around.

“Nice to meet you, Darcy,” he says, tipping his uniform cap at her. “Welcome to Europe.”

She tucks her hand into the crook of his arm and smiles up at him. “It’s not how I thought this weekend would go, but thanks all the same.”

She ends up being quartered with an Agent Carter, who Darcy seems to hold in high regard from the very start, much to his and Agent Carter’s confusion. Once the shine wears off, the two women strike up a firm friendship and can be found working side by side in total accord or laughing together in a way that makes the men near them distinctly uncomfortable.

Her spare moments, however, are spent with Bucky. Between her work and his training, they have precious few moments alone together. They spend them getting to know each other, bonding over a shared love of music and stories of dragging reckless friends out of trouble. From the knowledge she seems to have of his childhood, Bucky cannot help but conclude that she is his sister’s friend, though try as he might he cannot remember her.

It’s a few months before he musters up the courage to ask her about how exactly she arrived at camp.

“There’s not much to tell. I was headed out to dinner when my boss asked me to get something from a machine in the lab before I left. I checked with Stark, he said go ahead, the machine wasn’t working anyway. I’m in there, trying to work the component loose, when there’s a shower of blue sparks and I lose my balance and ended up here — wherever here is.”

She doesn’t make it a question. Phillips still doesn’t trust her, and while Bucky has passed that point long ago, it’s easier to stay away from those answers. “What was the machine for?” he asks instead.

She rests her head against his shoulder and he slips an arm around her as she answers. “I don’t know, to be honest, but my boss says it goes along similar lines to our work and we are looking at - at transportation, you could call it.” There’s probably more to it than that. Sometimes the things Darcy says (or almost says) range from unusual to downright impossible — but either Bucky is getting used to it or she is getting better at holding her tongue.

“I wonder if anyone found it,” she adds after a moment. “If it was common, I wouldn’t have had to go reuse that one.”

“You are working in logistics,” he points out. “Doesn’t that also include storage?”

She twists to look up at him. “You know, that’s a good point. Now I understand Officer Bryant’s storage system, it should be easy enough to find it.”

He follows her to the tent set up for general storage. It’s not the armoury, which is far more heavily guarded, nor the ration supply, which is watched over by the cook’s helpers. The Warrant Officer there gives him a suspicious look, but is familiar enough with Darcy that they are allowed in.

Darcy snags a clipboard from a stack of boxes by the entrance and pores over it, muttering under her breath. “Stack M,” she declares at last, and leads the way to the stack in question.

Bucky helps her pull the top box down and open the box below. After some digging around, Darcy pulls out a piece of metal, holding it up to Bucky with a look of triumph. “Here it is!”

“Are you sure?” It looks like nothing more than a piece of shrapnel, albeit with a few more wires.

“Yeah, though it wasn’t twisted like this when I was trying to get it out. This bit was over here.” As she speaks, she is tugging at part of the metal that seems to be hinged. With one final tug, it pops into place and Darcy stumbles backwards, disappearing into a shower of blue sparks.

His startled cry alerts the guard outside, but though they search the cramped storage tent high and low, there is no sign of Darcy.

There’s a lot of paperwork to fill out, but Bucky can’t bear to do it and Colonel Phillips is more worried about possible German movements near the Italian town of Azzano. One missing woman — who they never properly documented in the first place — well, they have bigger problems.

~~~~~ Seventy years later

His memories are still patchy, but images of the days before Zola are far more welcome than what came afterward. One day as he settles into living at the Tower, he catches sight of a brunette crossing the road below and a little voice at the back of his mind says Darcy. He is halfway to the elevator before reality comes crashing back.

As if the sighting was a key to those precious few months, more and more memories of Darcy start to surface. Her laugh, her biting wit, the little sway she put into her hips when she knew he was looking…

Steve decides he’s moping and at the next charity gala, resolves to introduce him to the entire population of Stark Tower, to ‘bring him out of his shell’. This tends to involve Steve springing strangers on Bucky while he’s having a perfectly lovely time interacting with the buffet table.

“Buck, this is Dr Foster and her assistant, who moved into the Tower last week.”

Carefully balancing his over-full plate, Bucky turns to face the new arrivals. “Nice to meetcha,” he says distantly, still calculating whether another spring roll would fit or cause a minor foodslide catastrophe. The women murmur polite greetings and Bucky almost drops his plate, because one of them is Darcy, blue eyes sparkling in amusement at the mountain of canapes he has amassed.

Despite the amusement, there is no recognition in that gaze, nothing but polite curiosity, and they soon move on to other conversation partners. Ones that are not alternating between shock, elation, and disappointment in equal measure, the sheer force of the emotions rendering him speechless.

Steve looks at him cautiously after they have gone. “You alright there, Buck?”

“That was Darcy,” Bucky manages to get out.

“Yes, that’s what she said. Interesting name —” Steve stops as realisation sets in. “Like your girl in Europe.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Not like her. It is her. Except she doesn’t know me.”

“But how can she be here?”

Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t even know how she ended up in the backwoods of Europe to begin with. She turned up one day, blaming Stark.”

“Stark —  you think Tony did something?”

“We assumed Howard at the time, but now — yes.” Bucky stuffs another dumpling in his mouth and chews mechanically, but the pile of food he has amassed is no longer so appetising. “I thought she was it, y’know? Right until she disappeared. Then we got caught at Azzano and none of it mattered any more.”

Steve claps him on the shoulder. “If it’s really her, then maybe this is a second chance. Even if she doesn’t remember you.”

“So?”

“So be yourself. Show her you’re the one.” Steve grins. “Be charming.”

Bucky thinks back to afternoons sneaking out of camp or finding a quiet corner of the mess hall, and a slow smile blossoms across his face. “I can do that.”

[ravenintraining]

MAG 1- Anglerfish

I hate hearing the first episodes of anything over again because the voices lack all of the personality they grow into over time. Especially this posh prick I'm hearing right now.(/j)

(analysis under cut so i don't feel bad)

Anyways, let's get down to business.

I've spent many of the last few weeks trying to visualize the layout of the Archives(for fic writing purposes), and the part where he can see thousands just from where he's sitting (in a room with a door separating it from the rest of the area, as is mentioned later) really throws all of that off. I like to think he saw a bunch of boxes full of papers and assumed those were statements, even though in the event that his predecessor wasn't an eldritch horror they're probably be print-offs from seminars or audit logs or literally anything else. In my head all of them are actually mounds of scrap paper from a local school so that Elias has to deal with the information overload of creative writing classes.

"so the only thing in most of the files are the statements themselves" this is REALLY outing Jon for not understanding what an Archive does. Why, pray tell, would the research be down in long-term storage? When you have a whole section of this Institute called RESEARCH DIVISION? Obviously they'd keep their OWN RECORDS UP THERE. Probably digitized by now because you all had your own computers. Give me a BREAK.

"he's not likely to contribute anything but deh-LAYS >://" i think you should re-adjust that stick up your ass it's starting to effect your Brain. you've known this dude for all of an hour tops calm your tits. Technically speaking so far the only one that's delayed you was your inability to record something digitally and so it's You who is currently delaying the Archives. Chomp my dick loserboy.

Just remembered that these recordings are available to the public. Dog no college student gives a shit about you and your problems they're just gonna make fun of you on the internet. Actually I think a really funny socmed au could come out of the twitter commentary of someone reading the statements from the magnus institute bc the transcriber drops his drama ALL OVER them.

they must have gotten SO many statements in 2012. I mean, people thought the world was going to end. This of course is the largest part behind why I think the Extinction isn't real and is just a version of the End, because it would have manifested in either 1999 or 2012 when everyone was so worried the world would end. (which also, sidenote, i think could have been perfect explanations of end rituals that failed. i think end avatars would 100% try at least a few times)

sorry I haven't even gotten to the statement yet. idk this one really isnt even that interesting? like oooo dude trips on brick path, stranger ignores that he hurt himself and wants to bum a cigarette. i think it would be better if the anglerfish like actually got its hand(s?) on him and then he got away instead bc without that the only scary part is the implications the episode name gives you. it leads to a great reveal of what happened to the victims later on in the melanie statement (stapling her skin back on) but without that context it's just a dude who's talking to you without opening his mouth.

"el oh el" i bet tim and sasha took the tape after he recorded it just to hear how jon would pronounce 'lol.' i only think that bc that's what I would do.

it is interesting that the body doesnt show up in the images though. like i figured considering the way the stranger loves manipulating digital tech that it would get a kick out of the picture showing the guy just floating there boreing its eyes into your skull. like i get it was meant to be the "light" of the anglerfish creating the illusion of a harmless creature that then turns out to not be there but come onnnn is that Really a stranger thing to do. could be so much better. the stranger should get a suggestion box i have some thoughts.

okay that's all folks. catch you tomorrow for the same shenanigans

[cupoffilipino]

1977

There is no umbrella. I left it outside the hotel last week (some 7 days ago). As a result, I would have to be wet. Nature have mercy. I walked and walked. There weren’t too much rain. I was wearing a black sweater. The rain was just trickling I didn’t have to use the sweater’s hoodie. I am in Richmond, BC this thirty-one-day stay.

This is not the first time I’ve been here. I remember to even five years ago I was living in the same Vancouver suburb. Vancouver is just a train ride away. i’m trying to get to the train station to leave my hotel room. A cleaner will be scheduled to clean it (goodbye a full-24-hour indoor stay). Only these Co-vid days on Mondays. The fixed schedule I was informed about as to cleaning is something you could go by since there wouldn’t be any forceful reason to leave in the first place where you stay. I’m not unemployed but I am technically not doing anything. I have a purported book to publish without any deadline. I receive money enough to keep me doing nothing. All I have to do in this phase of my life is to live, keep alive, breathe, enjoy life until I’m okay. I say that guessing I’m the only one on the face of the Earth who is really okay. Or wants to be okay.

There are so many cars and other vehicles on the way. I wonder if I ever would have an accident. So far, luckily, it had never occurred. I’ve been across drivers who were just about to bump into me. On my way to a Walmart, November 10, for example. Almost nobody walked in the dark where I was during that time (also in British Columbia.) When you don’t have a car, you’re vulnerable on the road. Strangers could easily kill you by mechanical force but that I guess is the price for not paying for any oil-and-gas and getting to freely engage in locomotion your own limbs. 😌

End-of-year holidays 2016. Nephew, parents, sister and brother-in-law (and another pair and another nephew not in the picture) visited me here in Vancouver (I say Vancouver generally because that’s what you say when visitors come from abroad in a faraway place, when you could actually not be living in Vancouver itself but in a suburb). Throughout my ongoing five years in the Canadian city, I’ve often rid this train but it would take reception of this picture to make me remember I wasn’t alone one time one ride one far away time away. Vancouver is said to be an unfriendly city (unless if you often go to a bar, perhaps, and the like) and it isn’t often you get to be talked to right here in public places. When you’re often alone, and there is this time family gets to visit you, and the lonely rides become lonely for even once no longer, the consequent rides, then, without them will never be the same.

On my way to Vancouver downtown city-center from Richmond, I anticipate two-hours of computer usage at the public library to do some file uploads. There are devices around me from time to time in my nights and days. It just helps when you have other external screens associated with another public place more officious than mere cafes for you to help you get things done. I really wanted to leave earlier at around half-an-hour after 7 AM this day I would have left my hotel room. I only managed after a short nap to leave the hotel by 10:02 AM after a first-floor-located bathroom urination. There are more than ten-dollars (Can) in my transportation card. I feel guilty of doing no physical activity when it is so rare I get to go out where I am currently staying. Arriving at downtown, here I am in the library yet to sit and be idle for a couple of hours again.

It wasn’t this dark as shown but it’s the same location. If I would walk to over-here from my current place of stay it would take my feet some three hours at least of walking. (Not that I would have any plans but it helps to make sense of the distance for me) I had to wait for some minutes before we library-goers would get to enter the yet-un-open library, since it wasn’t yet 11. There was a file and while waiting I checked my Instagram and facebook, avoiding vicinity glances.

So, I used the computer I booked before sunrise, and was able to do some uploads half the way. Meanwhile, I listened to Christmas jazz songs. Time goes so fast when you use the library computers. Badly enough, unlike before when there were four, only two hours are allowed for each day for one with a library card to use the desktop computers. The laptop I’m now using to write this blog entry was open in the meantime I was using the first desktop for my first of two hours booked on this day.

I was able to upload 132 files on my Soundcloud account. The 132 files are recordings of my voice transcribing what I both write and read. This because I have for some unknown-yet reason stopped reading (and writing, which I kind of did before casually.) My vision is is that I am stopping reading English silently in favor of learning new languages which deserve the hard-sustained attention required by silent reading. As for now, in Filipino and English I would only ‘speak aloud’ but won’t anymore silently (in a sustained way) read. I will definitely, though, write sustainedly in the languages I kind of know. French, German, Spanish are the languages I would only start from now on begin to silently (in a sustained way) read. So this is why I’ve come up (and been coming up since two months ago) with audio files for personal-use uploading. It would be very rare that I would actually share such recordings. Not a loss to the world because my way of speaking isn’t remarkable anyway. I would say it is only at best honest, . . . sincere.

With the additional screens and hours in separate computer at my disposal, I was able to discern the progress of what has been done so far since I checked-in at the hotel ten-days-on already. I knew how much more speaking-aloud i would have to do as my stay prolongs towards, of the total 31, day 14. It is now day 12, Wednesday, this December-13 week. I used the second computer I booked for another hour standing, then I left for the bank to withdraw money from an Automated Teller Machine. The money I withdrew depended on how many hours I’ve spoken (25 hours the past ten days). Because my self-designated rate was 13 Can$ an hour, I ended up withdrawing for my hands’ getting 220 Can$, the hundred more withheld since I remember having spent 97.46 Can$ already the previous week. I still have a quarter of a thousand dollars left for this December-4-to-January-4 hotel trip.

Indeed, time is so fast upon leaving the library for the bank, not only did I just let fly the two hours I spared using desktop computers: I also noticed that my stay at where I mostly am will only last for as long as as far away I was from November the 23rd the day of calendar observing. I particularly get to recall the day because it was one day after I last called my mother. I felt the drive and impulse to make a call since her phone message implied she knew from nowhere where I was and I wanted to know how she got air of where on the 22nd I just checked-in. I happened to check-in at a cheaper hotel that Sunday afternoon, and the reason she ended up knowing where exactly I was was due to information provided by credit card companies there was made that time a security deposit. My credit card is technically not really my own and I periodically return whatever credit I get using it. Bank charges parents after son gets money from bank, thereby the charging of parents. Responsibly do I return whatever credit I get-and-spend. Money comes from other parent.

Which is why as of now my wallet has six total number of bills, if combined, are worth a sum of Can$120. Addition to that, I also have at my disposal a total seven coins, worth 2.70 Can$ only. This, all after, my purchase at the grocery store of goods worth 97.89 Can$, paid with handed two 50-dollar bills.

I now head to my storage locker in Northern Vancouver, a single ride away by bus but I would take the sea route, then a bus one, to it. The first thing I really wanted to was to go to the restroom in order to pee. Since my arrival in British Columbia (or Western Canada) on November 2, 2020 after nine weeks in Toronto-and-Montreal combined, I noticed I could now better control my bladder. Like, it would be a success if I get to hold whatever liquids are there in it without feeling anxious I might end up wetting my leg wear. I believe this new ability to withhold urination for long (in fact I do not even notice it that often any longer these days recently) has to do with gathering an important piece of myself having been back to those two Canadian places in provinces of the second-largest country in the world I’ve previously been at 18 and 19. I land after an intra-continental flight in YVR airport a fuller, if not exactly changed, man. But reporting now as I went to ride the sea bus to North Vancouver this recently that I couldn’t prevent urination any longer due to back anxiety, I might just end up holding back instead my conviction and understanding of how I’ve been. No one wants to go to a facility full of cargo without a ready resort to a restroom nearby, even if there’s business with your own stuff to keep you busy, unless one really trusts oneself he won’t uncontrollably pee. So, riding the sea bus to north of the city, I was confident, especially having seen my image in the mirror I didn’t expect wouldn’t actually look ugly. Turning 31, I’m not that bad-looking. Or so I see.

My name is Derek Dino Estrella Redona. 

Grandfather-less the past three years.

[pendragonfics]

I Heard Kylo Ren...

Paring: Matt the Radar Technician/Reader

Tags: female reader, set after Star Wars: The Force Awakens, canon compliant, fluff and angst, male-female friendship, friends to lovers, kissing. 

Summary: It had been an ordinary day of your job. You had woken early, as you often did, bringing a cup of fresh caf to the rooms where your superior, General Hux slept in, and escorting him to the Bridge of The Finalizer, informed him off all the messages on the Holopad since his last checking-in the night previous. You would greet his associate, and your Commander, Kylo Ren, often trying to not make eye-contact, or interfere with the Knight of Ren. But today, there was no dark-clad man with a lightsabre in sight.

Word Count: 2,974

Current Date: 2017-08-06

It had been an ordinary day of your job. You had woken early, as you often did, bringing a cup of fresh caf to the rooms where your superior, General Hux slept in, and escorting him to the Bridge of The Finalizer, informed him off all the messages on the Holopad since his last checking-in the night previous. You would greet his associate, and your Commander, Kylo Ren, often trying to not make eye-contact, or interfere with the Knight of Ren. But today, there was no dark-clad man with a lightsabre in sight.

“General –,” you began, but your ginger-haired boss shook his head before you could continue.

“Don’t worry yourself,” he sighed, not looking up from his Holopad, trawling through the messages from Captain Phasma for discussions on the training regime. “Ren is on assignment.”

You nodded, and had not put too much thought to it. Until near the middle of the day, near the main officer’s cafeteria. It was then when you went head over kitten-heels on a wrench, falling onto your nose. Not a soul made a noise upon seeing your fall, and none went to help you. So, brushing off the bruise that was sure to come, and the dignity you had left, went to stand. But then again, there seemed to be something slippery underfoot, and you went down again.

“Can you give me my wrench?” A baritone voice intoned beside you.

Glancing up, you were met with the face of a man. In the appearances of men, you were not one to judge, as everyone looked different in their own ways, but, inside your chest, you felt a flutter. You might be known as the ‘The Bootlicker of Starkiller’ because of your position as secretary for General Hux, but your heart was beating so very fast at the sight of him. Just the sight of him made you forget what he had just said, and left you laying on the floor like a person without a braincell in sight.

“P-pardon?” you whisper, and moving to stand up, add, “sorry. I didn’t hear –,”

He blinked. “My wrench. Can you give it, to me?” His voice was curt, solid, perhaps borderline rude. But it startled you out of the stupor of seeing his face (or possibly, the stupor of falling twice), and scrambling across the hallway, you hand the tool to the technician.

The tool which made you slip.

“Hang on,” you hesitate, sitting up. “That was – I fell over because of that!” you protest.

The technician grumbles. “A Stormtrooper kicked it.”

“That wasn’t very nice of them.” you frown, and standing up, you straighten your First Order uniform, brushing off the gunk that laying on the hallway had adhered to it. You clear your throat, and add, “Did you catch their I.D. tag? I could report them to General Hux if you want me to do something about it.”

He blinked. “Do you tell everything to Hux?” He blurted.

You felt your face flush with colour, burning you inside out. “I – I don’t suppose I’m allowed to disclose that, erm, –,”

He didn’t even blink, and with the wrench in hand, replied in deadpan, “My name’s Matt. I’m a radar technician. And you’re late to your meeting, aren’t you?”

Your eyes widen, and remember that yes, in fact, you are, and the General would not be pleased at your lack of presence to transcribe and provide assistance. You nod, and hastily bid Matt goodbye, running off in the direction you were headed before you tripped, as fast as you can in your little heels.

---

It couldn’t have been more than a week later when you saw him again. You were at the desk positioned before General Hux’s office, filing the incoming documents on your Holopad in order of importance for your superior, when the blond technician walked in. It wasn’t too unusual for those of lower rank to come to speak with General Hux when he wasn’t on patrol on the Bridge – they often came with complaints or suggestions, or even, on call from the General himself. Even though you had spent the briefest of moments before with the technician, you felt a smile come to your face, and rose to greet him.

“It’s nice to see you again, Matt,” you beam, placing the Holopad upon the desk. He stands still, a confused look crossing over his face, and at this, you pause, and add, “Your name is Matt, isn’t it? I’m usually good at remembering people’s names.”

He clears his throat. “Yep, I’m Matt. Radar, technician.” He must have somehow sensed what your next question would be, and added, “I’m here to speak to Hu – General Hux.”

“He’s running a little slow for meetings,” you tell Matt, recalling the list your ginger-haired supervisor is working from. “He’s got the Minister of the Mirialan home world in overtime now, and when you’re done, there’s a spokesperson from Dantooine.” You don’t know why you’re saying all of this to him, but Matt seems to be the kind of guy who seems trustworthy, even though he has a resting face that appears to be costive. “Do you want to come back, when he’s free, or wait…?”

The blond man huffs, and moves to the chairs you keep in the corner near your desk. It’s an impromptu waiting area, of sorts, with a little table with gossip rags and a fake flower in a vase. “I’ll wait. I’m on a break.”

As Matt takes a seat, however, you reach into the hidden draw beneath your desk. It’s hidden in case you’re under attack from rouge officers, or infiltrated Resistance, as it has a single Blaster and two extra clips of ammunition. It also has your special container of soft caramel sweets, kept for special occasions. Taking the glass receptacle out, you hold a wrapped lolly out to the man lodging in your waiting room.

“Thank you,” you say, walking over to Matt, the sweet still extended in your hand. “For the other day. If it weren’t for you, I don’t think I would have made it in time to the meeting, and I would’ve gotten in trouble with General Hux.”

He looks at the wrapped treat with a puzzling look, and that custom-made frown he always has on. “But you tripped on my wrench.”

“I’m not one to point fingers,” you shrug. “Do you want the caramel or not?”

Matt took the caramel.

You both sit there in silence, sucking away at the lollies. He’s on the edge of the chair, fingers gripping the edges tight enough to whiten his knuckles. You’re perched on the front of your desk, feet dangling off the front. It’s inappropriate workplace behaviour, sitting so informally there, offering boiled sweets to men you barely know from around the First Order. Thank goodness, your superior is Hux and not the mind-reader Kylo Ren, or else he’d already know half of the infringements you’d never usually commit.

“I never understood why people like these sweets,” his monotonous voice intones, those dark eyes glancing to meet yours, a smile curving those plush lips a little. “but they’re not bad.”

You grin, but before you can reply that you’d better like those caramel melts, they cost me four weeks of pay last shore leave on Corellia! the General’s door opens, the Mirialan Minister exiting, the crop of red hair visible from the doorframe. Standing at once, you put on your best friendly smile for the Minister.

“Matt,” the General hummed, narrowing his eyes. “Thank you, ________. I’ll take it from here.”

---

Every Benduday, you were allowed a half day off for yourself. It was perhaps the only time you took for yourself, and often, you just lay in your quarters, exhausted, listening to music from your home, reading a book on your Holo. But today, you are not in your quarters. Dressed in plainclothes, you walk toward the mess hall. You’ve heard that from time to time the officers and soldiers have performances or music there, and finally giving up on your curiosity, you’ve made the trek. In case there isn’t anything on, you still have your novel awaiting, tucked under your arm, and your food card to munch on something special. After all, it’s your half-day off.

But entering the mess hall, it’s not what you expected.

Just by stepping inside, the officers and Stormtroopers stop their merrymaking, some even giving you glares and icy stares. The person on the makeshift stage scowls, jumping off the table. You feel your face burn in shame, and in the heat of their anger.

“It’s ________ the Bootlicker,” A Trooper with their helmet off huffed. “Come to report us to your boss for having fun? Or to shove that pole up your ass –,”

He’s interrupted by a familiar voice. “Shut up, Jerk Face.”

Matt stands beside you, his arms crossed, that scowl on his face, same as ever. Except, he’s standing a little in front of you, taking all the stares and brunt of the hatred that’s rolling off these people in waves. He’s out of uniform, wearing grey slacks, and a loose orange t-shirt that leaves his arms bare enough to see the muscles that he has. You would never think that the guy whose perpetual glower would stand up for you.

“Oh look, it’s Matt,” someone commented. “Great.”

You huff, stepping around Matt’s human wall to face the attackers of your character face-on. “I didn’t come here to dispel your gathering,” you hum, arms crossed. “I’m off-duty. Like many of you are, right now. You workers of sanitation, of communications, of weapons – you don’t bring your work into this place! I don’t smell the shit you lay in here, so why would I bring mine with me?” you bark. “I may be the personal secretary of our General himself, and do not forget our mission as First Order!”

But that didn’t happen, except, if you were as brave as you were in your head. Instead, you shook your head, and taking Matt by the hand, lead the both of you out of the mess hall.

“My friend saw Kylo Ren in the shower too!” another officer called out after Matt and you, leering, “He’s banging the guy on the regular!”

Matt’s face grew red with anger, but with your firm hold on his wrist, he can’t go back to defend the honour of the First Order’s honorary Sith apprentice. You keep walking with Matt in tow, not noticing where you’re going until you realise how lost you are. Or rather, far away from the regular places you often visit. It’s also then you realise that you’ve got hot tears streaming from your eyes, and releasing his hand, wipe your eyes hastily with each hand.

“Um –,” Matt stands there, looking at you through his glasses.

You shake your head, sobs erupting from deep within your chest. “I’m – fine,” you cry, just as a fresh wave of tears hit. “I’m not usually a mess like this, I – I swear.”

Matt nods, his hand hovering awkwardly over your shoulder, and pats your back. “Big mood.”

You shake your head, a smile cracking despite your sad disposition. “I mean,” you take a deep breath, and wipe at your dripping nose with your hand, “You didn’t have to stand up for me back there, they’re only going to be rude to you now.”

Matt shook his head of light hair. “They’re already insolent people. I don’t care.”

You laugh at his wording, and start walking back the way you came, hopefully to find your quarters before curfew started. “Cool. So, I hear you’re a fan of Kylo Ren? What’s he like?”

Matt frowns, “You don’t know Kylo Ren? But you work with H – the General.”

“Not really,” you mutter. “I mean, often, I see him around in the early mornings, or around on Starkiller Base, or The Finalizer, but lately, I haven’t. General Hux said he’s away on an assignment, I think from Supreme Leader Snoke, but…I’ve never seen a logged assignment in all my time serving the First Order that went for over a month,” you confess. “What – I mean, you’re the Kylo Ren expert. Should I take it up with General?”

Matt kept walking beside you for a moment, pensive. Silent. Then, “I don’t think so. It’s nothing to worry about. I heard Kylo Ren once spent a long amount of time chasing a band of hooligans across the galaxy for almost two months.”

“Wow.” You raise your eyebrows, “that would be tiring.”

Matt nods, wiping the corner of his eye behind his glasses. “Yeah.” There’s another pause, and he adds, “you sound like you’re a fan too.”

You’re not sure how to answer that, what, when he’s Kylo Ren’s number one enthusiast. You shrug, and giving a final wipe to your now drying eyes, hum. “I’m not sure. I just wonder what’s going on under all that black he wears.” You add, grinning, “Can’t be the easiest job, running around with our General.”

Matt exhales, some of the blond hairs floating out of his eyes at the small puff, “I heard that’s true.”

---

You’ve taken the afternoon off, telling the General that you needed to take some time off for personal reasons. Instead of going to the medical droids for a check-up, like other people would do when telling their superiors that reason, you find Matt by his work station a couple of days later after the episode of you crying. He’s working hard on a calcinator you know little about, and his supervisor seems to be one backchat away from a psychotic episode. Poor gal. You’ll put in a good word with management for her to get some Me Time.

“Hey,” you greet Matt, kneeling beside him. Passing a wrench to him, you add, “I, er, wondered if you had a moment to talk.”

Matt meditates on your words for a moment, and taking the wrench, places it in his toolbelt. “What do you want to talk about?” He takes the spanner, by his feet, and adjusts the bolt in the wall.

You glance around to the passer-byers and the other maintenance staff, and shake your head. “Not here. I – private?”

Matt agrees, and while his boss is looking the other way, the pair of you sneak over to a private janitorial closet, and close the door. Matt goes to speak, but before he can, you place a broom under the handle so you can’t be interrupted. He goes to speak again, but you place another there, just to be safe.

“What did you want to talk about?” He asks.

You feel a blush heating your face, realising that you’ve dragged him into a closet. You clear your throat, and remember what words you had rehearsed beforehand. “I – you’re a really great guy, Matt, and I like you a lot,” you admit, “but…I know you’re actually Kylo Ren.” You reach over in the dim lighting of the closet, and slide the blond wig from his head. Dark brown locks of hair fall out, tufts covering his ears, one section almost over his glasses. “I worked it out, don’t worry. You’re still undercover.”

There’s a lump in his throat he can’t seem to swallow. “How – how did you –,”

You tap the side of your nose. “I’m not General Hux’s secretary for nothing.” You pause, and add, “Could, I, erm, if it wasn’t out of my rank…why are you undercover?”

It’s his turn to flush, the red marks of a blush covering from his neck to ears. The lump in his throat is back, and clearing his throat, Kylo Ren replies, “I always saw a pretty secretary hanging around and…wondered what it would be like to know her.” He mumbles, unable to look at you.

“Commander,” you gape, feeling the warm feeling inside your chest leave you, “who is she?”

He takes those ridiculous glasses off his face, and folding them, tosses them into a mop bucket in the corner. “She works harder than I can ever say I’ve seen any other secretary on here work. And she always wears her uniform with pride. Dutiful. Never fails to smile, and greet everyone. And yet, they still antagonised her when she did her best.”

You fold your arms, feeling almost sick. Here you were, in a janitor’s cupboard with the intention to find out about Matt-who-isn’t-Matt-but-Commander-Ren, and perhaps kiss the guy, but he’s telling you all about the crush of his dreams. Awkward.

“She sounds great,” you smile. “What’s her name?”

Kylo Ren blinks. “_________.”

You feel your cheeks enflame in shame. You might be smart enough to work out he’s no radar technician, but emotions? No dice! “Me?” you squeak.

He nods. “I mean, I’m not Matt, but – I just wanted to know you. Whenever I see you on the Bridge, or in the hallways, or in the ginger asshole’s office, I’m not silent because I’m rude.” He gushes, the monotonous voice softer in timbre, gentle while not on display before others, “I just can’t put three words together.”

“Would it be forward of me…Commander –,”

He shakes his dark hair. “Call me Kylo.”

“Kylo…to kiss you?” you finish your sentence. As soon as the dark-haired Sith apprentice nods, you cradle his face with your hands, your elbow hitting the light switch of the cupboard to off. Between kisses, you whisper, “I heard Kylo Ren has a thing has a thing for kissing girls in closets.”

You feel him grin against your lips, laughing. “I heard he also likes to take things back to his room.”

“Sounds like a reasonable guy,” you reply, leaning in for another kiss. “Don’t tell Hux I’m taking time off work to make out in a supply closet.”

Kylo laughs again. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

[toraonice]

Yuri on Museum report

I think other people have probably already written about it, but anyway a general report of what can be seen and some info for anyone who is coming to Japan in the summer and might want to visit. (I’m not writing anything that goes against the “no spoilers” stance of the Museum, and all the links are connected to the TV Asahi event producer’s official Twitter account so it’s official pictures that is ok to share)

The Museum is on the 8th floor of Shibuya’s Tower Records. At the entrance they ask you to pick a postcard (you can choose the design) and an audio guide. If it’s the first time they will also give you a stamp card for the audio guide. You can use the guide with your own earphones/headphones (I actually have no idea what happens if you don’t bring earphones).

There are 6 guides with 6 different character pairs (listed on the website), but the 6th one is “secret” and only people who have listened to the other 5 can choose it. Every guide has 6 tracks, and in the museum there will be numbers on the walls corresponding to each track. You can listen to them how many times you want. However, it’s forbidden to record the contents of the guide and also to transcribe them. In other words, “do not post the contents anywhere”. They have clearly spent a lot of money for this Museum and the guides are a way to attract more visitors (or the same visitor 6 times) so I think it’s fair, though at the same time not very kind for people who live faraway and can’t come 6 times... But I guess that after the Museum is over they will allow spoilers regarding the contents.

The Museum has a fixed route and you cannot walk backwards, so once you’re past an area you cannot turn back. At the beginning there is an interactive panel with a Makkachin tissue case in front of it. If you place your hand over Makkachin a character will appear at random (see how it works here). You can only try once.

The second section has on display the 3 GPF medals (catch a glimpse here), which were made by the actual company that makes the real GPF medals, and the FS costumes of all finalists, handmade by Chacott. Even the skating shoes are recreated according to the setting (see here). Now you can start to understand why it probably cost them a lot to make all these things... On the opposite side of the wall to the costumes there are newly drawn illustrations of the characters performing their programs at the GPF. Each character has both a SP and a FS illustration, and there are also 2 illustrations for Yuuri and Yurio’s EX. These illustrations are the ones also used for the bromide set/clear files sold at the Museum, so you can see them online because people have posted pics of the goods (they are really nice).

The third section is “Yuuri’s secret collection of Victor goodies” (see here). I’m not sure how they bribed him, but they managed to get Yuuri to lend them part of his Victor collection (LOL). It’s mostly illustration panels, out of which a few of young Victor are new pictures. These are also very nice though sadly they weren’t made into goods so you can only see them at the Museum (another glimpse here).

The fourth section has Victor’s life-size statue (see here) and a reproduction of Victor’s FS costume. Victor is sitting on a bench with Makkachin (tissue case). I linked the official account, but you can actually take pictures of him, so you can find full versions online. Before seeing it I was worried about the face, but simply put the quality is amazing... I wish they made a scale figure with the same quality, I’d definitely spend a lot of money on it. You can also ask the staff to take a picture together sitting on the bench (touching is forbidden though).

The fifth section has Yuuri and Victor’s EX costumes on display (a glimpse here). They have rings. Which according to TeleUsa are made of real gold. Also, you can’t see it from the preview picture but they actually used mannequins with a different physique. So they look very realistic. (Actually, I think they did this for the FS costumes too, because they also have different builds, though I didn’t check if they all match the character. I’m sure Yurio was pretty slim and Chris quite tall). You can see that they put a lot of care and effort into this exhibition...

The sixth section is a hall with a bench recreating the kiss & cry, with life-size acrylics of the characters made from the Museum illustration (a glimpse of Otabek here). This is the only other thing that can be photographed. There are props on a table (see here) and you can use them when you take pictures. You can probably find pics of this online too. On the other side there are small panels of scenes from the series, and at the end a new illustration of Victor and Yuuri taking a selfie at the banquet. Thankfully enough this picture was also included in the bromide set so you can see it online. I wish they’d made it into a clear file too because it’s adorable and I wanted to have it bigger...

The seventh and last section is a collection of genga art from the series. Many of them are genga that, if I remember correctly, weren’t displayed at the exhibition in Nakano last December. On the other side, some from Nakano aren’t displayed here (like the forehead touch scene where Victor touches Yuuri’s lip, whose genga was in Nakano and was very beautiful). There is also a screen with a slideshow of setting pictures from the Setting Material Collection that was released the other day. I am still waiting for them to release a genga collection too one day...

The last hall is the shop selling all merchandise. If you buy over 5000 yen they give you an A3 poster as a present, you can choose from two designs. The list of goods is here. Since it was very crowded I actually didn’t notice that the clear files have different pictures on each side, so I ended up buying two of a few... Be careful about that if you’re going.

All in all, it was very nice and it’s probably worth going more than once, especially if the first time is very crowded (like it was today). I only took one picture of Victor because I felt bad making others wait. Also, the audio guide was very nice... (I only went today and of course chose the Yuuri & Victor one, but I’m planning on going again to complete all of them.) I can’t say anything about the contents but I hope they will make them available for everyone eventually. Whenever they lift the spoiler ban, which is probably after the exhibition is over, I will write the details.

Lastly, a guide for people who are coming to Japan and want to visit.

There are two ways to get a ticket: buying an advance sale ticket, or buying a ticket on the day you’re going. On some days they will not sell same-day tickets if they sold too many advance ones, so if you can only go on a certain day I would recommend buying an advance ticket. It’s also 300 yen cheaper.. You can buy them from the Lawson Ticket website if you’re registered or via a Loppi machine inside a Lawson shop, in which case you don’t need a registration. In the morning (10:00 am) at Tower Records they distribute numbered tickets for every time slot (there are 12 time slots) and you can choose the one you prefer as long as it’s available. If you go there later in the day you might only find tickets for the late afternoon or evening. I think it will become progressively less crowded, especially on weekdays, and maybe they will stop distributing numbered tickets on some days, but on the contrary it might get more crowded on the weekends in August, like during the Obon holidays which also overlap with Comiket (since lots of people come to Tokyo). If you’re going to visit in that period it’s definitely better to get a ticket in advance. The Museum will be open every day until Sunday, September 3rd (included).

If you need any other info feel free to message me! (Just please understand that I cannot give more details regarding the contents of the audio guide or other spoilers).

I’m also sharing my pics of Victor and the kiss & cry panel.

[i-am-very-very-tired]

In early 1937, director Gregory La Cava sent an assistant named Winfrid Thackrey to embed herself in a home for aspiring actresses, the Hollywood Studio Club, to gather material for a movie about theater life. He told Thackrey: Find me some dialogue that’s alive—get some case histories. Who are these kids? Why do they want to be in pictures? Where do they come from? What was their home life? Small town? Why did they leave home to come here? Are they having any success? Have they been to the “casting couch”? Was it worth it? Thackrey moved into the Club posing as an actress who, realistic about her chances, was also trying to learn shorthand. She spent her days eavesdropping on the young women around her, compiling notes which helped give the resulting film, Stage Door, some of the richest dialogue of any classic Hollywood production. It also presents the era’s most compelling treatment of the deeply engrained sexual harassment women have faced in the entertainment industry, depicting the “casting couch” not as the popular myth used to malign female entertainers, but as a very real predatory tool of men in power over them. THE CASTING COUCH IS OFTEN CALLED AN “OPEN SECRET,” AND THE STORY OF STAGE DOOR IS A STUDY IN THE KIND OF WILLFUL IGNORANCE REQUIRED TO KEEP SOMETHING SO WIDELY KNOWN FROM ENDANGERING THOSE IN POWER. The eighty-year-old Best Picture Academy Award nominee stars Katharine Hepburn and Ginger Rogers as actresses who confront a producer who treats sex as the price of fame. It’s an eerily timely movie to encounter in the wake of the allegations against Harvey Weinstein, James Toback, and so many others. The casting couch is often called an “open secret,” and the story of Stage Door is a study in the kind of willful ignorance required to keep something so widely known from endangering those in power. It was just one movie, both at odds with widespread messages covering up the entertainment world’s harassment problem, and compromised by those messages to the point that its testimony could not even be heard. Article preview thumbnail The Invention of The 'Casting Couch' “I’m angry, not just at him and the conspiracy of silence around his actions, but also that the… Read more Stage Door was not the first film to mention the casting couch, but others tended to bring it up only to exonerate those who wielded it. The 1923 film Souls for Sale was written as a rejoinder to the criticism the industry sustained in the wake of Fatty Arbuckle’s relentlessly publicized 1921 trial for the manslaughter of Virginia Rappe; though he was ultimately acquitted, it was suggested he’d sexually assaulted and accidentally killed her at a wild party. The movie presents a Hollywood where stars work tirelessly, have strong morals, and don’t even make that much money. And they keep their souls intact—never stooping to the casting couch. Early on, the naïve heroine enters a crowded casting office and desperately flutters her lashes at the desk clerk. Educated by anti-Hollywood gossip, she assumes “the only way to succeed in the movies is to sell your soul.” On the contrary, an intertitle notes, “Beautiful women are no luxury to the poor casting director. He has about two jobs a day to give out and endures more wiles than King Solomon.” She waits outside the director’s office and watches as a young vamp looks deep into the director’s eyes, puts her arms around him, and says, “I must have work. I know that I must pay ‘the price.’” The man is repulsed, casting her out and insisting neither he, the producer, nor the director would dream of touching her. “It’s the public you’ve got to sell yourself to—not to us.” Thus the notion of the casting couch is dismissed. The heroine avoids making the same mistake and instead finds stardom the “honorable” way. Even her anti-Hollywood preacher father comes to recognize the fundamental decency of the industry. Later films such as They Call It Sin (1932) and Myrt and Marge (1933), are more honest about powerful men, the latter featuring one sneaking into an actress’s room wearing a robe, but usually the victim is presented as taking a foolish risk. In the Best Picture winner The Broadway Melody (1929), a woman is warned not to date one of her show’s funders, but she does so anyway, only to regret it when he demands favors. In Show Girl in Hollywood (1930), an actress’s boyfriend says of a producer across the nightclub floor, “I know the type: the minute he meets a girl, he starts feeling her ribs and talking about screen tests.” But she heads right over to him nonetheless. In All About Eve (1950), Marilyn Monroe does not enjoy courting producers, but she’s the one on the hunt. The industry doesn’t look good, but its victims don’t look any better. When the woman is rescued in The Broadway Melody, the rescuer chastises her before getting to the producer who has just been holding her captive. USUALLY CASTING COUCH REFERENCES ARE FLEETING, RELYING ON A SAVVY AUDIENCE. Usually casting couch references are fleeting, relying on a savvy audience. In King Kong (1933), a director offers Fay Wray a job and she stammers an uncertain response before being assured, “You’ve got me wrong. This is strictly business.” In The Stand-In (1937), Leslie Howard instructs Joan Blondell to shut a pair of doors, and she says, “My my, you talk like a producer, but I can scream so you can hear it through more closed doors than this.” In A Star Is Born (1937), Adolphe Menjou tells Janet Gaynor, “I think I’m going to like you,” as he comes around his desk toward her, and Gaynor looks warily and shifts away in her chair, only to sigh in relief when it’s clear Menjou’s intentions are pure. Maybe the filmmakers wanted to gesture to the truths they knew of Hollywood, or perhaps they sought, like Souls for Sale, to render the casting couch myth. Six months later, Menjou would again play a producer in Stage Door. However, this time he wouldn’t be helping Hollywood deny the performing world’s dirty secret, but laying it bare. The Hollywood Studio Club was created in 1916 to be a home for the young women then flooding Hollywood, whose lack of money or connections put them at the mercy of unseemly men. It didn’t solve the problem, but it offered positive public relations, assuring the public that Hollywood had sincere concern for vulnerable women. By the mid-thirties, 150 were living there. In March of 1937, Thackrey consulted with the Club’s director, Marjorie Williams, who allowed her to pose as an aspiring actress. While the girls would chat in the large social room after dinner, she would sit on a couch with her back to them and take careful notes, listening in as they detailed their daily efforts to get parts. During the days, she went with actresses to studios, or ventured elsewhere in Los Angeles: “I loitered in pick-up bars evenings, filing my nails or seeming to practice shorthand outside the girls’ room, waiting for two girls to come in together—one to the toilet, one to powder her nose at the mirror—their voices loud, their comments colorful, often hilarious.” She spoke with others on set, or at a bus stop, or working a soda fountain. “I never relied on my memory,” she wrote in her 2001 memoir. “Lines were exactly as spoken, colloquial, slang ridden, all faithfully recorded in shorthand and transcribed the following morning. The girls probably thought I was a bit cracked, and certainly snoopy, but my interest in them as persons was genuine.” She adds: Much of the dialogue was used in the picture. Much of it was not. Some of the case histories found their way into the picture. Many did not, but the whole project established a mood that worked and that did carry over to the film itself. Conversations, comments, opinions were interrupted, questions were overlapped with other questions and never answered: my notes recorded faithfully the way people actually talk. The 1936 play the movie was based on, by Edna Ferber and George S. Kaufman, was largely jettisoned, as were scripts by Morrie Ryskind and Tony Veiller, but, as Thackrey says, many of her gathered bits of dialogue survived. When the actresses arrived on set in June of 1937, La Cava had them sit around and talk to see how they interacted and to develop more natural dialogue. Rogers’ ad-libs were so good she later received a telegram from the producer suggesting she work as a gag writer. In addition to the stars and up-and-comers like Lucille Ball were five girls from the Studio Club, picked by La Cava after they performed the play for him in the Club theater. Each night after shooting, the writers would craft the next day’s script and then they’d encourage improvisation around it on set in the morning, not coming up with a final draft until the lunch break. That free-flowing spirit is evident in the opening scene as the camera roams across the parlor of the “Footlights Club,” picking up on a fight between Rogers and her roommate Gail Patrick over borrowed stockings, and then a phone call from some Seattle lumbermen asking Ball out for a date, and then the Club manager emerging from the hall to exert order. All the while, a dozen young ladies lurk in the background, pursuing their own conversations or tossing in wisecracks. It all flows so effortlessly, with each character’s dialogue as enticing as the next, that you hardly notice the whole course of the movie is being set up. Rogers finds herself standing next to Ball, who asks if she wants to double date. Remembering how the oafish Northwesterners stepped on her feet last time, Rogers refuses and Ball responds, “Alright, you can stay here and gorge yourself on lamb stew again.” This changes everything. The mere mention of a chance at a decent meal has Rogers on board. Then Hepburn arrives. She’s obscenely rich and obnoxiously out-of-touch, and the ladies let her know it. As she waits for the manager who will soon assign her to be Rogers’ new roommate, the old one comes downstairs. A car has arrived for Patrick, sent by an important producer, and on her way out the door she has some parting shots for Rogers. Patrick: You know, I think I could fix you up with Mr. Powell’s chauffeur. The chauffeur has a very nice car too. Rogers: Yes, but I understand Mr. Powell’s chauffeur doesn’t go as far in his car as Mr. Powell does. Patrick: Even a chauffeur has to have an incentive. Rogers: Well, you should know. Patrick: I hope you enjoy your lamb stew again tonight. I’ll be thinking of you while I’m dining on pheasant bordelaise. Food preoccupies the women of the Club. There’s endless lamb stew, flavorless vegetable soup, and meatloaf the cook “must have gotten…from the Smithsonian Institute.” Ball’s not excited about her dates, but says, “To me, they’re meat and potatoes.” Unable to find work as an actress, Andrea Leeds is starving herself to save money. To all of them, the producer is a “meal ticket,” gateway to elegant eating like “bordelaise,” a word the women like the sound of even if they don’t know its meaning. The association of men and meals goes further when a butcher arrives for a date with the house cook and Ball flirts aggressively with him, trying to convince him to sneak some chicken in with their lamb. The women are in love with the theater, but that love is qualified by baser needs. Their hunger makes them vulnerable. TO CRITICS, THIS WAS NOT A STORY OF WOMEN SUBJECTED TO PREDATORY MEN. MANY OF THE REVIEWS DON’T EVEN MENTION THE PRODUCER, FOCUSING INSTEAD ON THE RIVALRY BETWEEN ROGERS AND HEPBURN. The next day, Rogers and Ann Miller are at dancing school when the producer, Adolphe Menjou, arrives, leering at all the dancers before settling on the pair. Miller hopes he’s eyeing her, but Rogers is disgusted with him. When he comes over, she serves up some insults and then hurries away. Alone with the much older man as he looks her over, Miller loses her enthusiasm and makes a hasty exit too. But then back at the Club she criticizes Rogers for blowing an opportunity. Her vacillations suggest the predicament of all these women, both repelled by the men in their lives and beholden to them in order to get work, or simply eat. Moments later, a phone call comes in offering Rogers and Miller jobs dancing at a nightclub. It would seem Rogers did the right thing, eschewing the sleazy road to success, being rewarded for her merits. But then after her first performance Menjou enters her dressing room. He has a stake in the nightclub, she realizes: he got her the gig and expects a reward. Menjou sits behind her and describes the woman of his dreams, one just like Rogers, and she ridicules his come-ons. But then, once more, she changes her attitude upon hearing a single word: “dinner.” When Menjou offers to take her out the next night, she responds, “I’m very fond of dinner.” In moments they have a date, but Rogers has little appetite for it. Her face drops as Menjou steps out the door. She’s spent the first act mocking Patrick for trading her affections for this guy’s wealth, and now she finds her only hope of success lies down the same path. In his omnipresence in Rogers’ life, and in the way the women fixate on this single producer, Menjou seems to epitomize the predatory men keeping the gates throughout the industry. In the next scene, the other women wait outside his office, hoping in vain to be seen. Soon half-starved Leeds arrives. Menjou has ignored her since he last gave her a part; perhaps she’s another conquest he’s cast aside. As she begs for an entrance, she faints, leading an outraged Hepburn to burst into Menjou’s office. There, she berates him and he answers in kind. Then she departs just as his lawyer arrives. It seems Hepburn’s wealthy father will bankroll the play if she gets a starring role. Hepburn, who has hitherto suggested the ladies’ lack of roles stems from laziness, remains tin-eared as she returns home. “It’s so silly of her to have gone without food,” she says of Leeds. When she hears Rogers discussing her date with Menjou, she tells her, “Why don’t you stick to your ideals? They’re rather crude, but they’re alright.” Rogers doesn’t answer, just points to the photo of the rich grandfather Hepburn keeps on her dresser. Ad in Altoona Tribune, Nov. 15, 1937. Hepburn can’t see how her privilege insulates her from the dilemma Rogers faces. For Hepburn, acting seems like a lark, something she tries out secure in the knowledge her family riches await if she fails. She won’t have to pay for her part because her father already did, but if Rogers spurns Menjou, she’ll lose not only her chance on stage but also her dancing job. Before her date, Rogers awkwardly tells her sometime boyfriend that she has to stop seeing him, but without giving any reasons. Then we cut to Menjou’s apartment where he and a drunken Rogers have just finished dinner, a meal she professes she didn’t dare enjoy because it would make it too tough to return to lamb stew. From there, things play out as Patrick predicted in an earlier scene—Menjou encouraging her to keep drinking champagne, dimming the lights, dropping to his knees and declaring himself a little boy in love. It’s all aided by an assistant, Harcourt the butler. “He’s very discreet though. You know, one of those butlers that tiptoes backwards,” Patrick had said. “And he’s very deaf. You really won’t have to bother to scream for help.” It’s a sinister note, a gesture to the reality of the casting couch experience that the film isn’t willing to represent. After explaining he can introduce Rogers to the right people, put her name up in lights, and ensure she never has to eat lamb stew again, Menjou clutches her hands and promises to be the Pygmalion to her Galatea. Drunk, Rogers fixates on the comparison, asking whether Pygmalion and Galatea ever married, getting weepy over it. Menjou tries to talk her back into romance, but—frightened by discussion of marriage—he soon ushers her out of his apartment. He shuts the door and pulls out his little black book to find a replacement. It all ends too quickly, Menjou’s sudden decency matching neither his eagerness to get her drunk, nor the ideas conjured by the mention of screams. VIEWERS OF THE FILM WERE ACCUSTOMED TO SEEING WOMEN NOT ONLY IN CHARGE OF THE COUCH, BUT ALSO OF THEIR OWN VICTIMIZATION.  The same routine plays out the next night with Hepburn. Her father has bought her the part already, but Menjou seems intent on exacting payment from her, too. It doesn’t work, as she mocks his every ploy. Then Rogers bursts in angrily. Whether she’s decided she likes Menjou or is upset over the loss of opportunity isn’t clear, but her anger is exacerbated by Hepburn, who has uncoiled herself on the floor like an eager lover. “What is this?” Menjou asks “A frame up?” The question is another hint of something sinister in Menjou’s life. The previous night, when trying to get Rogers to quiet down, he blurted out the non sequitur, “My lawyer will straighten the whole thing out.” Earlier, on seeing his lawyer, he lowered his voice and asked, “I hope this has nothing to do with that other matter; I thought that was all settled.” We don’t know what he could mean, but we’re continually reminded of a darker underbelly. But it recedes from view in the final act. Hepburn proves a wooden actor in her new part, but just before she is to perform, Leeds takes her own life. Filled with grief, acquiring in an instant all the depth of feeling her fellow actresses develop through years of struggle, Hepburn gives a star-turning performance. The film ends at the Footlights Club. The ladies welcome a new girl, congratulate another on a part, and say goodbye to a morose Ball, who has traded the excitement of the Club for the security of one of those Seattle lumbermen. Rogers is conflicted. Critics have often said the movie lacks a love interest, but in fact, there’s that guy she dismissed before meeting Menjou, and now, in the final seconds, she thinks of him. No longer courting a producer, genuine romance is available to her again, and watching Ball depart she wonders if the chance at “a couple of kids to keep her company in her old age” is better than a future of fruitless striving and “broken-down memories.” An earlier montage of theater marquees and newspaper headlines has assured us Hepburn has stardom in her future, but it’s not clear what to expect for Rogers, nor what to hope for. One of those newspapers describes Hepburn as Menjou’s “latest discovery,” reminding us that he and men like him stand in the way of success for any woman, and yet the sad look on Ball’s face has made it clear respectable marriage can also mean trading dreams for the certainty of a “meal ticket.” IN 2017, STAGE DOOR IS THE STORY OF THE HORRORS WOMEN ENCOUNTER WHILE TRYING TO PURSUE A CAREER IN ACTING.  As Rogers talks to her beau over the phone, Hepburn leans over the stair-rail to try to keep her priorities straight: “Don’t be sentimental. Remember, you’re a ham at heart.” She’s speaking from privilege again—the privilege of a steady career, and of her father’s money having preserved her from the casting couch. Passing her on the stairs is Patrick, out for a date with Menjou, dressed in finery but without a career. We’ve barely seen the guy Rogers is talking to, have no idea whether he’s an oaf, a wolf, or worthy of Rogers’ heart. And the fact that we don’t get to meet him means less that the film has no use for romance than that these characters exist in a world in which romantic and career aspirations are at odds, and doubly so because so often the men in a woman’s career demand roles in her private life too. Stage Door leaves us pleased at the knowledge the effervescent life of the Footlights Club will continue, but also a little disheartened, knowing that supportive cocoon only exists because of the threats that continue to reign outside. I first happened to watch Stage Door with my mom the day after the LA Times published its report on director James Toback, and we exchanged knowing looks at every expression of Menjou’s lechery. From the characters’ references to the dangers the producer presents, to the way he looks the actresses over, to the assistant who aids his maneuvers, it felt like what we’d been reading. Then I read the original reviews of the movie and began to doubt my understanding of what I’d seen. To critics at outlets such as The New York Times, The Washington Post, and the Christian Science Monitor, this was not a story of women subjected to predatory men. Many of the reviews don’t even mention the producer, focusing instead on the rivalry between Rogers and Hepburn, the remarkable dialogue, and the superiority to the play. When Menjou comes up, it is quite briefly, as though he barely figured in the plot. Even stranger is how he’s described. The character is said to be “suave,” “amorous,” and “gay.” He “has a way with the ladies,” and “a weakness for dimples and knees.” He “changes his affections with bewildering rapidity but is always polite and always ready with his little book of telephone numbers.” THE CRITICS MISSED WHAT WAS RIGHT IN FRONT OF THEM BECAUSE THEY HAD CONTINUALLY BEEN TRAINED TO DIRECT THEIR ATTENTION ELSEWHERE, ONSCREEN AND OFF. Some descriptors are more negative, including “sly and wily fellow,” “roué,” and “lowlife producer.” The most common label is “philanderer.” None of it suffices. Reviewers simply didn’t see how pernicious the character is. The Christian Science Monitor calls him a “semi-villain.” The New York Times review calls him a “villain” but for the wrong reasons, saying, “the villain of all serious acting fledglings is the Broadway producer who is too busy to look and listen.” But it’s his attentions that are the bigger problem. A piece in the trade journal Hollywood Spectator gets at why they all so eagerly miss the mark. In praising Menjou’s performance, the piece says, “There is no hero in Stage Door, no romance, and Adolphe is the nearest approach to a villain it has. The real villain is life, fate, the refusal of the wheel of fortune to stop at the right number; but Adolphe, who plays a theatrical producer, controls a spoke or two in the wheel, so to him the blame for its heartless stoppings.” The reviewer casts Menjou as another kind of victim, as though, once placed in his position of power, he has no control over how he operates—as though there is no other way to operate in that position. The critics would have the movie as a fable of the human condition, of how we all suffer under the vicissitudes of fortune. They take the casting couch as understood, not a scourge but a spoke in the wheel of fate, an open secret but only in the way that death is an open secret—something we abhor but must nobly accept as inevitable. It’s a painfully wrong reading, but not necessarily unintended. The film’s censorship records reveal changes seeking to obscure the theater world’s sordid undercurrent. Head censor Joseph Breen demanded Patrick’s character be presented as “a golddigger rather than a ‘kept woman’.” The latter puts a degree of moral opprobrium on the man, the former all on the woman. A corrupt woman is more palatable than a corrupt system. The earlier scripts were less vague about Menjou’s dark past too, with references to a diary he sought to suppress, an allusion to the previous year’s scandal entangling Stage Door co-writer George S. Kaufman. Finding the fruits of Thackrey’s excursions into the Studio Club “replete with loose, and suggestive, dialogue” the censors demanded heavy changes. A complaint about a handsy date had to go, along with phrases like “on the make,” “facts of life,” and “nuts to you.” So did a reference to mirrors above the producer’s bed and anything else that hinted at the casting couch. Menjou’s declaration, “It’s guys like me that make dames like you” was rejected, along with repeated references to actresses who only perform offstage: “Did you say producers?” “They produce taxi fare and dinner—and the girls produce as little as possible.” “Officially, she’s an artist’s model. But all her posing is done in apartments.” Over fifty “unacceptably suggestive” lines were cut, rendering the film a bit too equivocal. Some critics weren’t even sure whether they were supposed to read between the lines and assume Rogers slept with Menjou. The producer was not fully the villain in earlier scripts, but in removing the debauched atmosphere surrounding him his menace is further obscured. To contemporary viewers, the film was less in dialogue with the history of monstrous men of the entertainment world than with movies like Souls for Sale, where women are as dangerous as men. The critics missed what was right in front of them because they had continually been trained to direct their attention elsewhere, onscreen and off. Consider the 1934 Hollywood fan magazine article, “Are Pretty Girls Safe in Hollywood?” The title promises a direct engagement with a serious—if poorly framed—question. The subheading makes it clear such a question would not be seriously pondered for long: Hollywood, May 1934. Hollywood, May 1934. The question is deemed “moot” because it’s misdirected. If anyone is a victim, according to the experts in this article, it’s the poor producers. “The men who make pictures are human, just as other men are,” says a woman working in central casting, an office invented to forestall predatory behavior. “If a pretty girl shows a willingness to dally along the primrose path with them, they won’t refuse.” That is, the casting couch exists, but it’s actresses who control it. So while it is possible to trade sex for roles, the article insists it’s rare and unnecessary: “the girl who wants to travel straight will find her virtue as much respected and her person as safe in Hollywood as in any other city in the world.” In fact, the story insists, “Hollywood is the most sexless town in the world,” with movie people working too long or being too caught up in outdoor pastimes to bother with lascivious encounters. The piece quotes a “famous musical picture director” accused of leering at dancers and answering, “To me a leg is merely something to stand on.” It was surely hard to believe even then, but the idea still sows doubt, shifts one’s moral focus. Encouraged to see producers as mere men and Hollywood women as temptresses, why should Menjou be any more than a “half-villain”? Seen through this lens, Menjou is relentlessly pursued—by Leeds, by Patrick, and by Rogers, who only requires mention of “dinner” to drop all sense of being harassed. Rogers becomes a seducer. The moral choice is all hers. The viewer readily agrees with Hepburn that she’s making a big mistake and never considers the bind that puts Rogers in the producer’s apartment. IT’S TAKING SOMETHING EVERYONE IN BOTH ERAS IS WELL AWARE OF—AN OPEN SECRET—AND TREATING IT AS A PROBLEM TO BE REMEDIED, NOT A FACT OF LIFE TO LOOK PAST.  Focusing on the women as pursuers, it’s easy to miss Menjou’s subtle predations, the power he wields behind the scenes so that he doesn’t need to stoop to aggressive actions. He instead becomes a decent romantic prospect, not a cretin but a suave philanderer. Indeed, in discarded scripts, Rogers ended up with him. Lacking a script during shooting, everyone on set assumed one of the two leads would get him, and it became a point of rivalry between Hepburn and Rogers. That was the Hollywood they’d worked in, the Hollywood they’d been subjected to, the Hollywood they’d sold. Some critics thought Rogers’ character genuinely wants to marry Menjou, and her drunken fixation on marriage could support the interpretation. Likewise in other movies that mention the casting couch, there’s an uncertainty about whether the women would prefer a domestic role to a stage one. Young women in Broadway Melody, They Call It Sin, and Stage Mother (1933) pursue dalliances with lecherous producers as surrogates for the unavailable men they really desire. It’s easy to see Menjou not as the man standing in the way of Rogers’ career, but a welcome alternative to having one. Viewers of the film were accustomed to seeing women not only in charge of the couch, but also of their own victimization. As Joan Blondell sings of a wealthy man in Gold Diggers of 1937: I’d encourage his bold advances. And if he got reckless, I’d get a necklace. … A sudden love attack, and I’d have all his jack For love is just like war. Agency is off-loaded onto women precisely where men find their own power at its most self-destructive. Every misdeed of a character like Menjou’s can be re-framed as some woman’s secret design. Every truth has a counter-narrative. Everything was conspiring to keep audiences from seeing on that screen what is now so frightfully clear. In 2017, Stage Door is the story of the horrors women encounter while trying to pursue a career in acting. In 1937, it’s the story of the whims of fate, or the wiles of women. It’s the same awful events, just a difference in context and sympathies, in what we’re prepared to see and be appalled by. It’s taking something everyone in both eras is well aware of—an open secret—and treating it as a problem to be remedied, not a fact of life to look past. It’s taking women’s claims seriously, not assuming unscrupulous motives. “Are Pretty Girls Safe?” concludes with the perspective of Marjorie Williams, the head of the Hollywood Studio Club who let Thackrey in to gather material. “We have 150 of the nicest girls you ever saw in the club,” she said, “and they never complain about their virtue being menaced.” Perhaps had she listened in, listened when they weren’t talking on screen, but quietly among themselves, or in their jokes, their banter, their asides, she’d have heard their screams.

[mittensmcedgelord]

Phantoms

LST didn't help me with a title this time.

Yet more of the mimic story wherein Morgan discovers a recording of a Fatal Fortress game, learns something new about his former self, and makes plans to avoid a doctor's visit. ( And where I attempt to lighten the mood after the last update. )

Previous: https://mittensmcedgelord.tumblr.com/post/161916575340/the-human-condition

I feel like I know them. If I shut my eyes, I can hear their thoughts pulse through the coral, the subtle vibrations of memory ghosts. I’ve spent the whole day listening to a backlog of employee recordings from Talos 1 that were ejected when the apex Typhon attacked. Alex held onto them in the hope that maybe, eventually, we’d find their surviving family. I’m sure it wasn’t purely altruistic. There are plenty of logs that are scientific, bits and pieces of Bellamy’s work or employees showing off their new neuromod skills. There are more that aren’t. I told him I wanted to study people, try to understand how they work. It took a lot of convincing and some shameless playing of the ‘little brother’ card, but I got access to the files.

 The memories I have don’t go back far enough to remember the boltcaster fights or the Fatal Fortress games. Not that I think either Yu was ever invited to join in. It sounds like it was a different world back then. The crew is still relatively optimistic. There are still dart gun fights. There’s a different color to it now, though. There’s no Yellow Tulip, for one. Which means that there’s a distinct lack of drunken karaoke and that I will never get to hear Sho sing off key love songs outside of TranScribe recordings. And after the invasion I don’t think anyone is in the mood for drunken karaoke anyway. Now that they’ve encountered Typhon, humans are becoming a little more like them in order to continue. The priority is survival, at all costs, and everything else is frills.

 So, it’s a pleasant surprise when I come across a second recording of Sho singing, this time completely sober. It’s the song she performed during the big show to promote musical neuromods. There’s a few other voices laughing and applauding. Someone wants to know where she even got a banana to use as a microphone. Someone else is teasing her for taking the ‘role play’ aspect of the game too seriously.

“I didn’t realize you dual classed as a bard,” the DM quips. I recognize the voice as Abigail Foy’s from the simulation. “Alright, you get 10XP for that performance. And…”

 I hear shuffling and more laughter. Sho groans. There’s clapping all around the table again before the DM clears her throat and continues triumphantly.

 “You also earn ten gold from the audience.”

 “Hey,” a male voice interrupts. He’s doing his best to sound offended, but it’s obvious he’s not. Something slides across the table. “When I performed I only got silver coins. And I’m an actual bard.”

 “Yes, but she actually sang,” Foy says matter-of-factly and taps something on the tabletop.

 “So did I.”

 “Poorly. Besides, we all know it’s because Abby thinks our new player is cute.” Someone laughs. High pitched. Female. A hint of an accent I don’t quite recognize.

 “I’m cute,” he protests. I have to put a hand over my mouth so I don’t laugh louder than the recording. The other players are enjoying it too. He must have done something because a sharp peal of laughter comes through the speaker.

 “Really, Chang? You’re trying to get Foy to say you’re cute?”

 “And you’re only filling in for Elias for tonight.” The second male voice scoffs. “What do you really XP and gold for?”

 “It’s the principle.”

 “Oh my god,” Sho laughs. “Can someone please just tell Chang he’s cute so we can get on with it? Zack? Emma?”

 “Don’t look at me,” the second male voice says. “Besides, I thought he were busy swooning over Dr. Yu? Or is it just a coincidence that your password is ‘OMGhotboss’?”

 “How did you even know that?”

 “It’s on a post-it note on your desk. It’s more of a surprise that anyone on the station doesn’t know it.”

 I wonder if Morgan ever noticed it. I remember in the sim I saw it almost immediately. He wasn’t exactly trying to hide it. Morgan must have walked past his work station every day and caught a glimpse of it. The ‘devastatingly handsome’ line on his psychoscope profile makes a lot more sense now. Jason Chang was dead by the time the simulation started, though. There weren’t a lot of recordings, either. He had unrestricted access to the office during the testing, which seems like a lot of power for a secretary. Given the office I remember was mostly filled with useless junk, a few books, and a stash of moonshine there probably wasn’t too much to worry about. Another player—Emma, I’m assuming—interrupts my train of thought.

 “Does this have to do with that time at the Yellow Tulip?”

 “You mean the New Year’s party?” Sho sounds smug as she asks. She knows the answer, but clearly wants to hear it from Chang.

 And this is when the audio runs out. I might have yelled ‘damn it’ when the playback stopped, but now at least I know which files to search through for the other game logs. I am, however, left with a significant amount of unanswered questions. Particularly about the New Year’s party in question.

 “How’s it going, Morgan?” Alex’s voice cuts in over the TranScribe. Responding to higher levels of brain activity, maybe. I’m sure whoever monitors my data feed has been getting some interesting response levels.

 “Great.” I’m a little too enthusiastic in responding. I also just found the next log for this session courtesy of Emma Beatty’s ‘IMPORTANT MEETING NOTES’ file.

 “That’s great.” He sounds genuinely happy about that. Considering what a mess my first few days interacting with the crew have been like, I can’t blame him. I hear footsteps on the other end of the line briefly before Alex comes back in. “I’m glad the files are useful. Learning anything interesting?”

 “A little. Wish there was more data on some of the employees. Emma. Zachary. Jason. The latter particularly.”

 “Jason Chang?” He snorts. It’s almost a laugh. “You were drinking buddies. Or something like that. He’s probably why your entire stash of moonshine was missing when you finally made it to your office.”

 I make an executive decision not to mention the “hot boss” thing. Or the party. Alex sounds like he’s impatient to get to the topic he actually called about. I load up the next recording and let it buffer while I wait. He gives me a few seconds to type before continuing ahead.

 “You think you’ll be ready to go face the world again soon?”

 “Yeah. Definitely.”

 “Doctor Igwe told me you were having some trouble with your mimetics the other day.”

 “I wasn’t feeling great. Some people cry, I turn into wispy black sentient smoke. Kind of a weird trade off.”

 “Morgan, try to be serious.” When he says that, I can actually hear him taking his glasses off and pinching his nose. The first Morgan must have been a real joy to work with if that’s such an innate reaction in him. “If you think that’s going to happen again, I need you to be honest with me. We’ve never monitored extreme emotions in Typhon before. It could be a natural reaction to stressful stimuli.”

 “It might. I’m still getting the hang of things.” I’m aware of what a vast understatement this is, but I want Alex to have some faith in me. His optimism about the project is contagious. I’d rather not lose that. I take a breath, hold it for a second, and let it out. My thoughts clear. “If it happens again and I start to change, what do I do? Head back up here?”

 “Or the Typhon Research Lab if you can’t get to the grav shaft. Dr. Park knows about your situation. She’ll help.” He pauses. Something clinks against glass. “She actually wanted to schedule an appointment with you for a physical exam, but it didn’t seem like a good idea right now.”

 “What kind of physical?”

 “DNA stability, mostly. See if the dosage of psi hypos you’re getting is right or if you need any more cell lines to balance things out.” Another pause. I wish I could hear thoughts over TranScribe, but no such luck. Alex makes a small humming noise. “This isn’t about what happened the other day, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s all routine. Well, it’s going to be a routine. We’ve all got a lot of adjusting to do, but I think once we start getting things back to something like normal it’ll start going a lot smoother.”

 “Yeah.” Now I’m a little glad you can’t project thoughts through a TranScribe. I’m pretty sure fear of doctor’s visits isn’t something I’m supposed to have.  The name Bellamy comes to mind, a swirl of respect and regret, and I remember that I saw his corpse in the sim. I tune out just long enough to get my mind in order and come back to myself to catch the end of Alex’s explanation of the examination procedure.

 “I’ll make arrangements with Dr. Park when you’re feeling up for it,” he finishes. I get the feeling that’s going to be never. The way my body works is as alien to me as it is to anyone else on the station and I’m not sure I want to know the result of a physical, let alone take one. I start to tell Alex that, but think better of it. Silence hangs on the other end of the line producing the kind of gravity specific to situations you don’t want to be in. Glass clicks against one of those gaudy, TranStar coasters. Alex sighs. “Morgan, listen. I know it’s been rough, but you’re doing great. I want you to know that.”

[getpregnant-blog1]

Write Your Family History - 50 Questions You Must Ask Parents Or Grandparents Before They Die

New Post has been published on http://www.karanschmidt.com/2019/03/16/write-your-family-history-50-questions-you-must-ask-parents-or-grandparents-before-they-die/

Write Your Family History - 50 Questions You Must Ask Parents Or Grandparents Before They Die

Write Your Family History – 50 Questions You Must Ask Parents Or Grandparents Before They Die

No one expected it.

While climbing into his hot tub, my healthy 87- year-old father-in-law slipped, fell, and broke a rib. He began internal bleeding that the doctors couldn’t stop. In two weeks, Gene was gone.

Fortunately, we had taken time a few months earlier to record Gene’s life story, and discovered some amazing facts. He was a semi-pro baseball player, a fine watercolorist, and a US Marine. As a marketing executive for Kaiser and later Del Monte, he worked on national advertising campaigns with mega-stars of his day, including Joan Crawford, Debbie Reynolds, Stan Musial, Lloyd Bridges and others.

We recorded Gene’s life story on two occasions: once at a small family dinner, then during a living-room interview a few months later.

We transcribed the audio files of the recordings, added pictures, and then uploaded the whole package to a new free web site that helps people write great personal and family stories. (See resource section,below). Gene’s family and friends can view his story and add comments or photos if they wish. The profile that we co-created with Gene is a celebration of his life. It’s also a direct, meaningful connection with his daughters and their grandchildren. Anyone can create a life story for themselves or a loved one. It’s as simple as setting aside some time and doing some careful listening.

I’ve helped hundreds of people across the US, Canada, and Mexico capture their life stories. Based on hundreds of hours of interviews, I’ve boiled down my experience into three key tips, and the 50 most productive questions you can use for success.

Success Tip #1: Pre-Interview Preparation is Key

To get the most from your family history session, be as prepared as possible.

. Inform the subject of the purpose of the interview, who will see it, and how it will be used · Prepare your questions in advance · Set aside a quiet time and place free from interruptions

· It’s a good idea to use a voice or video recorder; test all equipment thoroughly before starting

· It’s often useful to use a tape or digital recorder and transcribe the dictation

· Photos, mementos, or other visual aids are great memory-joggers. Ask your subject to prepare some in advance

· Listen attentively and gently; ask questions of clarification

· Don’t try to force the subject into something they are uncomfortable discussing

Success Tip #2: Be Flexible and Creative

When I first started doing life story interviews, it seemed as if people spent the majority of time talking about their early days. As I got more experience, I began to realize that most people have one, two or possibly three key defining times in their lives. For many, it’s childhood. For a lot of men, it’s WWII, Korea, or Vietnam. The defining moments emerge like finding a gold nugget in a streambed. Be sensitive to these defining moments and episodes. Listen extra-carefully, and ask questions. Often a deeper portrait of an individual emerges, laden with rich experiences, values, beliefs, and layers of complexity. If you don’t complete the interview in one sitting, set a date to resume your conversation later

Success Tip #3: Organize Life Stories into Chapters

Most people (yes, even shy ones) love to be the center of attention and share stories from their lives. There are two challenges for a family historian. The first is to capture the stories in a structured, logical way. The second is to make sure that the stories are as complete as possible and contain facts (names, dates, places), fully-drawn characters, a story line, and perhaps even a finale. The GreatLifeStories web site divides the life experience into 12 “chapters” that follow the progression of many lives. On the web site, each chapter contains anywhere from 10 to 25 questions. (Below, I’ve selected the 50 questions that usually get the best results). Don’t worry; you don’t have to ask them all. In fact, after one or two questions, you may not have to ask anymore-the interview takes on a life of its own.

The most important objective is to make sure you cover as many of the chapter headings as possible. The chapter headings are logical and somewhat chronological in order: Beginnings, School Days, Off to Work, Romance and Marriage, and so forth. Feel free to add your own chapters, as well. The 12-chapter system is a great way to organize both the interview, as well as the life story write up, video, or audio recording.

CHAPTER 1: In the Beginning

1. What were your parents and grandparents full names, dates of birth, places of birth.

2. What were the occupations of your parents?

3. How many children were in your family? Where were you in the lineup?

4. Generally speaking, what was your childhood like?

5. What one or two stories do you remember most clearly about your childhood?

6. Are there any particularly happy, funny, sad or instructive lessons you learned while growing up?

CHAPTER 2: In Your Neighborhood

1. What was it like where you grew up?

2. Describe your most important friendships

3. Where and how did “news of your neighborhood” usually flow?

CHAPTER 3 School Days

1. Be sure to capture names and dates attended of grammar, high, colleges, trade or technical schools

2. What are your earliest school day memories?

3. Are there any teachers or subjects you particularly liked or disliked?

4. What did you learn in those first years of school that you would like to pass along to the next generation?

5. Were you involved in sports, music, drama, or other extra-curricular activities?

CHAPTER 4: Off to Work

1. What did you want to be when you grew up?

2. What was your first job, and how did you get it?

3. What was your first boss like? What did you learn from him or her?

4. Did you leave? Quit? Get promoted? Get fired?

5. Were you ever out of work for a long time? If so, how did you handle it?

CHAPTER 5 Romance & Marriage

1. What do you recall about your first date?

2. How did you know you were really in love?

3. Tell me how you “popped the question,” or how it was popped to you.

4. Tell me about your wedding ceremony. What year? Where? How many attended? Honeymoon?

5. Tell me about starting your family.

6. Were you married more than once? How often?

CHAPTER 6: Leisure and Travel

1. What were the most memorable family vacations or trips you can recall?

2. What leisure time activities are you involved with?

3. What are your greatest accomplishments in this field?

CHAPTER 7: Places of Worship

1. Do you follow any religious tradition?

2. If so which one, and what is it like?

3. Have you ever changed faiths?

4. What role do your beliefs play in your life today?

5. What would you tell your children about your faith?

CHAPTER 8 War & Peace

1. Were you a volunteer, drafted or a conscientious objector?

2. If you didn’t serve, what do you recall about being on the home front during the war?

3. What key moments do you recall about your service?

4. What would you tell today’s young soldiers, sailors and fliers?

CHAPTER 9 Triumph and Tragedy

1. What were the most joyous, fulfilling times of your life?

2. Any sad, tragic or difficult times you’d care to share such as losing a loved one, a job, or something you cared about?

3. What lifelong lessons did you learn from these tough times? Joyous times?

4. Were there any moments you recall as true breakthroughs in any area of your life?

5. If you could do one thing differently in your life, what would that be?

CHAPTER 10 Words of Wisdom

1. What have you learned over your lifetime that you’d like to share with the younger generation?

2. People will sometimes repeat aphorisms such as “honesty is the best policy.” If they do, be sure to ask how they learned that life lesson.

CHAPTER 11: Funnybones

1. What were your family’s favorite jokes or pranks?

2. Who is, or was, the family comedian? “Straight” man?

3. What’s the funniest family story you remember?

CHAPTER 12 Thank You

1. What are you most grateful for you your life?

2. How have you taught your children to be grateful?

3. Are there items or places that mark special gratitude for the ones you love? What are they? What are their stories?

In closing, it is always a good idea to ask an open-ended question such as:” Is there anything I haven’t asked about that you would care to comment on?” You’ll often be surprised and delighted at the answers!

RESOURCES:

For many more tips on how to capture precious family history, visit www.GreatLifeStories.com

[raystart]

Knocking Down your Creative Blocks

This is a story about the day I quit writing.

It was 1989. I was 32. For the previous nine months, I’d been researching and reporting the biggest story of my early career. That the assignment had been handed to me on a platter by my editor at Rolling Stone was only the beginning of the pressure.

The central figure was a man named John Holmes. Perhaps the most iconic star of the early days of porn, Holmes had recently died, the first known AIDS casualty in X-rated films.

During the 1970s and 1980s, Holmes performed in nearly three thousand adult films. Besides his astounding natural endowment, he is best remembered for headlining the first series of adult movies that attempted a plot line and character development. Playing a hard-boiled detective named Johnny Wadd, Holmes was a polyester-wearing smoothie with a sparse mustache, a flying collar and lots of buttons undone. He wasn’t threatening. He chewed gum and overacted. He took a lounge singer’s approach to sex: deliberately gentle, ostentatiously artful.  You didn’t know whether to laugh or stare.

As home video players became ubiquitous, Holmes became more famous, breaching the mainstream, commanding larger and larger fees. But with the rise came the inevitable fall—a copious addiction to freebase cocaine, which robbed him of his money, his dignity, and his ability to muster a serviceable erection.

Eventually, Holmes fell in with a club owner and drug dealer named Eddie Nash, and also with a gang of small time criminals who were later dubbed the Wonderland Gang—after the location of their puke-green stucco rental house on Wonderland Avenue, in the leafy environs just north of Hollywood’s Sunset Strip, in Laurel Canyon. Desperate for money and drugs, the gang decided to rob Nash.

After the robbery, one of Nash’s henchmen ran into Holmes in a convenience store. He noticed Holmes wearing his boss’ stolen ring. And shortly thereafter, four of the members of the Wonderland gang were found bludgeoned to death with blunt objects. The crime scene was brutal. The press would dub it the “Four on the Floor Murders.”

***

I spent six weeks in Los Angeles working the story. There was no internet at the time. Reporting was still a craft that required shoe leather and a way with people—you had to look them in the eye. I interviewed nearly 100 sources. I went from house to house knocking on doors. I found court files buried in a repository four stories underground. I visited a half-dozen porn shoots and spoke to a dozen or more porn stars and directors (I know, rough job). I consorted with convicted felons. Most were behind bars. They were constantly calling collect.

My biggest “gets” were Holmes’ first wife, a former UCLA nurse, and another woman who became his mistress when she was only fifteen.

My biggest shock had been answering the knock at my hotel room door and discovering that the two women were now best friends.

We sat at the cheap dinette table in my rent-by-the-week motel suite. For nearly twelve hours they poured out their tale. The room was a haze of cigarette smoke. I remember boiling more water, making more tea. And I remember changing the microcassette tapes, one after the other, trying not to make too big a deal of the process lest I break the spell. Their story—funny and intimate and tragic—would later become the basis for the movie Wonderland, starring Val Kilmer, Lisa Kudrow, and Kate Bosworth. The larger piece would become Boogie Nights. (Alas, I didn’t own the rights to any life stories. I played no part in the making the movies.)

***

In time, my office looked like it had been hit by a blizzard of 20-pound bond. There were piles of paper on every flat surface, and on the floor around me, all of them tagged with colorful Post-it Notes, some of the piles reaching several feet in height—a miniature cityscape at my feet: Transcribed interviews, notes, court documents and legal transcripts of testimony and deposition hearings, newspaper clippings, non-fiction books and research papers on the subjects of AIDS and the Reagan Administration’s war on pornography (a period during which porn consumption by the public rose exponentially, I would learn). Not to mention my collection of  VHS films—black plastic rectangles, clad in colorful cardboard slip covers, stacked in rickety piles like so many skyscrapers populating my urban jungle of research materials.

Finally, I was done reporting and was ready to write. I sat down I sat in my expensive ergonomic office chair, at my father’s old desk in the bay window on the third floor of a townhouse just off the Washington DC’s notorious 14th Street Strip. One mile from the White House, the trade in prostitutes and crack cocaine was brisk 24/7. The newspaper liked to call it “an outdoor bazaar.”

Inside, on my computer screen, things were not so lively. Even though I knew where I wanted to start the story—with the Wonderland gang planning the heist—I couldn’t start. There was just too much information. Too many moving parts. Too many notes. Too many proper nouns.

I started the first sentence again and again. And again. And again.

Deep in Laurel Canyon… Deep in Laurel Canyon…  something.

By the second day, I was becoming more and more agitated. More desperate. And then depressed. And then really depressed. Holy shit, I thought, I’m Jack Nicholson in The Shining.  

Deep in Laurel Canyon… Deep in Laurel Canyon…  something.

Finally I wrote this: They gave me a story about a guy with  a 14-inch penis. How did I fuck this up?

I imagined myself dead in my fancy Aeron chair, my carcass desiccated and covered with cobwebs, rats chewing through the cityscape of pulp and plastic that occupied my hundred-year-old wood plank floor.

Finally, by late afternoon on the third day, I’d had enough. I said it out loud to myself and anyone else within earshot, though there was no one else:

“I quit.”

Writing was too fucking hard. And it wasn’t worth it. I’d worked for nine months on this fucker. I was due to collect $2,250 for this story. I had borrowed money to renovate my house, but was spending it on the mortgage and food and electricity. All for a chance at what…getting my name in Rolling Stone?  

Maybe I need to find a new line of work, I suggested to myself. Maybe I’ll go back to law school—I wasn’t too old for a change: Plenty of people switched jobs in their early thirties, did they not?

I shut the door behind me on my way out of that room.

***

I took off walking.

Dusk was gathering and the earlybird hookers were just hitting the streets for the evening rush of homebound commuters. There was the usual tang of want, need and expectation swirling in the air, along with the smells of car exhaust and fireplace woodsmoke.  

It was the media who’d labeled this area the 14th Street Strip; the pimps and hoes called it the “Track.” The flashier women were posted up beneath the street lamps along 14th Street NW, which was lined with storefronts, laundromats, auto shops, Chinese carryouts, and a number of liquor stores. One block over, 13th Street served as the back stretch. Darker and more residential, lined with overhanging trees, it was the provenance of welfare mothers, drug dealers and thieves. The johns from Virginia approached from the south, from the north came the men from Maryland. They circled round and round.

As I walked thought this usual evening tableau, I felt my mind begin to clear, and I kept moving at a swift pace. Soon, I left the strip altogether and reached the National Mall, hung a right, and walked on the grass toward the Lincoln Memorial. Climbing the steps, I paid my usual respects to Honest Abe, then turned around and grabbed a seat.

Spread before me was the familiar landscape—the Reflecting pool, the Washington Monument, the great dome of the Capitol, as thrilling as ever in the gathering loam, the lights beginning to twinkle.

And suddenly it hit me.

 Deep in Laurel Canyon, the Wonderland Gang was planning its last heist.

***

I learned that day that writer’s block had nothing to do with writing.

No matter how many sources I consult, how much information I collect, how many e-stacks of paper I build, or search windows I open,  my story is not going to be found in my notes.

And neither is it lurking somewhere in the shadows of my blank screen. (If only we could rub with a quarter and have our work revealed?)

Don’t expect your best stuff to suddenly appear by magic. You can noodle the germ of an idea into something concrete—you can fiddle and try things and edit and throw stuff up against the wall until somehow the fairy dust of your creative gift is released by the gods and floats down over all.

But before any of that can happen, you need to figure out what you’re trying to say.

For me that usually happens outside my office. Walking up a hill or chopping vegetables or taking a shower. Driving places. Staring out the window.

And yes, the people who are close me take notice of the times I’m not really there, the many times I’m not really there, the days or evenings when I’m walking around distracted or I forget that I had plans.  But hell, I’m an artist. I’m making something beautiful in my head. I’m not supposed to be a norm. Maybe that’s why there aren’t a lot of people in my life day to day? No matter. It suits me to be lost in my thoughts. Because that means the next time I’m at my keyboard, I’m going to take a crack at making something sing.

No matter what your genre, it’s probably the same. When you sit down to create something out of nothing, it’s best to have an idea of where you’re going: What, exactly, are you trying to create? Can you see it in your mind’s eye? Can you hear it playing like a song? Flickering like a movie? Can you smell and taste and feel?

Only then can you make it real.

[lorrainecparker]

Avid ScriptSync: An Editor’s Secret Weapon

ScriptSync is an Avid product that lives inside Media Composer. It assists filmmakers and video editors with a workflow we’ve been waiting 100 years for – the ability to quickly sync video and audio clips directly to the lines and lines of words on our scripts and transcripts.

Either someone has written a script ahead of time, or like with documentary or reality shows, someone makes word-for-word transcriptions of what people said, and then builds the script in post-production from those transcripts.

You’d think something this awesome would have been around a lot longer. Well it has. 11 years longer in fact. Many people are actually confused between what ScriptSync is and what is the environment inside Avid Media Composer it works from, namely script-based editing.

It’s funny how many people over my career have said this exact line: “Wait, you really want me to write down what they said? Every word?”

If you want ScriptSync to work, and work well, your transcripts need to be amazing. Not just slapped together, or approximate. They need to be accurate. I’d even recommend word-for-word, to the point of including ums and uh’s, stutters and restarts. The more you give ScriptSync to latch onto, the better.

There are three options, and they absolutely subscribe to the theory of cheap, or fast, or good. And I’ll leave it up to you to decide which one fits your production.

The first option is the cheap option. Use an app or a bot on the Web that makes speech-recognition transcripts. Since there isn’t a person listening and typing, the customer is supposed to expect a failure rate. If you are in need of extras in your transcripts – like notes about what timecode each new bite starts at, and who is talking (interviewee versus the producer asking the questions), then this option is not for you.

The second option is the fast one. Use an upload service that hires people at an incredibly cheap rate. On-call and on-demand, these people bang-out transcripts as fast as possible. Think of them as the UBER of the transcription world. For this, a lot of independent producers have recently begun using REV.com. The price is nice and the speed of getting back transcripts is nice too.

There are still issues with this – many of them. But the biggest ones are inaccuracy and inconsistency. If your interview mentions medical terms, occasional foreign language words, or anything out of the ordinary, many times the contracted transcriber will simply spell it phonetically. Also, on large projects you are absolutely not guaranteed getting the same transcriber. If you have 30 transcripts, you might have 30 different people, and each with a different style and accuracy level.

Plus, and a lot of independent filmmakers don’t often think of this one, but what is that company’s confidentiality plan? You may not be concerned with whether they leak the information about what an interviewee says, but depending on your material perhaps you should? Are those transcribers under your own Non-Disclosure Agreements? How sensitive is your material? Remember they are able to keep your proxy videos or audio clips forever if they wanted to. Lots to think about!

The third option is the good one. Use a transcription service that includes a full spectrum of services including confidentiality, a single transcriber assigned to the entire project for consistency, researching the subject matter as it’s being transcribed especially medical terms, locations and such, double proofing on the part of the transcriber and the transcription company’s manager, back-end confidentiality where all evidence of the work and its transcripts are actually deleted from the contracted transcriber’s computer, and then upon request, using of all the transcripts for closed captioning., so that you’re not starting that part of the process from scratch.

Here in the US I’ve been a huge fan of Accurate Secretarial. Every editor should find a good small-scale place like this one that has large-scale standard operating procedures.

I know it seems like I’m drifting away from ScriptSync a bit, and hammering away at how precise your transcriptions need to be, but your transcriptions feed ScriptSync.

ScriptSync is only as good as your Transcriptions.

Well here we are. All transcripts are made, and from them, the script was written.

Time to load the scripts and the media into the system and get it ready for ScriptSync. The process here is actually the same as it was when ScriptSync came out.

Don’t open Media Composer yet. First grab a transcript in a folder on your computer. You’ll have to reformat it as a text file (.txt) in order to use it in Media Composer. Why is this? Actually it’s a good thing. All of the extra formatting that comes along with Microsoft Word would just get in the away of you trying to make your film. In order to mark your script in the Avid with script-based editing’s tools, you need it to start as a clean thing.

Open it in Microsoft Word. Click File / Save As. About 2/3 of the way down, click Format, Plain Text (.txt). Don’t worry, it’s not going to save right now, just wait a moment. Click Save and see what happens. See? Before it saves, another dialogue comes up. This is important. Text Encoding: Even if you’re on a Mac and going to a Mac, just trust me on this. Click MS Dos. Options? Insert Line Breaks. Always. End lines with CR/LF. Always. Allow Character substitution? Always. Once you have these four things selected, click OK, and it saves your script as a text file.

So why those settings?

There are big tech reasons behind it. The terminology and operations of script formatting – in Avid and in all computing in general came from the old days of typewriters. So in the background, when any Word doc or Final Draft doc, or Text File is being converted from one thing to another, that background architecture is following a set of rules created ages ago. ASCII rules to be exact. And those rules here are:

Text Encoding: In MS Dos, it allows more transferrable features between OS’s.

Insert Line Breaks: If you don’t, you’ll be going for the Guiness world record of the longest horizontal script ever.

CR : Carriage Return. This returns the text creator’s ability to its left justification

LF: Line Feed. This means the text won’t be typing right on top of the last line of text that was typed.

Character Substitution: For when you have a goofy name like mine.

Once done with all these, click “Save”. Now this is ready to be brought into Avid Media Composer.

OK, are you ready to sync your script the old way – the archaic, slow way? Let’s do that first, so you can understand how awesome ScriptSync is.

In Composer, click File / New Script. Go and find that script, and bring it in. Here it is, completely formatted for the script-based editing environment. As you can see I’ve also requested from the transcriber to add timecode as well as the letter Q and a colon to indicate the producer’s questions. Now let me tell you, do this File/New Script a few times and, like everyone else, you’ll be begging Avid to expand this to File / New scripts (plural), bring ‘em all in at once. Man we want that. Maybe someday.

Now click File / Open Bin, and let’s bring in the video and audio clip that is what was transcribed. File / AMA Link, or you could bring it in through legacy methods like File / Import or digitizing from tape, it depends where it came from.

Now you can’t just drag it onto the script. That would be like dragging a clip into the timeline without any in/out points. Avid wants to make sure you’re deciding where it should go. It wants in/out points. So go give the clip a listen. Where does it start? Where does it stop? OK go highlight that area on the script. See how nice the click-and-drag ability lets you define in/out points? This isn’t doing any damage to your script. This is just setting in/out points, much like in your sequence timeline. Nothing sticks. Set an in, and an out. Is this the right in and out? Unsure? Well unfortunately, you’d better be sure. It is not – I repeat – not an easy interface for making changes. There is absolutely no “trim” function as you’re used to in the timeline. So you don’t have to be exact with your in/out. Actually you can be sloppy, but you need to be sloppy in adding too long of an in/out, rather than too short.

Now drag the clip into that area. Nothing is synced yet. It is only placed.

Time to sync. Ready? Look here in the toolbar. There’s a play button, which plays the take totally separately from Media Composer’s source/record monitors. There’s also a Record button. Record? What are we recording if the clip is already captured? We are recording the points at which we want to sync. And we do so “live”.

Hit record. It starts playing the take from the very beginning. So you’ll sit and wait through silence, film crew banter, or whatever. Wait for the start. Now when you hear a word, click the clip’s magic little green tail here. Do it again… And again… And again… You can be as line-by-line exact as you want, or if this whole project only has a couple of days of editing total, just click a few and deal with the fact later that your only syncing a few points, and you’ll have to shuttle to find the exact words.

You’re adding these little triangles, called “script marks”. I never call them by that name though because it’s too easy to confuse someone in conversation between “script marks” and “markers” in the timeline. I call them carrots. It’s an old term, and I’m old. So forgive me. Anyway, add the next carrot. And the next… And the next… Bored yet? Getting nervous because you already spent time transcoding or digitizing, and the producer is demanding real results, not this tedious junk?

Well tough! Sit here and do this for the next 40 hours of interviews you shot! Or go buy ScriptSync.

ScriptSync. Ready to see it?

Highlight the in/out. Drag the clip. It becomes a “take”. Click Script / ScriptSync. OK.

Done! Next script. Done. Next script. Done. Those 40 hours? You’ll now be done in like one or two, tops. How much do you charge per hour? Yeah. ScriptSync. No brainer.

A new beautiful feature added for script-based editing 2.0 is text editing. It was sooo bad in the past. I wouldn’t expect something as robust as MS Word to be inside Media Composer. But this new text editing is a really nice compromise. It works great. You add or change text, and the carrots move dynamically. Sure you could do this for script rewrites I guess, but for now let’s just look at transcripts. Let’s say you didn’t use a good transcription house, and you find some text that’s just wrong. Click Edit. Fix it. Done!

Another great feature we’ve had for years but that they’ve upgraded is Set Color. Yeah baby, here’s where the color-coding geek in my jumps out. Is there a good line? Color it. Is there a bad line or one you can’t say for legal or non-disclosure reasons? Color it. Color things your own way, or according to your writer/producer’s preferences, or even to Final Draft’s standards, if your writing staff is using that.

Interface-wise, the default way a new script looks is actually not this white one I’ve been using. Normally it comes with line numbers and gray colored line separations. A lot of folks use it and are really impressed by it. They’re settings you can enable or disable. Personally I always turn those off and keep scripts white, without line numbers. When I have dozens of bins open, it is so wonderful to be able to immediately identify the difference between a bin and a script. I need to see the script separated from bins, visually.

So there it all is: ScriptSync and script-based editing.

This webinar is just an adjunct to the wealth of wisdom out there on ScriptSync. Over the years some of the brightest people we have in our industry have written about it and presented about it. Following Ashley Kennedy and her tutorials has been amazing. Also, go Google Oliver Peters. Go Google Michael Kammes, and his awesome 5 Things series. Follow Kevin P. McAuliffe’s Get Started Fast video series. Go to 24p.com, the immense site from Michael Phillips, the former principal designer at Avid who co-created Avid ScriptSync and script-based editing. Definitely go Google Frontline PBS editor Steve Audette ACE, who has been one of our greatest voices for ScriptSync. Follow the Avid Editors of Facebook. Follow the little Facebook page I created ages ago called “Script Sync Fans”. Go to those places and ask questions. Ask as many as you can.

Or if you really want to get good at ScriptSync, then do what I did… Just play.

Start opening things, and clicking on things, and mess up intentionally. Go break stuff. Then go fix it. The only way to learn how to dig yourself out of a hole, is to throw in a shovel and then dive after it. Craft editing is a challenge, and we must never get to a point where we are above the challenge. If we do, we stop being better filmmakers, and we stop being better storytellers.

ScriptSync is tremendous technology because it helps us be better storytellers. More gets done, and less story gets missed. And we must be focused on the story. In order to give audiences the feeling of total immersion, we must operate behind the scenes, madly – one person in a room, madly pursuing an idea.

It’s the only thing that has ever worked.

  The post Avid ScriptSync: An Editor’s Secret Weapon appeared first on ProVideo Coalition.

First Found At: Avid ScriptSync: An Editor’s Secret Weapon

[jeremyau]

How to take more effective notes

Posted: February 28, 2017 | Author: Belle B. Cooper | Filed under: Workplace Productivity |Leave a comment »

Whether you’re a student, you’re taking down notes during meetings, or you’re a regular at industry lectures and conferences, effective note-taking is a skill you could probably benefit from.

Although we tend to take notes for years when we’re in school, most of us don’t ever learn how to take effective notes, and how much time we’re wasting on approaches that don’t work.

And unfortunately, the most common approaches to taking notes really don’t work well.

What doesn’t work

Do you ever highlight books or your own notes? Do you underline important points? Do you sometimes re-read your notes to refresh your memory?

Here’s the bad news: those techniques are all pretty much useless.

In fact, highlighting is such a bad study technique it may even harm your recall ability, since it highlights particular notes and takes them out of their original context, which makes it harder to form connections in your mind—and thus, harder to remember the material.

Studies have found the most effective note-taking techniques are active, whereas re-reading, highlighting, and underlining are passive techniques. We need to interact heavily with our notes and the material we’re trying to learn if we’re to remember it.

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Taking notes that will improve your retention

So what active techniques can you use to make your note-taking efforts worthwhile?

Handwrite your notes

For starters, don’t use a laptop to take notes, no matter where you are. A series of studies pitted laptop note-takers against students taking longhand notes and found the laptop approach faired worst in terms of information recall.

In the first study students watched a video of a lecture or TED talk, then completed 30 minutes of hard cognitive tasks before taking a quiz on the material from the video.

Students who wrote longhand notes outperformed laptop note-takers in recalling information to pass the quiz. And when the researchers examined the students’ notes, they found a clue as to why: the laptop notes tended to include a lot of verbatim transcription of the video, whereas handwritten notes couldn’t be written fast enough to do the same. If we can type fast enough to transcribe information verbatim, we can get away with writing notes without engaging our minds too much—we don’t have to think critically or even pay too much attention to simply write down exactly what someone’s saying.

So for the second study, the researchers specifically asked laptop note-takers to not write notes verbatim.

In this experiment, not only did the longhand note-takers still perform best on the quiz, the laptop note-takers still wrote verbatim transcriptions of the videos. The explicit warning to not do so made no difference at all.

For a third study, the researchers gave the students a full week before the quiz, rather than 30 minutes, and gave some students 10 minutes to review their notes before taking the quiz. Once again, longhand note-takers performed best, but those who took handwritten notes and reviewed them for 10 minutes before the quiz came out on top.

So while handwriting your notes is a better approach than using a computer, this approach works even better if paired with time to review your notes before testing yourself.

And if handwriting your notes seems too slow, you might look into learning shorthand to speed things up. While older shorthand techniques are based on hours upon hours of learning squiggles that correspond to various sounds and words, more recent shorthand approaches are more closely based on the existing English alphabet, but make it a lot faster to write down.

Use a Bullet Journal

To keep your handwritten notes organized, it helps to index them by page number and topic, as well as using a key of symbols to categorise ideas, notes, tasks, and other pieces of information quickly and clearly.

Luckily there’s no need to figure this out by yourself. The Bullet Journal system is designed to work with any notebook, and gives you a way to keep all your notes organized in one place.

Image credit

Check out the Bullet Journal website for more details, but the basic organizational sections work like this:

Set aside a few pages in the front of your notebook for your index and number every page after that (or buy a notebook with numbered pages).

Turn to the next available page and put a heading to match what you’re writing. It could be a meeting name and date, the name of the person you’re meeting with, or the book you’re taking notes on.

Go back to your index and mark down the heading and page number of your notes so you can find them again later.

The Bullet Journal system uses a set of symbols to mark notes, events, and tasks. You can also add your own to cover different categories if you need to. You might add an icon to denote an idea or something you need to follow up with a colleague, for instance.

The system also includes some simple setup to keep track of appointments or major events during the month and a daily to-do list. If you like keeping everything in one notebook, the Bullet Journal system and its handy indexing can help you keep track of your notes and find them easily later, even if they’re in-between tasks and agenda planning.

Draw your notes

Now this one might sound silly, but hear me out. Research shows if you draw something you’re more likely to remember it later.

A series of studies tested drawing against writing and other approaches for memorizing words, and found drawing came out on top.

In the first study, participants were given a series of words that were easy to draw (for example, “apple”) and were either asked to draw the word or write it down. To ensure participants spent the same amount of time either writing or drawing, they were given 40 seconds for each word and asked to fill the entire period. So they could write or draw the item over and over, or do it just once and spend the rest of the time adding flourishes and detail.

When participants were later tested on how many words they remembered, drawing helped them to remember twice as many as writing.

Follow-up studies compared drawing to other approaches such as writing down attributes of the object (e.g. its color, shape, size, varieties), focusing on a mental image of the object, and looking at a picture of it.

Drawing came out on top every time when participants’ memories were tested.

The researchers believe drawing works best because it combines various skills. When we draw an object we have to consider its physical properties, visualize it in our minds, and use our motor skills to render it on paper. Combining these skills, say the researchers, gives us a richer memory of each of the items we draw than if we simply copy down the word or look at a picture of the object.

Image credit

Drawing your notes isn’t anything new. In fact, it has a name: sketchnotes. Designer Mike Rohde popularized “sketchnotes” with his books The Sketchnote Handbook and The Sketchnote Workbook. Rohde uses the term sketchnotes to describe the way he draws shapes and pictures amongst his notes to help him better take in the main ideas from conference talks, rather than trying to note down every little point.

Rohde advocates using signs and shapes such as boxes and arrows, different sized writing, and doodles to illustrate notes. You don’t need to be an amazing artist to use sketchnotes, he says. You only need to practice using simple shapes and images to illustrate your points.

While many of us are lucky to have left our lecture-listening days behind, opportunities for taking notes abound in almost any job. Whether it’s a quick note to remember something later or detailed notes on a book or research topic, there are plenty of opportunities for improving your note-taking approach.

And you can even combine these strategies. Italian graphic designer Serena uses a Bullet Journal to organize her handwritten notes and tasks, but also added drawings to her notebook:

… flipping through my bullet journal, I noticed that the daily logs with no drawings did give me all the ifnormation about what I did, but those days with drawings were totally impressed in my mind. For this reason, last month I decided to combine my daily logs with real comic pages, in order to track what I do, what happens and how I feel everyday.

Whether you combine drawing and handwriting your notes with a Bullet Journal or similar symbol categorization system, or simply choose one technique to try today, remember one thing: throw out your highlighters and stop wasting your time transcribing notes on your laptop.

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