#and he telegraphed so long in advance

[pawthorn]

It is an interesting conundrum.

Keyleth looked at Ashton and said they were Titan of blood, and that the Tree of Atrophy might have wisdom for them.

When asked about how to unlock his potential, the Tree told Ashton several things he knew already, and one big thing they didn’t: the existence of a shard of Rau’Shan and its location. The Tree gave him a warning about holding both, but no hint of how Ashton’s own dormant shard could be awakened.

The party went and retrieved the shard, with Ashton taking the lead and the risk to get it. And when they held in, Matt said they felt like it held the key to unlocking himself.

In Whitestone, Ashton gets warnings and caution against absorbing the shard, but there’s hesitancy from the NPCs about the harness in general, so the warnings all kind of muddle together. And again, there’s no alternative provided for unlocking the dormant earth shard within Ashton.

And then there is zero discussion of anyone besides Ashton or Fearne absorbing the shard. And Fearne says she doesn’t want it and thinks Ashton should have it.

So this is the information Ashton has. This is the information Taliesin has.

And as Matt said in the last 4-Sided Dive, he often makes scenarios with no right answer.

Did Matt have a plan for how someone who absorbed the Rau’Shaun shard could help Ashton awaken their own? Yes, I’m sure he did, now that he said he didn’t expect Ashton to go for it. But there was no in- or out-of-game hint of what that would be.

There’s no in-game reason for Ashton to think that, in passing up the shard, they weren’t passing up the opportunity to unlock their own Titan abilities.

Imogen embraced the storm and saved the party after the Otohan fight.

Chetney embraces his wild side and found acceptance.

Fearne gave her warmth to a ghost pirate and got a boon.

Laudna has give and take when engaging with Delilah for power.

And last episode, Ashton dived head first into lava, took damage every round, and ended up with the thing they wanted.

Matt rewards bold play, and that creates bold players.

I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.

[salteytakesonmanga]

Your explanation about retconing made me think Oda's way of writing is exactly what bring people to think he has every single thing planed down from the start, even if he didn't.

The story has been going on for 20 years, and Oda himself has admitedly had ideas along the way that he added. But the fact he's still able to connect every new idea instead of having to retcon things is what makes one piece feel so perfectly planned and tied.

Anon, you innocently sent me this ask to share your thoughts and unknowingly triggered one of my rants. I’m sorry/thank you.

Anon is referring to this post.

Oda is just a good writer! He is good at the craft of writing! Even if you don’t like the story (I’m assuming you do, but for people who don’t…) it’s just WELL WRITTEN. People really aren’t used to seeing good writing anymore, to seeing tropes deployed effectively and having plot lines actually connect. This isn’t just me being cranky and old, it’s just truth. People are talking about this in film, TV, books… One Piece has been around so long that it comes from a generation of storytelling that is vastly different from our modern media landscape.

I think people are burned out on the way modern storytelling never delivers (looking at you, JJ Abrams) or constantly jerks people around to elicit a reaction, all for the sake of nabbing that viral moment. When they see Oda deploy a trope or a storytelling device they’re immediately suspicious and fearful that it’ll turn into another unsatisfying gotcha. They rush to look for proof that it’s either all part of a detailed master plan, or it’s just a cheap trick to sell more issues.

In both cases, people are looking for a reason to be LESS INVESTED in the story. If he has a master plan, they don’t need to get worried or excited because it’s all heading to some inevitable conclusion that’s been clearly telegraphed and once you’ve cracked the code then you can already tell what the ending will be, so you don’t actually have to care. If he’s winging it, then the story is just a sequence of loosely connected meaningless scenes whose only purpose is to get you hype about a plot leading nowhere, so you don’t actually have to care.

And it breaks my fucking heart.

When it comes to One Piece, so many people are insistent that One Piece is EITHER 100% planned in advance down to every minute detail, or Oda is completely winging the whole thing. But the real answer is somewhere in between, in some muddy grey area that people find really unsatisfying. They want one clear answer that they can hold up as “The Right One,” but life is not made up of black and white answers.

Honestly it makes me really sad that people can read ALL THIS - pirates are evil except actually pirates are good and the Marines are evil except the Marines are trying to protect civilians by keeping countries stable so that's good except the rulers are evil tyrants so that's bad except when they’re not and then they’re good but only sometimes and… - and what they come away with from it is, “Okay but what’s the RIGHT answer.”

The thing that makes One Piece feel like it’s so cohesive despite Oda constantly changing his mind and making shit up is that he has a very strong and clear idea about what’s actually important to the story and what’s flexible. Because he has that as a guide, he can add the Shichibukai and change Vivi from a villain to a princess and make up who Ace’s parent is without diluting what he wants to say.

That’s what it MEANS to be a writer. Foreshadowing isn’t “boring,” it’s good writing. A plot twist you didn’t see isn’t “cheap,” it’s good writing. Fleshing out a backstory isn’t “reconning,” it’s good writing.

[charliemwrites]

Some feral and keeper Price stuff..? I don’t mind what, honestly. Just bring it in, broski!!! Smut? Wouldn’t mind. Fluff? Wouldn’t mind that either!!! Angst? Would probably sob, but sure as hell wouldn’t mind that either!!!!!!!

Don’t gotta respond to this or go through with it, but I’ve always liked how feral and keeper price are due to feral being(I think?????) a little somewhat scared of Price, and im just overall interested and intrigued about how it would go and how it would be like if they ever had sex and any intimate moments, or if it would ever actually happen between the two or not (I damn hope it would..).

Tyt, thanks though whatever you do lmao. Not really much of a rush for this, though I’d love hearing what you might have to say/write for this little req thingy😭 Love the things you write!!!🫶

Hi, bean!!! Their relationship is always a fun challenge to write because it’s hard to pin down lol. But I’m pretty sure the last few (apart from that daddy post) has been angst between them, so let’s do some soft platonic intimacy.

Price is visiting again and you’re mad. Not at him, because he hasn’t actually done anything to you. And not at Simon because he warned you well in advance of Price’s arrival. You’re mad at yourself because you were fine all week until he walked in the door - and then that creeping instinct to run and hide reared up.

Youre forcing yourself not to this time, though you couldn’t help skittering across the room when he reached out. He just chuckled, gave you an amused look, and continued chatting with Simon.

He’s pretending not to see you creeping nearby. Your nervousness is manageable when he’s not looking directly at you. And when he is looking at you, you’re okay as long as there’s something between you two - furniture or Simon will do.

You’re making yourself sneak closer and closer, pausing and gauging with each step to see if he does anything. He’s got a bowl of pretzels that you’ve been eyeing, wondering if he’ll let you filch a couple while dinner is cooking.

Within touching distance now. He smells like cigars and nice cologne. You like it, dammit. Not as much as Simon’s scent…. but still good.

Just as you come too close for a quick retreat, his arm bends, a couple pretzels in hand, offering to you over his shoulder. You blink, hesitate a second.

“You want some?” he coos, tilting his head to watch from the corner of his eye. “Go on, little one.”

You pluck them carefully from his hand, sit back to safely eat them. He chuckles and leaves you be while you enjoy your treat. Simon is watching you with amusement from the other side of Price, a whiskey in hand.

When you’ve finished your pretzels, you consider. Check the wall clock. Still twenty minutes until dinner! No, no, you need a little more to hold you over.

You edge closer again, lean up carefully against Price’s back. He doesn’t even pause, adjusting to support your weight while keeping the conversation going. You brace and lean over his shoulder, reaching for the bowl of pretzels. He tugs them just that last inch to let your grabby hand get a few.

As you’re stuff one in your mouth, his other hand slowly comes up, telegraphing. He’s going to touch you. You hesitate, debate staying or going as you munch. Eventually his fingertips brush your cheek, then skim up into your hair to scratch gently. You lean into a bit until he hums and you catch his eye.

“See? Not so bad, wild thing.”

You twist, nip his arm, and then scramble over to Simon, who happily lets you clamber into his lap and steal a sip of whiskey to wash down the pretzels.

[mariacallous]

California Gov. Gavin Newsom signed a bill Monday aimed at advancing the restitution of Nazi-looted art, as well as personal property stolen during the Holocaust and other eras of political persecution.

The legislation is a response to a court ruling that allowed a work by Camille Pissarro to remain in a Spanish museum instead of returning to the heirs of its original owners. The 1897 painting, called “Rue Saint-Honoré in the Afternoon, Effect of Rain,” belonged to Fritz and Lilly Cassirer, a Jewish couple who sold it under duress to escape the Nazis.

The painting by Pissarro, a French Jewish impressionist, now hangs in the Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza in Madrid. The museum has claimed ownership of the work under a “finders keepers” law of property ownership that is unique to Spain.

In January, the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals was instructed to decide the case according to California state law. But it ruled that, even according to California, Spain’s legal system took precedence. “Rue Saint-Honoré,” according to that decision, belonged to the museum.

The new California law, signed at Los Angeles’ Holocaust Museum, clarifies that California law should take precedence in local Holocaust art restitution cases. It allows Californians “to bring an action for damages or to recover artwork or personal property, as defined, that was stolen or otherwise lost as the result of political persecution.”

According to the law, “California substantive law shall apply in actions to recover fine art,” and that “the true owner cannot be divested of ownership without actual discovery of their rights in, and the location and possessor of, the artwork.”

The legislation could send the decades-long ownership dispute over the Pisarro painting back to the courts — and award the painting to the Cassirers’ descendants.

“As a Holocaust survivor, the proudest day of my father’s life was in 1947, when he became a U.S. citizen,” David Cassirer, grandson of Fritz and Lilly Cassirer, told the LA Times. “He would be so happy, and grateful, that the people of the state of California have taken action to ensure the return of looted art to its rightful owners.”

Spain is one of the original 44 international signatories of the Washington Principles, a 1998 framework for restituting artwork stolen during the Holocaust. In 2018, Stuart Eizenstadt, the Secretary of State’s special advisor on Holocaust issues, named Spain as one of five countries that fell short on its commitment to the Washington Principles.

Authorities in New York City and around the world have made renewed efforts in recent years to restitute art that was sold under duress due to Nazi persecution. Earlier this year, 21 countries agreed to new standards in art restitution at a conference marking the 25th anniversary of the Washington Principles.

“Restitution is important, not just to get people their property back, but because it is a way to examine the true realities of the Holocaust and keep those facts in the public consciousness,” Sam Dubbin, an attorney representing the Cassirer family, told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency. “It’s stolen property. It’s the Holocaust, which makes it 1,000 times worse, but it’s still fundamentally stolen property. And no one should be able to keep stolen property.”

The oil painting was bought directly from Camille Pissarro by German Jewish industrialist and art collector Julius Cassirer, who passed it down to his son Fritz and his wife Lilly. Lilly was forced to sell the painting under duress in 1939 for about $360 at the time in order to obtain an exit visa for England. The money was then deposited into a bank account that she was not permitted to access.

The painting made its way around the world over the next several decades, eventually landing in the collection of Baron Heinrich Thyssen-Bornemisza, a Swiss art collector and the heir to a German steel fortune. Thyssen-Bornemisza sold his collection to the Kingdom of Spain in 1993, which established a foundation and museum in Spain in his name.

The Museo Thyssen did not respond to a request for comment.

After he learned of the location of the Pissarro painting, the couple’s sole heir, Claude Cassirer, sued for its return in 2005. He died five years later, and now his son David, his daughter Ava’s estate and the Jewish Federation of San Diego County are handling the case.

“For survivors of the Holocaust and their families, the fight to take back ownership of art and other personal items stolen by the Nazis continues to traumatize those who have already gone through the unimaginable,” Newsom said Monday. “It is both a moral and legal imperative that these valuable and sentimental pieces be returned to their rightful owners, and I am proud to strengthen California’s laws to help secure justice for families.”

[scotianostra]

August 20th 1872, saw the death of the Scottish " laureate of the nursery", William Miller.

Miller was born in Glasgow in 1810 and spent most of his boyhood in what is now the city’s Parkhead area. His ambition to become a surgeon was ended by serious illness and he was eventually apprenticed as a wood-turner. He became a skilled craftsman, developing a particular talent for cabinet-making. Early in his life he began writing poetry and children’s rhymes, mainly in the Scots language he used in everyday life.

His song Wee Willie Winkie along with other verse by Miller, first appeared in Whistle Binkie: Stories for the Fireside, a compendium of songs, in 1841, it went on to appear in further editions of that and many, many more publications since then. However it was not received well at first, indeed the editor of Whistle-Binkie,David Robertson was not keen on the grumpy figure personifying sleep and it was received with mixed opinions by Robertson’s friends. To settle the dissent, he dispatched the manuscript to R. M. Ballantyne of Edinburgh (who had himself contributed much to the publication and was the writer of over 100 books in his lifetime) who asserted, according to the Perthshire Advertiser that:

“There is not at this moment in the whole range of Scottish songs, anything more exquisite in its kind than that little Warlock of the Nursery, “Wee Willie Winkie.”

Miller suffered from ill health throughout his life and never managed to make a career solely as a poet and continued to work as a cabinet-maker and wood-turner for most of his life, most of the time from his own house, he did however have his fans, Lord Jeffrey, founder of the prestigious Edinburgh Review, being one, another was the Countess of Selkirk, and it was during one of his bouts of illness it became known she helped the erstwhile poet out when reported in The Glasgow Herald in 1846 that…:

“We learn that the Countess of Selkirk has transmitted to Mr David Robertson of this city, by the hands of the Rev.Mr Underwood of Kirkeudbright, the sum of £2, for behoof of William Miller, the author of “Wee Willie Winkie,” &c.; her Ladyship having been impressed with a favourable opinion of the poet from having perused his Nursery Rhymes. Mr Miller is so much improved, that he is now able to pursue his occupation of a wood-turner.”

In November 1871, an ulceration of the leg forced William give up his trade. Despite the increasing frailties of his body, his mind remained as sharp as ever and he continued to write and disseminate poetry, works which appeared in publications such as The Scotsman. Learning of his condition as an invalid, The Greenock Telegraph and Clyde Shipping Gazette on the 1st March 1872 urged its readers to furnish monetary contributions ‘for this deserving old poet:

WILLIAM MILLER THE POET.

“Perhaps the most delicious nursery song that has been written by a modern minstrel for the delectation of the “bairns” in these northern regions is the song of “Wee Willie Winkie.” We are sorry to hear that the writer of it has for a long time past been an invalid, and that he is in poor circumstances. William Miller has a strong claim on the public for some help to smooth his declining years. He is now upwards of sixty, and at his advanced age, afflicted as he is with serious disease of the limbs, there is no prospect of his ever being able again to resume work. By trade he is a wood turner, and he resides in Glasgow, of which city he is a native. One who knows him says that his heart seems still young, his mind still vigorous; but he feels his position irksome and his spirit galled that he cannot now, as formerly, earn by the swear of his brow the bread of independence.”

You have to love the language of the day used in these newspapers!

The following July, Miller stayed at Blantyre for a time, hoping that the town’s airs – the settlement was 8 miles from Glasgow – would reinvigorate him. The trip proved futile and he was soon returned to his son’s house in the city, having suffered a paralysis of the lower limbs. He passed away, destitute, at the age of 62 on the 20th August, 1872.

The poet subsequently received a number of obituary notices in the newspapers lamenting the loss of this Scottish talent. The account below, in The Greenock Telegraph and Clyde Shipping Gazette on the 22nd August, 1872), reports the grim news:

DEATH OF WILLIAM MILLER, THE POET

“The death is announced of William Miller, the nursery poet. He was born in Glasgow in August, 1810. He was early apprenticed to a wood turner, and by diligent application to business made himself one of the best workmen of his craft; and even in his later years there were few who could equal him in the quality of his work. It is, however, as a poet that he is known to fame. In his early youth he published several pieces in the Day and other newspapers; but from the fact that no record of these productions was observed, it is impossible to know when they issued from his pen.

The first thing that brought him into public notice was the publication of the nursery song “Willie Winkie.” The MS. of this song was sent to Mr. Ballantine in Edinburgh, who gave it unqualified praise, as being the very best poem of its kind that he had ever seen. This led to the publication of the poem, and it at once attracted a large amount of attention. This was followed by a number of other pieces of a similar description, all of which were received with great favour, and led to the author’s acquaintance with Lord Jeffrey and other gentlemen of literary tastes.

The best of his nursery songs which have obtained for him the well-earned title of the Laureate of the nursery were all written before he was 36 years of age; but it was not till 1863 that, at the request of several friends, he collected together and published a small volume, entitled “Nursery Songs and other Poems.” It had a wide circulation and has earned for the author a reputation that will never decay.

Miller is buried in Tollcross Cemetery in a plot that does not bear his name a sad state of affairs that led to friends and admirers raising a memorial stone by public subscription and it stands in the Glasgow Necropolis, near the Bridge of Sighs.

In 2009, Glasgow City Council unveiled a tribute to the poet at his former dwelling, 4 Ark Lane in Dennistoun, erecting a bronze plaque on the wall of the Tennent’s Brewery which now sits on the site of William Miller’s house. A blue plaque in the Trongate also serves as a quirky tribute to his most famous creation, declaring that ‘Wee Willie Winkie was spotted here in his nightgown’ in 1841.

It is clear that, even now, William Miller’s pyjama-clad figure still urges children to get into their beds and sleep as a nursery song learnt and replayed the world over

Here is the Scots version of ‘Wee Willie Winkie,’ a rhyme anglicised very soon after its publication:

Wee Willie Winkie runs through the toon,

Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-goon,

Tirling at the window, cryin’ at the lock,

Are the weans in their bed, for it’s now ten o’clock?

Hey, Willie Winkie, are ye coming ben?

The cat’s singing grey thrums to the sleeping hen,

The dog’s spelder’d on the floor, and disna gie a cheep,

But here’s a waukrife laddie that winna fa’ asleep.

Onything but sleep, you rogue, glow’ring like the mune,

Rattling in an airn jug wi’ an airn spoone,

Rumbling, tumbling round about, crawing like a cock,

Skirlin’ like a kenna-what, wauk’ning sleeping fock.

Hey, Willie Winkie – the wean’s in a creel,

Wambling aff a bodie’s knee like a very eel,

Ruggin’ at the cat’s lug, and raveling a’ her thrums-

Hey, Willie Winkie – see, there he comes!’

Wearied is the mither that has a stoorie wean,

A wee stumple stoussie, that canna rin his lane,

That has a battle aye wi’ sleep before he’ll close an ee

But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me.

[twilightprince101]

Played Indigo Park chapter 1 last night. It was a pleasant little experience, got some thoughts about it

-So, first off. It's very clear all the designs here were done by a furry. Which I'll admit gives some extra points in my book. I am not immune to the Glamrock Lion Lloyd. Though the models themselves were kind of lacking. It's clear that this is the dev's first game, which he admits to, so I'm willing to give it a pass in exchange for the vision he's going for.

-This is Pure Uncut Mascot Horror. Chapter-based release system, heavy focus on the central characters/monsters, an innocent place is now abandoned and full of said monsters, already there's merch of these guys despite it being released ten days ago. Which can be fine, but considering that the creator said that "his ambition for the game's scope will grow in response to attention Indigo Park gets" can be a rocky road, as that's what Bendy went through (and it wasn't really that fun for me).

-I also don't know if it was intentional or not but. Thank you for clearly telegraphing the scares in advance? And not having sudden SCREAM IN YOUR FACE type jumpscares. As someone who struggles with those, they can be Not Fun

-Rambley is clearly the main attraction for this whole ride, and I'll admit he's got some charm. The game makes a clear effort to show that he is a sentient A.I., one that can make mistakes but is nonetheless genuine (mixes up directions, drives away during Lloyd's segment, "COME ON IN NEW STAFF!"), and also very much lonely. From what little we get of him in chapter one, he has a clear character and planned character development route and that's something people can latch onto in terms of engagement and story, which is something a LOT more games like this need to do

-That being said, I hope he *stays* an A.I. From FNAF to Bendy to Poppy, there almost seems to be this like, underlying desire to do a twist where "they were actually real people the whole time!" And again, that CAN work. But I feel there's unmarked territory for exploring sentient and existential A.I. stories. That one scene of Glam Freddy getting existential in the Endoskeleton room is still circulating in my brain and all my friends KNOW my thoughts about Security Breach.

-Considering that Molly fucking Gets Beheaded And Bleeds in the Act 1 finale it's very likely there's some sinister stuff going on in the park, perhaps pulling a Bendy and making Real Life Characters. That's fine. It can work. But if they're showing that Rambley and his struggles with isolation/loneliness is the main focus, then I hope they deliver. This game doesn't need a climactic "good vs evil" ending with whatever's going on with Salem. As long as they suitably explore Rambley as a character, that will be fine in my book

-Just. Please. No more momentum-based stuff with the trampolines. I was stuck in that chase scene for like eight minutes because I couldn't figure those out. Take away the jump button if you must, that did functionally nothing except mess me up.

So yeah. 7/10, decent experience and good potential. Here's hoping it delivers on that

[stevetonyweekly]

SteveTony Weekly - Feb 4 th - Week 5

I’m in the middle of a 8hr class for work today, so I’m doing this quick and dirty, with no rec notes. I’m sorry. Enjoy the list and kudos/comment for your authors! 

~*~ 

Method Refinements (subtype C, designation Capsicle) by galwednesday

"It's not hate sex," Steve objected. "I don't hate you."

That actually made Tony feel a little warm and fuzzy inside, which he knew was pathetic. He talked louder and faster to cover it. "Angry sex, then, whatever. I should just walk up to you and say 'Hey, Rogers, I was looking to blow off some steam, wanna have loud, animalistic sex all over the Tower?' That's what does it for you?"

A flush was creeping up his neck--God, Tony loved Steve's blushes, the Victorian-maiden-modesty veneer over the built-like-a-brick-shithouse physique drove him wild--but Steve's eyes were steady on his. "Try it and see."

Subtle Clues and Context Cues by galwednesday

“Cosplay,” Sam repeated. He and Steve were jogging through Central Park. Steve had just lapped him for a fourth time before slowing to match his pace, and the bastard didn’t even have the decency to sound winded. “As what?”

“You ever see the Pride and Prejudice movie, the really long one?”

“Dude. I have three sisters. It was required viewing.”

“I need a Mr. Darcy outfit.”

Sam slowed to a walk, holding one hand up in a time-out gesture until he caught his breath enough to form full sentences. “You’re going to cosplay as Mr. Darcy? The Colin Firth, look-how-wet-and-clinging-my-shirt-is Mr. Darcy?”

Steve looked down and shuffled his feet. It was amazing to watch over six feet of pure muscle somehow telegraph bashful. “Yeah. Tony’s birthday is coming up, and, well. It’s sort of an inside joke.”

(Five times everyone but Tony knew he was dating Steve, and one time Tony figured it out.)

'Cause It's a Beautiful Night by galwednesday

“Holy shit,” Clint’s eyes were huge and round. “Did you get Steve pregnant?”

Tony choked on his coffee. “What? How--why--what? How would that even happen?”

“Hey, you’re the one planning to ambush him with a shotgun wedding.” Clint moved his bowl of Lucky Charms out of the range of Tony’s coffee spray. “It’s a reasonable question.”

“Steve’s not pregnant!” Tony shouted. Was he? He couldn’t be. They hadn’t been gender-swapped lately. What about that alien fertility ray? No, that had been at least seven months ago.

Steve wasn’t pregnant.

Probably.

“I’m not ready to be a father,” Tony blurted, clutching his hair with both hands.

“I’m not drunk enough for this conversation.” Clint opened the liquor cabinet and examined its contents with a critical eye. “What kind of booze goes best with marshmallows?”

(Tony plans a wedding. The wedding is in ten hours and he hasn’t exactly proposed yet, but he’s used to compressed project cycles. What could possibly go wrong?)

annex 11 by soliloquent

“This annex document, filed by SHIELD operatives under the designation SR-NR-CB-AS/000008-11, contains a verbatim transcript of a conversation between Anthony E. Stark (callsign Iron Man) and Steven G. Rogers (callsign Captain America) as recorded by Iron Man’s advanced artificial intelligence, J.A.R.V.I.S.”

—⎊—

or: Trapped together during a snowstorm in the middle of a mission, Steve attempts to soothe Tony’s growing anxiety, only to discover that Tony had the solution all along. 📄

Exit Wounds (The No Exit Remix) by sheron

Tony gets trapped together with Steve in a collapsed HYDRA facility, which makes it hard to avoid him.

Like Hell and Heaven by ChocolateCapCookie 

“I feel great now, though,” said Steve, lifting the sheets up to peer at his leg, which looked almost normal. “Can I leave?”

“Steve, we watched you almost die. Just… listen to the doctors, okay? Just this once.”

This Simple Feeling by inukagome15 

When are two good friends not good friends? Sounds like the setup for a brilliant joke, right? Except when the joke mirrors real life. Tony and Steve are just very good friends. So why is it everyone thinks they're dating?

Pinky Promise by Tahlruil

Steve wasn't looking for a relationship not really - dating was fun and he was busy learning how to adult properly. A chance encounter with Tony, who's even worse at grocery shopping than he is, has the potential to change all that. The meeting feels significant, even if he could never imagine where it would end up taking him.

Tony, meanwhile, was pretty happy with his string of one night stands and no feelings involved relationships. Despite being pushed of of the nest - he suspects Jarvis of giving his mother ideas - he's really not interested in becoming a real adult. Steve makes him want more for the first time ever, and even if it terrifies him, he's willing to see where it goes.

When I Think (Oh, it Terrifies Me) by celli

Look, some mornings you wake up and little green men are invading New York City; some mornings you wake up and you can hear Captain America's voice in your head. Tony has been an Avenger long enough that he saves his freakout for important things.

Unexpected Thaw by Neverever 

Steve has a rough ride through the multiverse and ends up questioning his relationship with Tony.

alone (together) by Thahire

"Will you tell me what’s wrong or do I have to -" Tony went on, motioning down Steve’s body, "make you?"

Steve raised his eyebrows. "Make me? I’d like to see you try." Except he didn’t. After a moment, in which Tony did nothing but give him a flat stare, Steve awkwardly added, "Lower left rib cage. I think maybe, uh, a sprained rib or something."

"Thank you. That wasn’t so bad, was it?" Tony replied slowly, the way one would to an unruly child.

Steve narrowed his eyes. "I’m not a child."

"No, you aren’t," Tony replied, lips twitching. "As the parent of one, I can tell you, you are way worse."

Or: Steve is really bad at letting people take care of him. Tony is really bad at minding his business. Things happen.

I'll Give You Gifts Until You Know My Name by Amuly 

Mr. Stark is an extravagant gift-giver: he has the money for it, after all. As Iron Man, Tony has the opportunity to gift Steve even more presents that, while less expensive, are more heartfelt. Having a secret identity means Tony gets to have his cake and eat it too when it comes to showering Steve with presents.

Until Steve starts developing feelings for his armored companion, and all the benefits of living a double life are turned on their head for Tony Stark.

The Love Song of a Pair of Awkward Weirdos by MusicalLuna 

Tony flirts with Steve and then the strangest possible thing happens:

Steve starts to flirt back.

the slightest touch (and I feel weak) by SailorChibi

“When you’re really tired or out of it, you show the underside of your wings to Steve,” Natasha says to Tony, ignoring Clint, who is doing an excellent impression of a fish. “We’ve all noticed it, but no one ever said anything because we didn’t think you knew. And judging from the look on your face, you didn’t.”

[apenitentialprayer]

Top: image from Folio 76r of Walters Ms. W.269, a Catholic Book of the Hours created in the mid-1400s for a woman named Collette. In this image, Collette herself is depicted praying to the Madonna and Child. Bottom: three different piles of identical books.

A growing field of scholarship is examining texts as materials and cultural objects. Scholars are thinking about how recorded texts appear in concrete forms — scrolls on parchment, bound codices on paper, magazines on cheap glossy paper. These scholars emphasize the ways in which technology and knowledge-transmission are intimately connected to one another. […] Broadly speaking, there are three interrelated factors that can explain the material form which the written word takes.

The materials and technology available to produce and distribute texts: People can only record written texts with the materials and technology available to them. For example, the invention of paper decreased the price of the written word and enabled more text to be available to more people, with wide cultural implications. Cheap ball point pens encourage things like jotted down note-to-self.

Economics and the market for knowledge and education: Who will pay for text, how will that money or those goods be moved from place to place, and who stands to earn a profit from creating and circulating those texts? In the middle-ages, for example, written texts were less common than today and much more expensive, but an individual patron had more leeway to individualize the written text, since he (or, occasionally, she) could order what he wanted from a scribe and artist. In contrast, book buyers today have greater and cheaper access to printed works, but the format is hardly individualized at all due to constraints of the mass market.

Cultural assumptions about what one does with words: Some texts are meant for slow study, others for quick reading, and still others for long-term storage or record keeping. The material form that the text takes will depend on cultural expectations about what will be done with words once committed to writing. A receipt from a cash register -generally to be thrown away or at most saved briefly- will appear in a material form different from a university-course textbook, with an expectation (not always fulfilled) that students will read carefully and prepare for papers and exams. A newspaper takes on a material form different from a non-fiction book, even when reporting on the same topic, due to different assumptions about how the reader will treat those printed words.

Mass-market newspapers are a fine example. Cheaper paper in the nineteenth century and advances in print technology that lowered prices enabled mass-market newspapers and made it possible to imagine large quantities of disposable written materials. Technological changes in shipping and distribution of both words and knowledge, such as the telegraph and the railroad, helped knowledge about current events reach further more quickly, so reporters could produce texts and distribute them quickly to a far-flung audience. The spread of literacy helped create a large population of consumers, which made the newspaper a potentially profitable commodity to produce. Shorter articles scattered on a page with large-print headlines, as well as illustrations, and later photographs, enabled consumers to learn about many diverse topics and to take in as much detail as they felt like they had time for.

Yoel Finkelman ("From Bomberg to the Beit Midrash: A Cultural and Material History of the Talmudic Page Layout")

[delightfullyatomicfest]

Fascinated by The Telegraph reporting on 14 Nov 1966 that two Beatles approached Allen Klein via a third party over their future management and I’ve been trying to work out which two (assuming it wasn’t fake news).

Spoiler: this is long and I got nowhere

The obvious is Paul due to his comment about Klein at some point that year.

Beatles 66 assumes it was John and George, I think based purely on the fact that Paul was on holiday. It being John would make sense as another reason Klein would have gone straight to him in 1969.

NME reported on 18 Nov that George, Ringo and particularly John were annoyed about it. Nothing from Paul who was assumed to know nothing about it due to being in Kenya.

So - what were they up to at that time and were they with Brian?

End of touring was Aug 1966, with rumours of The Beatles splitting up starting soon after.

John went off to film How I Won The War, with Ringo visiting him in Spain on 4 Oct until after 9 Oct.

George and Pattie had gone to India on 14 Sept and returned to London on 22 Oct. He was really getting into songwriting around this time.

John came back to the UK after filming How I Won The War on 6 Nov. He met Yoko at the Indica Gallery on 7 Nov. John later said about this period that he wanted to leave the Beatles at this point and didn’t know what to do so he did the film. I don’t know about John’s mood when he was back in London.

All three were back in the UK by early November, though was John in a frame of mind to be thinking about a new manager at that point?

Paul (he was busy although there’s also a lot due to the existence of the Paul McCartney legacy website)

In Sept (date unknown), Paul and Ringo had gone with Brian to see “A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum” to see if the scriptwriter might be a candidate to write their next film.

On Sept 16 Paul and Brian (and Maggie) travelled to Paris to meet John and Neil.

An article in October about the Beatles splitting up said Paul had gone to see the already-completed Family Way film with Brian Epstein (when?).

In October Paul was doing things like going to the opening of the International Times and hanging out at Robert Fraser’s gallery.

I think in Oct he would have been doing The Family Way (also here) although iirc he finished it off when John was there so perhaps also post-19 Nov.

Paul went on holiday to France on 6 Nov (the day John returned from Spain), meeting Mal a week later then heading to Kenya with Jane for a safari. He returned to London on 19 Nov.

The Four Tops performed at the Saville Theatre, owned by Brian, on 12 Nov. The backdrop for the performance was designed by Paul (although no date as to when).

On 20 Nov Brian held a party for the Four Tops, which John and George attended.

Paul was interviewed for the Nov 1966 edition of Beatles Monthly. He spoke about the problem with the American record company having less songs on the album, in answer to a question on the topic. He says ‘but I think we're beginning to get more control now’ which doesn’t suggest a lot either way.

The article

Source

Klein arrived in London on Friday 11 Nov, the article was Sunday 13 Nov.

One quote ‘Mr Klein had the approach through a third party who was talking to two of The Beatles’ implies not a lot of time between talking to the third party and Klein but maybe not.

Paul had gone away on 6 Nov, the previous Sunday, so whether they knew in advance about Klein’s visit is one question - although why make an overture via a third party of you’re not there to follow up or find out how it went?

I’d suspect the third party might be The Rolling Stones, given the connection, which could suggest Paul and John?

So… idk

The timing and fact that Paul and Brian were doing a lot together just before that time seems to make it unlikely to have been Paul, John’s mood at that time makes in seem unlikely it was him and I can’t imagine it was Ringo. Paul and John only seem to have seen each other in Paris (with Brian) so seems unlikely to have been the two of them. So I guess it was probably George and either Paul or John.

[is-she-suffering]

8 April 2000 -Telegraph Magazine

Disturbed and disturbing, Katie Jane Garside fronted the band Daisy Chainsaw, prophesied the end of the world - and then disappeared. Seven years later she’s back, ready to shock again.

QUEEN ADREENA were on stage for only half an hour or so. The audience at London’s Hammersmith Palais had come to see Bush and the collected youths did not know what to make of this support act. It’s lead singer, Katie Jane Garside, is thin, provocative and confrontational. She has uncut Miss Havisham hair and wears pervy Victorian underwear. Twisting and squirming in the dark, often screaming, often prostrate, often turning her back to the audience, she is a performance artist rather than some chart-lipsticked Everywoman. Sexual in a very weird way, she looks as if she is lap-dancing in a gas-chamber. The blokes stare in disbelief. They shuffle about. Then, as the mike goes between her legs, they jump up and down.

Backstage afterwards the band squash into one of those huddles of Marlboro Lights and flushed analysis. There is a sign saying that CCTV is in operation and anyone taking drugs will be handed over to the police immediately. Orson, the bass guitarist, is wearing a long burgundy evening dress and complaining that his shoulder hurts because he fell off his horse. In Surrey. Very rock'n'roll. An individual wearing a jacket which looks as if it was made out of Wombles turns out to be Katie Jane’s boyfriend. She points to a huge man wearing black lipstick.

“That’s Billy Freedom,” she says. “He’s one of the weirdest people I have ever met.”

The lead guitarist, Crispin Gray, turns up. All eye-shadowed and Glam, Gray is from Islington and both his parents were West End actors. He understands theatre and has worn make-up for years, though not so much when he was signing on because he couldn’t face the hassle in the dole office.

“Quite a lot of girls seem to be attracted to the band and I’m sure it is because of Katie rather than me,” he says modestly. “Most guitar bands are still fronted by tough rock chicks trying to beat men at their own game, but Katie is not trying to be tough and I think girls like that.”

Katie Jane, ripped stocking, long lace bloomers, shoes that she has dyed herself, drinks quite a lot of red wine from the bottle and agrees that yes, she has come a long way since the days that she drilled babies’ heads

She used to shave her head. In 1992 she went around as Daisy Chainsaw, a short-lived, explosive act distinguished by the dramatic theatre of self-battery. In seizure to a megaphonic fuzz of electric guitar, she sang I Feel Insane and other loud angry songs coloured by dervish dancing and props - a doll, red paint, stained wedding dresses, wigs and dead flowers.

Those who went to see her perform in Deptford pubs described a grimy child-woman convulsing to ‘grandcore punk riffs’, and quoted scenes of fury. “I hit Crispin and he beats the shit out of me,” she said at the time. “Once he smashed me against a wall and I played a gig with blood running down my face.”

Daisy Chainsaw were managed by an ex-punk named Jason and they did pretty much as they pleased, turning down Glastonbury, Top of the Pops and advances from Madonna’s label, Maverick. “I think Katie is psychotic,” the bassist once said. “She lives through her emotions rather than her brain.”

She was accused of manufacturing her madness in order to merchandise pain, a useful pop trick subsequently deployed by Alanis Morissette et al. But Alanis is acceptable: she likes lipstick, takes a bath and conforms to the dreadful truth that a haircut can make you happy. Katie Jane is more unfathomable than this; she has no labels.

Pressed to explain herself she came up with a range of disparate theories founded on a basic witchy eccentricity that deviated into an offbeat belief system. She took on everything from white magic to David Icke, the former spokesman of the Green Party who announced that he was the Son of God.

“People can laugh,” she said at the time. “But I always realised the insignificance of role-playing and he gave me the courage to stand up for my convictions.”

In essence, she wanted to break down conditioning and communicate some of the terror and disillusion that we all feel. She enacted ugly sadness. Most of all, though, she was a fatalist. She did not think about where she would be when she was 30 because, she said in 1992, the world was due to end in 1998.

Daisy Chainsaw were not commercial and in 1993 they split up. The world did not end and now Katie is 30. She went away for five years, had a nervous breakdown, and now she’s back.

“I had worked really hard for a long time and given too much away. When I look back, Daisy Chainsaw represented a bottleneck of desperation and that is why it came out in such violence.”

The climate is different now. In 1992 the queens of the scene were L7, Babes in Toyland and Courtney Love’s Hole. They were linked by defiant unprettiness, crashing guitars and a Riot Grrrl wildness. But the backdrop was middle-class. Some of them had been high-school cheerleaders; Courtney Love arrived from suburban America.

The contradictions between the rockstar on stage and the real person who created the image caused insoluble tension, and one which arguably destroyed this genre. L7 disappeared; Hole simply sold out. There are no wild women now. No one dares to be odd or to flout the diktats of traditional beauty because they know it won’t get them on magazine covers. That is why Katie Jane is important. She is difficult to manipulate and difficult to package and thus encourages healthy deviance from the universal definitions of 'normality’.

In 1992, Katie Jane signed on, drove her 'patchwork’ Mini on a ley line from Cornwall to Norfolk, recorded the wind on DAT, mucked about with a musician from Test Department (a cutting-edge industrial band), stayed in a haunted house, did some group therapy, had visions, nearly went mad, but avoided prescription drugs.

“The doctor told me that, emotionally, some people have a football pitch and some people have a rocky landscape. I chose to stay with the rocky landscape. It was what I was born with.”

You have to trust nature, she believes. “I don’t think psychotherapy works. It simply creates a new set of crutches.”

She laughs and tells a story about the afternoon she was sitting in the hollow of a tree and all these blue tits flew around her in a huge flock. Very strange things have always happened to her. “I do hear voices,” she admits. “But it’s not a regular thing.”

Her life is full of entities and strange synchronicity. There is a Zulu warrior that watches out for her - “I have seen his face,” she says. She could be psychic or she could simply be someone who looks at a lot of different ideas, feels everything and understands empathy.

One day, a year or so ago, she was walking down a street in Belsize Park and ran into Crispin Gray. They had not seen or spoken to each other since the Daisy Chainsaw days. He had tried to run the band without her and it had not worked. They needed a singer. “It did not end properly,” he says. “And I knew it wasn’t over.”

Katie Jane re-entered the music business in her own inimitable way. One meeting with a record company executive was staged on Hampstead Heath.

“There is a beautiful undergrowth bit,” she says. “My friend Louise led him to this clearing. Then we stood there and did a cappella. I said nothing and he gave me a big lump of money.”

So now they are back with a manager, an agent and a public relations company. Their name, Queen Adreena, arose from Katie’s dream about a warrior queen. Later, looking in a book by Annie Sprinkle (a porn star/performance artist) she noticed that 'Queen Adrena’ was the name of a legendary Californian dominatrix.

There is a new album, Taxidermy, and a CD-ROM of their new songs played to complement a black and white film made by Martina Hoogland-Ivanow, a 25-year-old photographer/director.

Katie Jane Garside grew up in Salisbury, the child of an army background. When she was 12 her father announced that the family were going to live on a 33ft yacht. The sailed around the world for four years. As teenage girls, Katie Jane and her younger sister, Mel, saw deserted islands, ate meals out of tins and disappeared into the realms of imagination.

Finally, they ended up near Poole where Katie attended a rough state school. She was beaten up for many things, but mostly because she had very small bosoms, a memory which transmuted (as these things do) to become a part of her work.

At 17 she arrived in London, penniless but determined. Then she met Crispin Gray when she answered an advertisement in a music paper, and her professional life, from then on, was about working with him.

The voyage around the world had left her feeling different and displaced. She was left with a love of the ocean, and indeed all places that allow a person to be alone. She is still displaced. When you ask her where she lives she says she doesn’t really know. She has lived in a lot of places. She wanders around in her thrift-store chic, with a battered brown leather suitcase containing all her possessions, her pale flesh bruised from falling around on stage. There is an atmosphere of acceptance around her. She will end up where she ends up.

“You might become a major rock icon,” I say, thinking this would be a good thing.

She smiles. “That would be a funny place to be.”

Jessica Berens

[tokiro07]

Cipher Academy ch.30 thoughts

[Kids, Could You Lighten Up a Little?]

There’s the Nisio Isin I know! An entire chapter filled exclusively with philosophy layered with subterfuge. No plot developments, no action, just two characters discussing their worldviews in as esoteric a way as possible

This is a great sign for Cipher Academy’s continued existence, cus this is the kind of thing that Jump readers do not receive well, so if Nisio is willing to write a chapter like this, he must not be too worried about the pace he can move on for the foreseeable future

Or he thinks this is vital to the story he wants to tell, even if it means getting cut down early for it. If the latter, I definitely find that admirable, I’d rather get the author’s vision in a smaller package than an extended view at an editor’s milquetoast suggestions

I don’t know how well I can talk about this chapter with the information we have available, honestly. This feels like foreshadowing for events that will come later, and the philosophies we’ve been presented will only truly become clear once we get the payoff. I am confident that the next world war that’s been referenced a few times now will come to pass within this story (if it can last long enough), and once it does, Kogoe and Zakuroguchi’s philosophies will be put in a completely different context that forces us to reevaluate what was said here

For lack of a better term, I think this chapter is meant to be Kogoe’s villain song. While she’s generally been untrustworthy, this discussion is probably at least partially genuine, even if she is keeping her cards closer to her chest than she’s letting on. I don’t know if Kogoe is motivated by money or a desire to see humanity advance, but this speech really gives the impression that what she wants is a sense of control

It’s like Metal Gear, where Big Boss wants to create a nation of mercenaries so that no veteran will ever be abused by their government again; by deliberately giving his people a constant and controlled stream of wars, Big Boss ensures that soldiers always have a place in society. Kogoe is very similar, but instead of wanting to create a never-ending chain of wars, she wants to be able to decide when and where a war will flare or fizzle to adjust the economies of those involved, regulating their ability to prosper and advance. By having that power in her hands, she ensures that she will not be a puppet strung along by anyone else, but rather that she will be the one holding the strings

I’ve definitely talked about it before, but this goal is illustrated very explicitly by Kogoe’s glove: the Earth in the palm of her hand. She’s been telegraphing that she wants to be in control the entire time, we just didn’t know to what extent or to what end. She does seem to want to make sure that people aren’t sacrificed unnecessarily, but even that wording alone proves that there’s a sinister edge to her philosophy: some sacrifices are necessary. Kogoe doesn’t just want to direct the rate of social development, she wants the power to decide who lives and who dies, she’s just dressing it up as something more noble as all good warmongers do

Like I said, I think that this conversation is just going to be recontextualized later, so I’m going to stop talking about it for now and revisit it when the story decides to (Jump allowing)

For now, I’m going to circle back around to the most immediately pressing part of this chapter: Anonymity. No, not her taking off her mask for fan service, though yes, I am serviced by that, thank you. I’m talking about her very unsettling statement that she needs to pick a side before Class A gets involved with Class F

As you may recall, Class D and F got matched up for the first round of the tournament. Seeing Zakuroguchi here, I thought for sure that this chapter was saying that Class D had won and would be facing A and B in the finals, but now I’m wondering if the winner between D and F hasn’t been decided yet. Is Anonymity expecting that F will win, or is she plotting some kind of team up for after the tournament? She said “get involved with,” so maybe she doesn’t mean in battle

More interesting, though, is that Class F is the Special Missions class, and their CLP has all of her face covered except for her eyes: sound familiar? Her design is like an inverse of Anonymity’s, so I’m starting to get the feeling that Anonymity is a double-agent for Class F and is now questioning her loyalties because of Iroha and the rest of Class A

With that bit of foreshadowing, I have to say that the Class F battle(?) is the one I’m most excited for, simply because of the possibility that I’ll get to spend more time with Anonymity. It probably won’t happen for some time since it looks like we’ll need to get through Class B first, but I’m patient

For the Class B fight, I’m hoping that we’ll get to spend some time with either the Irohazaka Alliance or the Nohime Family, I feel like we haven’t gotten nearly enough development for them yet and I really want to see Nohime do that creepy smile again. I love that aesthetic. Maybe I should restart Soul Eater...

[justicefanged]

[ Heckle/Cheer ] - You know what’s better than a dance-off? A dance-off with commentary.

"Oh this is precious!" Sain hasn't forgotten the annoyance that is Linus. The pain he caused for Lyn and his army, the wounds he inflicted upon women. How fortunate that he'd find him in the middle of a dance.

He points a finger to the Reed, cupping his mouth with his opposite hand, and shouts his venomed words.

"The dog has fallen in love with the princess!"

Laughter ensues. Not just from him, but a few other bystanders.

Linus had been having the best time with Altena, and he was trying his best to end the night off right with a dance. They were absolutely not following through on all the steps, but that wasn't their purpose on the dance floor; they were just having a fun time together, and even if some steps went wrong or their beat was off or whatever, it wasn't really noticed in the long run or they just blew it off with a joke.

It was...nice.

He really couldn't remember the last time he'd danced like this with somebody. Not the fancy part, but the close part -- with no thoughts toward what gratification would come once the dance was over and done with.

Ah, shit. He liked her a lot, didn't he?

Saints, don't fuck this up like everything else, he'd already made a promise

The sarcastic, caustic voice pulls Linus out of his thoughts and draws his attention away from pretty very pretty Altena with a growl.

Who the fuck was this jealous fop?

Linus' face went a brilliant red -- not because he was embarrassed, what the hell did he have to be embarrassed about here? He was dancing with the absolute ten out of ten here! No, he was pissed off because they were being interrupted, and because...well, he knew he was having a grand old time with whatever attraction was circling here, but.

Tonight was tonight. And that didn't mean whatever this was, was going to live beyond this place.

Linus wasn't about to let Altena get saddled with him in the face of others at the monastery if that wasn't what she wanted. People should see her first, not the mess that followed after him like the wake of a ship.

"What, ya think this is a joke?" Linus growled, breaking away from Altena to advance on Sain with an obvious, violent intent. He'd always been a telegrapher, but that was part of his fear factor; he was big, he was scary, and he didn't need to be sneaky about what he planned to do to you.

The man may have had some idiots laughing behind him, but how long would they stick around? Hope they stayed to help him pick his teeth up off the floor.

"So, who're you, then? Here on your own?" he asked, shoving the knight back, sharp teeth bared like a dog ready to bite. "Can't imagine why! I seen ya around. Chasin' skirts, talkin' all flowery an' spinnin' bullshit promises to any poor girl who gives ya the time of day." His eyes slide to the now awkwardly silent bystanders, either nervously eyeing him back or pretending they were never involved to begin with.

Figures.

"Ya wish you were in my boots, don'tcha? Dancin' with someone way outta your league. How many times have ya struck out, huh? 'Nough to make this mistake," Linus bit out, grabbing Sain by his shirt and yanking him in close. "Better pray ya have better luck in your next life, friend."

And without further adieu, Linus slammed his skull into Sain's face, more than satisfied at the sound of something cracking.

He'd had a good night, but things often ended up bloody with him. Oh, well. Fun always had to come to an end.

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"City RCMP Capture 3 Alberta Escapees," Vancouver Sun. October 16, 1961. Page 1 & 2. --- Sawed Bars of Calgary Prison ---- Three escapées who saved through the bars of Calgary's Spy Hill prison were recaptured in Vancouver Sunday

Two of them, Douglas Ian Bevans, 25, and Ronald

Kenneth Neergaard, 23, were picked up in the Canadian National Telegraphs office at 531 Granville. Three Royal Canadian Mounted Police detectives who had maintained a long "stake-out" on the offices were waiting for them as they walked through the main doors.

The RCMP had been tipped off about the whereabouts of the men by a Calgary informer.

The informer told them that a telegram requesting money and signed with a nickname by one of the two men had been received in a Calgary and had been sent from Vancouver.

Knowing the men were to receive a reply, the officers waited.

The third man Donald Harry Everett, 21, was arrested at the home of his sister in East Vancouver

NO RESISTANCE No resistance was offered by the men when picked up.

They will be held by city police until Calgary RCMP send an expert party to pick them up.

Two other men who escaped at the same time. William Archer, 41, and Roderick Chief, 25, are still free.

Everett was serving a six months sentence, Bevans three for possession of house breaking implements, and Neergaard three years for possession of stolen property.

The men escaped in darkness on Oct. 7.

Shielded by a group of prisoners in a recreation room at the end of a tier of cells, the five men saved at the bars for 20 minutes before dropping to the ground six feet below.

MISSED AT ROLL CALL It was an hour before they were missed at the nightly roll-call. Police said they must have escaped in a getaway planted by friends on the outside.

The prison is 10 miles west of Calgary and all motorists were warned not to give lifts but the men escaped a police dragnet.

It is believed that the hacksaw used by the men was smuggled into the prison by an Inmate from an outside working party.

Warden Bruce Jakeman said "the break-out was obviously well planned in advance."

Appeals against their sentence by three of the men, believed to be Bevans, Neergaard and Archer, were dismissed be cause they broke out just be fore they were due to be heard.

Jakeman said he thought the appeals were a delaying tactic so that the men could escape before being transferred to the Prince Albert penitentiary.

Jakeman said the men made their break from the "most escape-proof" part of the prison in the cell block.

"That's the last place we expected a break from because we were told the case-hardened steel window bars were toogh," he said.

Jakeman said that since the break-out, the bars had been sent to the University of Alberta for special testing.

"They could have been weak," said the warden.

[scotianostra]

On August 6th 1678 the first Glasgow/Edinburgh coach service began.

The service came about when the magistrates of Glasgow entered into an agreement with William Hume, an Edinburgh merchant, whereby he would

"Have in readiness ane sufficient strong coach, to be drawn by sax able horses, to leave Edinbro ilk Monday morning, and return again (God willing) ilk Saturday night".

By way of a minor perk, the burgesses of Glasgow were always to receive preference, so if the coach was full and one or more of these illustrious gentlemen desired to reach Edinburgh, somebody had to get off. Since the fare was 4 pounds 16 shillings Scots (8 shillings sterling) in the Summer months and 5 pounds 8 shillings (9 shillings sterling) in the Winter months, it stands to reason that the sort of individual who could afford the trip would not easily be ejected from his seat.

To ensure that the service continued come what may, the Glasgow magistrates allowed Hume the sum of 200 merks a year for five years, with two years being paid in advance. Hume's undertaking was that the coach would run as agreed and without fail whether or not any passengers required the service.

Unfortunately, Hume's stagecoaching empire did not last beyond the agreed period and for a long time there was no regular service. By 1713 the sum total of Scotland's contribution to the world of coaching were two stagecoaches plying between Edinburgh and Leith, and a once-a-month coach from Edinburgh to London, which was twelve to sixteen days on the road, depending on conditions.

When a service was re-established between Edinburgh and Glasgow the vehicles, described by those used to southern coaches as "of the clumsiest construction", were drawn by four horses in good weather and six in bad. The passengers almost always had to leave the contraption at the bottom of a hill and climb on foot until able to join it again. Generally, and unless anything untoward happened, the journey between the two main cities took around eleven or twelve hours, progressing at the rate of three and three-quarters miles per hour, stoppages allowed for. There were two main stoppages and a variable number of minor ones. Each time the passengers dined and took tea, and a convention arose that the gentlemen making the trip always treated the ladies.

This daily service continued unabated for almost 30 years, until 1790 when the coaches were replaced by chaises drawn by two horses. These chaises reduced the travelling time by around four hours to seven and a half, and by 1799 these were in turn superseded by improved coaches drawn by six horses and capable of doing to the trip in six hours. The first of this kind was the Royal Telegraph, which started on 10th January of that year and was owned by John Gardner of the Star Inn, Glasgow.

In the years that followed, up until the advent of the railway in the 1830s, the number of stagecoaches making the daily run between the capital and the industrial capital increased to twelve, each carrying between ten and fourteen passengers and completing the journey in five hours. Also, experiments were carried out wherein coaches were drawn by two horses and changing six times instead of four was for a while considered to be the best arrangement, even reducing the journey time in some cases to three hours and forty minutes. But the greatest time-saving of all came with the establishment of the early morning stagecoach, which started at six o’clock and allowed the passengers to make a return trip in one day.

Although the coming of the railway largely put an end to the stagecoaches on the Edinburgh to Glasgow run, other parts of Scotland would remain purely horse-drawn for some time to come.

[thetransversespectator]

Exodus was cultivated specifically to interact with the Blavatsky device, a translocation field generator originally engineered by Krishna during the Mahabharat War, when he used it to raise the holy city of Dwarka from the sea. It later fell into the hands of the Angkor kings, who embedded it inside of temples to create immersive spectacles for Chinese traders eager to catch a glimpse of “Tavatsima Heaven.” It has long been rumored that a second device fell into the hands of the Maya, who used it to translocate an entire civilization.

The device, which used quantum superimposition to create multiple instances of an interior space within different dimensions of spacetime, was passed down from one devaraja to the next until the reign of King Mongkut of Siam. Mongkut, a keen follower of the Western scientific method, reverse-engineered it using a book of old Thai yantras, or black magic diagrams, to deduce its mechanical structure, resulting in the production of twelve so-called Mongkut engines in a factory outside of Lampang, Thailand.

When Victoria caught wind of his scheme, she demanded an audience with Mongkut post-haste. Unimpressed with her dour, stoat presence, Mongkut used the device to play a series of tricks on the Queen, startling her into submission. They ended up making a deal: Britain would leave Siam alone in exchange for one working prototype. This would later be used to create alter-London, but this is, again, a story for another time.

Blavatsky acquired her own device shortly thereafter through the intervention of Allan Octavian Hume, perhaps the most prominent double agent of the nineteenth century. Hume sent the device to another Hume, this one named Joseph, a wealthy pioneer and salmon fishing magnate in Berkeley, California, who installed it in a marble sarcophagus in the basement of his home, Didymus House. Also known as the Hume Mansion, Didymus House was Blavatsky’s coup de grace: a defensive ark where the coming Didymus would be hidden, sheltered from the zip zapper as it cycled through the many worlds.

As the Humes would come to learn, however, the device had an unusual side effect: its magnetic field induced psychotic experiences in potential bloodline claimants living within a certain radius, extending roughly from Channing Way to Telegraph. Investigations into the “psychotic field” led one of Blavatsky's associates, LeRoy Francis Herrick, to propose the construction of a psychiatric hospital on the site of the original safehouse.

This leads us to the peculiar cases of Phil Dick and Terence McKenna, perhaps the two must prominent residents of what later became known as Alta Bates Hospital Herrick Campus. Dick tapped into the psychotic field under the influence of a renegade satellite known as VALIS, launched in 1952 with the goal of transmitting the Didymus Story to the masses after the positive identification of the twin-child. VALIS had malfunctioned, of course, but this didn’t stop the Didymus Care Team from attempting a positive identification of his claim; Dick rejected their advances, intending to write an expose called the Owl in Daylight, which he sadly never finished  

Years later, a psychonaut and ethnobotanist named Terrence McKenna harnessed the power of the field under the influence of DMT, pushing it directly into alter-Berkeley. Previously, the device had translocated interiors into purely artificial pocket dimensions; this was the first time the device had been used to translocate an entire building into a dimensionally congruent physical domain. Alter-Berkeley’s police force, the so-called “Joint Commission,” stormed the hospital, resulting in a tense standoff.

Luckily, Terence had one gram of DMT left in his rucksack, and the hospital quickly returned to its natural environment. What neither he nor the Care Team realized, however, was that a copy of the hospital had been left behind, a dumb simulacrum buried deep under the ice, in the depths of a post-historical hell.

[bylagunabay]

Power of Prayer

HIDDEN PRAYER

(5-min read)

𝑾𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒐𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝒀𝒆𝒕 𝒂 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒊𝒕𝒚, 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒖𝒑 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑻𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑮𝒐𝒅, 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒍𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑳𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕.

The Fathers and Mothers of the Desert spent much of their time in prayer. The believed that prayer was as much a form of action as, for example, more visible works of charity. They did not need to be in the midst of those in need to offer fervent prayers for them. In their prayers they lifted up those in need – whether known to them or unknown – to the Throne of God.

In the desert of the city, we all too often assume that prayer is not action, that our private prayers achieve nothing. Yet a person sitting quietly at home in the city, lifting up those in need before the Throne of God, surely labours against darkness and for the Light.

An elderly and infirm priest, unable (as he saw it) to carry out an active ministry, lived in a flat on top of a busy shop. He told me, with a clear sense of inadequacy, that all he could do was to pray, and to pray especially for those who worked in the building. The image of the priest living “above the shop” and praying daily for those working below is one that will remain with me for a long time. Not the priest putting on robes and processing down into the shop (with incense and holy water!) to bless the workers (who would, in all probability, be either horrified or hysterical with laughter), but quietly, and unknown and unseen, praying for those who needed prayer, but didn’t know they needed prayer and didn’t know anyone was praying for them.

There is a remarkable (and, to me, deeply moving) story written by the English Roman Catholic Robert Hugh Benson (1871-1914). Originally an Anglican he converted to Roman Catholicism and became a priest, and subsequently wrote a number of what might be thought of as (don’t let this put you off!) spiritual stories. His story, “In The Convent Chapel” [published in a collection called Light Invisible] describes the experience of a busy parish priest who goes on holiday and stays in an ancient convent. He is rather dismissive of the old nuns who spend their days in prayer, unseen by and unknown to the external world, until, one night, he visits the chapel to pray, and observes a very old nun kneeling before the altar. As he watches her he is given a vision of what is really happening. In Benson’s story the old priest offers an account of his experience to a young friend (obviously Benson himself). I am adding part of the story as Benson wrote it, although the language may be a little old-fashioned now:

“And so,” said the priest, turning to me again, “I went on—poor ignorant fool!— thinking that the woman who knelt in front of me was less useful than myself, and that my words and actions and sermons and life did more to advance God’s kingdom than her prayers! And then—then—at the moment when I reached that climax of folly and pride, God was good to me and gave me a little light.

“Now, I do not know how to put it—I have never put it into words before except to myself—but I became aware, in my intellect alone, of one or two clear facts. In order to tell you what those facts were I must use picture language; but remember they are only translations or paraphrases of what I perceived.

“First I became aware suddenly that there ran a vital connection from the Tabernacle [in which the Sacrament was reserved] to the woman. You may think of it as one of those bands you see in machinery connecting two wheels, so that when either wheel moves the other moves too. Or you may think of it as an electric wire, joining the instrument the telegraph operator uses with the pointer at the other end. At any rate, there was this vital band or wire of life. Now in the Tabernacle I became aware that there was a mighty stirring and movement. Something within it beat like a vast Heart, and the vibrations of each pulse seemed to quiver through all the ground. Or you may picture it as the movement of a clear deep pool when the basin that contains it is jarred—it seemed like the movement of circular ripples crossing and re-crossing in swift thrills. Or you may think of it as that faint movement of light and shade that may be seen in the heart of a white-hot furnace. Or again you may picture it as sound—as the sound of a high ship-mast with the rigging, in a steady wind; or the sound of deep woods in a July noon.

The priest’s face was working, and his hands moved nervously.

“How hopeless it is,” he said, “to express all this! Remember that all these pictures are not in the least what I perceived. They are only grotesque paraphrases of a spiritual fact that was shown me.

“Now I was aware that there was something of the same activity in the heart of the woman, but I did not know which was the controlling power. I did not know whether the initiative sprang from the Tabernacle and communicated itself to the nun’s will; or whether she, by bending herself upon the Tabernacle, set in motion a huge dormant power. It appeared to me possible that the solution lay in the fact that two wills co-operated, each reacting upon the other. This, in a kind of way, appears to me now true as regards the whole mystery of free-will and prayer and grace.

“At any rate, the union of these two represented itself to me, as I have said, as forming a kind of engine that radiated an immense light or sound or movement. And then I perceived something else too.

“I once fell asleep in one of those fast trains from the north, and did not awake until we had reached the terminus. The last thing I had seen before falling asleep had been the quiet darkening woods and fields through which we were sliding, and it was a shock to awake in the bright humming terminus and to drive through the crowded streets, under the electric glare from the lamps and windows. Now I felt something of that sort now. A moment ago I had fancied myself apart from movement and activity in this quiet convent; but I seemed somehow to have stepped into a centre of busy, rushing life. I can scarcely put the sensation more clearly than that. I was aware that the atmosphere was charged with energy; great powers seemed to be astir, and I to be close to the whirling centre of it all.

“Or think of it like this: Have you ever had to wait in a city office? If you have done that you will know how intense quiet can co-exist with intense activity. There are quiet figures here and there round the room. Or it may be there is only one such figure—a great financier—and he sitting there almost motionless. Yet you know that every movement tingles, as it were, out from that still room all over the world. You can picture to yourself how people leap to obey or to resist—how lives rise and fall, and fortunes are made and lost, at the gentle movements of this lonely quiet man in his office. Well, so it was here. 𝑰 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒄𝒆𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒕 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒄𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒑𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒂𝒍 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒓𝒂𝒏 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒆𝒍 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒂𝒍 𝒑𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆, 𝒃𝒆𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒇𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒉𝒊𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆. 𝑺𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒖𝒑 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒘𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒍𝒊𝒄𝒕 𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎. 𝑺𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒔 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒈𝒈𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒂𝒍 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒑𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉. 𝑶𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔, 𝒂𝒄𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒘𝒐𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒊𝒏, 𝒘𝒐𝒌𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒄𝒊𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒃 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒖𝒏’𝒔 𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓𝒔.

The priest was trembling now with excitement.

“Yes,” he said; “yes, and I in my stupid arrogance had thought that my life was more active in God’s world than hers. So a small provincial shopkeeper, bustling to and fro behind the counter, might think, if only he were mad enough, that his life was more active and alive, than the life of a director who sits at his table in the city. Yes, that is a vulgar simile; but the only one that I can think of which in the least expresses what I knew to be true. There lay my little foolish narrow life behind me, made up of spiritless prayers and efforts and feeble dealings with souls; and how complacent I had been with it all, how self- centred, how out of the real tide of spiritual movement! And meanwhile, for years probably, this nun had toiled behind these walls in the silence of grace, with the hum of the world coming faintly to her ears, and the cries of peoples and nations, and of persons whom the world accounts important, sounding like the voices of children at play in the muddy street outside; and, indeed, that is all that they are, compared to her—children making mud-pies or playing at shop outside the financier’s office.”

Source: citydesert.wordpress