#cosmic freeway [ open ]

[aethergate]

placing a shiny object down in one of his forests traps. time to see who's soul he'll snack on today.

[legoflash]

Tag Dump!

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Lost & Found - Chapter Three.

Surprise! I thought I’d treat you all to an off the cuff update as a little thank you for your readership. You’ve all made me feel confident again in the wake of having that confidence take a knock, so yeah, here you go. It’ll move the story along a little more, too. There’ll still be an update on Friday as well, but for now, enjoy :) 

Previous chapters - One  Two

Words - 3,516 

Warnings - 18+ content throughout, Minors DNI. Recounts of kidnap, child trafficking, physical/verbal/sexual abuse in the coming chapters.

They pulled into a gas station a little further along in their journey, Bottles exiting to fill up with gas and Guero shifting to climb out over the driver’s side, telling her he wouldn’t be long. Her eyes fixed upon him, her heart beginning to jackrabbit in her chest. He’d made her feel safe as she’d curled into him, and now he was moving away from her. Her demeanour took on that of a meerkat, positioned sharply upright, scanning the small building he’d walked into, her nerves demanding she keep him in her eye line.  

Swallowing nervously, she blinked rapidly, her throat tightening when he moved out of her view, her body going rigid once more when Bottles opened up the door. His eyes scanned her, his face kind in what she could see from her peripheral vision, still focusing on Guero’s movements. Seeing him emerge again, she began to settle.  

“I had no idea what you liked, so I got a little of everything.” Gesturing to the brown paper bag he held, he dipped the edge with his finger, revealing it to be full of snack foods. He pulled three packaged sandwiches from the top, throwing one at bottles, holding up the other two. “Chicken or ham?”  

She pointed to the ham one. “That’s some cosmic shit right there,” he smiled, gesturing to the chicken. “I wanted this one.” He placed the bag down at his feet, pulling his seatbelt back on as Emma opened the package, pulling out the sub style sandwich and taking a bite.  

It might have been on slightly tough bread, the salad a little wilted, but for her it was as good as a gourmet meal after three weeks of protein bars. The mustard and smoky flavour of the ham mingled upon her tongue, her tastebuds tingling, closing her eyes with a look of bliss. Food. God, she’d missed it.  

They ate in silence for the duration of the journey, all sharing from the large bag of cheese Ruffles also purchased, Emma thinking that chips had truly never tasted so good as she crunched through each mouthful, washing them down with the provided small bottle of cherry Coke. He wasn’t to know it was her favourite drink in the entire world either, yet it was the one he had chosen in from the array of sodas on offer.  

The cool, sugary carbon refreshed her mouth, which was fuzzy and grimy in feel after three weeks of no dental hygiene. No hygiene at all to speak of, in fact. She knew she stank, yet Guero quite happily let her settle against him again without fuss. She felt a little bad for that, especially when he smelled so good, leather, soap and a faint trace of cologne.  

While leaning against him, she watched as the freeway began to become sparser of surroundings, the dessert landscape taking over as Bottles turned off, a large sign upon the highway they exited onto coming into view. Santo Padre. It was reassuring, seeing the sign matched where Bishop had stated they would be taking her.  

The town was small, not as suburban as what she was used to, although back in her old life she’d scarcely had the freedom that meant she could move around Staten Island, the place that had become her home. Less home, more prison, she often surmised.  

The van moved through the quiet streets, weaving around until it finally came to a large gate, the signage denoting the location to be Romero Brothers Scrap. A smaller sign beneath it read Losa Motorcycle repair, yet another statement to ring true, Emma remembering that Guero had told her it was the location Bishop’s wife ran her shop from. The convoy came to a halt, someone jogging to open the gate, EZ riding through, the van following.  

Her eyes took everything in as they drove through the wide passage between old piles of iron and steel, piles upon piles of metal twisted and stacked, crushed cars jutting into the horizon before a second gate came into view. This one was opened from the inside, a woman dressed casually in sweats and a vest standing back as she swung it open, her slender arms decorated plentifully with colourful tattoos.

They pulled up a little way from a wooden building, the lights casting a soft, yellow glow out into the darkness of the early morning, Bottles jumping out, going over to a few of the guys who had parked up their bikes, Emma taking in her surroundings with widened eyes. Caution began to wind through her again, Guero feeling her starting to stiffen, watching her bring her thumb to her mouth and chew.  

“That’s the clubhouse,” he pointed, his finger then moving to the woman who had opened the gate, positioned on the step. “And that’s Lee. You ready to get out?”  

She felt fragile and foolish to suddenly experience another attack of nerves, especially when everything she’d been promised had rung true, her eyes finding the slender blonde woman, watching her wave lackadaisically. Her trembles started up once more, Guero softly sighing through his nose, climbing out over the driver’s seat and walking around the front of the van to the passenger side, opening the door.  

He held out his hands, the warmth of his smile creasing his eyes. “Come on, blue eyes. It’s okay.” She froze for a few moments, taking deep breaths before turning, taking his hands. The appearance of a large, bald man walking behind where Guero was stood made her eyes round, her safety person turning.  

“That’s Gilly.” The big man smiled as he continued, figuring he’d probably do more harm than good if he lingered, the girl still looking perturbed. Once he’d gone, she didn’t immediately calm, her eyes darting all around, the sounds of people talking and laughing a little overloading to her senses, eventually reaching for Guero. Safety person. All was well if he was near.  

She reached past his hands, gripping onto his shoulders as she slid from the van, Guero clasping her waist as he lifted her, surprised when she wrapped her legs around him. He could handle carrying her, she weighed virtually nothing at all, her frame slight although she was quite tall, shutting the van and carrying her over to where Lee was waiting.  

“Morning,” she grumbled, yawning. “So, this is Emma, right?”

“Yeah. She’s a little freaked out still,” Guero commented, Lee nodding.

“’Sup, Emma? You okay, you alright?” Three questions. It was another little touchback to something she’d been told ringing true. “I’m set up in templo, figured it’d be best. The old man said she was kinda scared.” Lee continued with, opening the clubhouse door, Emma clinging on tighter as she was carried into the new space. It was shabby but cozy, wooden furniture that didn’t match clustered around tables, a few couches and a small bar area.

It smelled strongly of cigarettes and alcohol, Emma lowering her face to Guero’s collar, his scent filling her nose, finding familiar comfort again quickly. She was carried down a narrow passage, Lee sliding open a stained-glass door, leading to a narrow room with a large table in the centre, Guero closing the door behind him, seating her atop that table and standing back. Immediately, she scrambled to reach for him.

“I’m not leaving you, it’s alright. Hey, calm down,” he soothed her with, jumping up onto the table beside her, his wallet chain clattering against the wood. “I’ll stay right here if you like.” She nodded, trembling softly, turning to view Lee arranging a few items she’d laid out, looking up with a small smile.  

“You ready for me to take a look at you?” She nodded, her hand reaching to clasp Guero’s, still a little scared. “Alrighty. I’m gonna touch your head, make sure you don’t have any other bumps anywhere, then shine a light in your eyes. Need to check for concussion.”  

Back when she’d been in active service and dealt with injured troops, especially those who had been traumatised by the horrors of war and slid into a state of shock, Lee had found that talking them through an examination process had made it much easier for them, applying those techniques to the young woman sitting before her.  

Although kind, Lee knew she could lack a little warmth in her demeanour at times, her military background moulding her into a strong, formidable woman. She was practical and pragmatic before she was anything else, but understood when sensitivity was needed.

Slowly, she reached for Emma’s head, checking for bumps before picking up a small torch. “Gotta shine this in your eyes, check how your pupils react.” The light beamed in, Lee studying her carefully. “Follow my finger.” Emma did as instructed, beginning to calm down a little. Things were adding up, she was being examined, just as she was told would happen. It was okay. She was safe.

Lee nodded, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. “No concussion, but this cut is fuckin’ savage as fuck. Gonna clean it up and then spray it with ethyl chloride, so it’ll numb the skin, alrighty?” She was met by a small nod, Lee picking up a bottle of antiseptic and decanting it onto some cotton pads. “It’s gonna fuckin’ sting, deep breath.”  

The antiseptic seeped into her wound, making her hiss softly, her clutch on Guero’s hand tightening. He clasped it between his, the warmth of his skin soothing, taking her mind off the sharp burning upon her forehead. Once the wound was clean, Lee picked up a clear bottle, beginning to carefully spray it around the broken skin as she gently blew, shielding Emma’s eye with her hand. A cooling sensation chilled her forehead until she felt nothing at all, Lee then prepping a needle.  

“My stiches are nothing short of perfect, but it’s gonna leave a small scar, sadly,” Lee spoke as she began to stitch, her brow creasing with concentration. “Dunno if you’ve heard of it, but there’s something called Bio-Oil you can put on it that’ll help lessen the scar once it’s healed. These stitches aren’t dissolvable either, so you’ll need to find someplace to have them taken out in two weeks once you’ve healed. They’ll itch, but try not to touch the wound, just keep it clean to prevent infection.”

“Okay.” Emma replied, her eyes moving to her side, watching Guero.

“You doing alright?”

Her lips thinned into a shy smile. “Mmhm. Thanks f-for looking after m-me.”

His fingers squeezed softly on hers. “You’re welcome.”

Lee finished her stitching in impressive timing, removing her gloves and beginning to pack away her medical kit again. “All done. Do you have someplace you can go, family, friends out here? You look dehydrated and I’d guess a little malnourished, too. You need to go someplace safe and recover from your journey. Is there anybody we can call for you, you got a number, a name?”

She shook her head.  

“Okay, well you’re welcome at Casa Losa. We have a spare room if you need it?”  

Immediately, she curled into Guero, Lee reading the situation. She’d obviously somewhat imprinted upon him, not willing to think of an alternative to staying by his side. Trauma. Whatever the hell had gone on in that shipping crate that led to her injuries, or perhaps more accurately, the life she’d been so desperate to flee from as a stowaway within it, Lee knew lingering trauma when she saw it. “Alrighty, sugar. You wanna stay with him, I get it.”  

Her eyes searched his, Guero nodding. “Yeah, come crash at my place. It’s cool.” Instantly, she relaxed again.

With a nod and a small smile, Lee left the room, seeking out her husband at the bar, her arms sliding around his waist as she kissed his cheek.  

“How’s the girl?” EZ asked, sliding from his seat to arrive at her side.  

“Stitched, but she’s really fuckin’ bent out of shape mentally. Starting to calm down, but she’s panicked. Bishop told me you were bringing her back because you wanted answers over who stole your cash. Well, you ain’t fuckin’ getting them tonight, Ezekiel.”  

The president gave her a slightly incredulous look. “That’s not down to you to decide, Lee.”  

She straightened, lifting her chin. “While I’m the person who gets called upon at all hours to pull bullets out of y’all, stitch you up, fix your fuckin’ bike dings and generally be a mother hen to this MC, then you better fuckin’ believe I’m deciding it. Not happening, ain’t gonna be tonight, no fuckin’ way.” Pausing she jerked her thumb back in the direction of templo, her eyes fixed upon his.  

“That poor girl has been through enough; she doesn’t need you interrogating her when she can’t even string more than about five fuckin’ stammered words together right now. The docks have CCTV, so if you so desperately wanna find out who stung you guys, I’d get on the phone to the guards who Don fuckin’ Lombardi is greasing the palms of to send you the footage. She’ll talk when she’s fuckin’ ready.”  

Her eyes lingered upon him as she leaned to her husband, kissing his cheek again. “You better hurry up home and fuck me until I fall asleep.” She marched from the clubhouse, Bishop grunting a small laugh, turning to EZ.  

“Come on, mano,” he sighed, shaking his head. “You know if there’s one person you can’t give orders to, it’s my wife. She has a point, too. Call the guard now, before the footage gets erased.” Every single base was covered in the operation, including any footage of the MC delivering to the container. They had to act fast, having no idea how close to their arrival the robbery took place, Bishop not wanting to chance the footage of the perpetrators ending up being deleted as well.  

EZ nodded, taking his phone out and leaving the clubhouse in order to do just that, tired from the events of the night and still quietly burning with fury over the theft. Meanwhile, back in templo, Emma sat quietly, having heard Lee’s words to EZ, feeling relieved that the pressure was off her and she wasn’t about to be interrogated.  

“Can you...c-can you do me a, a favour?” she stammered tentatively, Guero sliding off the table to stand in front of her. He nodded, Emma continuing. “D-don’t tell anybody that you found me in, in that container, especially n-not the man who you were offloading heroin for. Rocco Lombardi can n-never know where I am.”

Her stuttered speech was a clear indicator of who she was truly the most frightened of, the mob boss himself, Guero wondering what a young woman, probably around his age, had done to warrant the need to vanish from the jaws of the mafia.  

“Don’t worry nobody is gonna say shit. I doubt EZ is gonna wanna bring light to any of this.” He knew his president well, and he knew that the man they were running heroin for was an executor of seamless operations the likes of which EZ had promised. Although finding a stowaway in a container and their payment gone wasn’t anything that would affect Lombari personally, snags in the plan always raised doubt, and they needed this alliance way too much to risk it.  

Guero paused, stuck in indecision for a moment whether to ask her what was on his mind, the question slipping out before he’d truly had chance to weigh up whether he should. “I gotta ask, though, is it him you were running from, or the mafia in general, why we found you in that container?”

She tensed visibly, her gaze dropping to the floor, a quiver ripping through her. No. He definitely shouldn’t have. “I’m sorry. Tell me when you’re ready, or not at all. Isn’t really any of my business.”  

No expectations to reveal her inner trauma, no pushing, only kindness. Kindness, and the offer a place to stay. A safe place with her safe person. Her insides heaved a sigh of relief. “Can we leave now?”

He nodded, taking her hands in his. “Yeah. Let me go get the van keys from Bottles, grab your backpack and snack bag.” He’d intended for her to wait in templo for him, but predictably as soon as he’d taken a step back, she followed. Pressing herself close at his side, she hugged onto his thick arm as they walked through the clubhouse, finding Bottles behind the bar, Guero making a motion with his hand that indicated a turning key. With those very items tossed into his neat catch, they departed.

“Heading home, prez,” Guero spoke on his way out, pausing at seeing the thunderous expression on EZ’s face.  

“Yeah, alright.” His jaw was tight, each word practically bitten into as they left his mouth. Guero knew that mood, knowing it was best to leave him to simmer down, Emma falling into step at his side before suddenly slowing, turning back look upon to the agitated president. He might’ve terrified her, but he hadn’t lied to her. That deserved some kind of reward.  

Releasing her hold on Guero’s arm, she walked back up the steps, tucking her hair behind her ear meekly, EZ’s glance fixing upon her. Her heart jumped, swallowing the little fearful lump in her throat. “I heard w-what Lee suggested, about the CCTV. You won’t f-find any, because it was an inside job. The guys who robbed your c-cash were two of the dock security guards.”

Her nervously stammered words matched the cause of his ire, being told exactly that on the phone not five minutes before. Something stuck out for him, though. “Why'd they just knock you out and leave you there, though? You'd witnessed it, could easily tell us their identity. It doesn’t add up that they wouldn’t haul you out of there, or kill you.”  

Emma shrugged, swallowing a few times. “I c-could hear motorcycle engines in the distance just before t-they hit me. They didn’t have any time. I guess they h-had to hope I wouldn’t come around before you left again. I g-guess a gun going off in a c-container is pretty loud, too.”

That tied up the loose end adequately enough. “Thank you.” Standing, he walked to the clubhouse door, swinging it open. “Bish, we gotta head out again. Gilly, Hank, you too.” He was about to stride over to his bike when Emma’s small voice halted him.  

“Um, I know you’ll h-have to let him know about this, but please d-don’t tell Rocco Lombardi you f-found me in that container. Please don’t.”  

He saw the pleading in her eyes clearly, considering her statement with a sniff. Truly, Lombardi didn’t need to know what they’d found, only the circumstances that had surrounded what was missing. “Alright, I promise I won’t.”

She nodded, looking at her feet before her eyes found his again. “Thank you.”

He headed down the steps with a nod, pausing for a second before he turned back. “Why, though? What did Lombardi do to you?”

She bit her lip, looking at Guero for a moment, folding her arms as her shoulders trembled and drew in. “Everything.”  

EZ lifted his chin slightly, studying her uneasiness. It really didn’t have anything to do with him, and he might’ve been jumping to conclusions, but the words ‘I don’t trust him’ delivered by his VP not five months ago up in Vegas sounded through his head, turning and continuing across to his bike once more.  

Walking back to Guero’s side, she clutched his arm, smiling when he shrugged her hold off to hug her gently. “That was brave, blue eyes.”  

She nodded against him, letting out a sigh. “Didn’t want to make him mad.”  

He didn’t really know how to reply to that, so remained silent, patting her back before walking over to the van to retrieve her stuff. After quickly running the keys back, they moved to his large, yellow and black bike, Emma being handed the spare helmet.  

“You ever ridden on the back of a motorcycle before?” She shook her head. “Alright, well there’s not much to it. Just hold on tight. I won’t go so fast, though.”

Securing her backpack, she took the helmet and jammed it on, the fit a little tight due to the many tangles thickening her hair, swinging her leg over and seating herself behind him comfortably. The engine roared into life, eighteen hundred horses primed to charge as he kicked off, riding through the gate behind the others, who he guessed were San Diego bound once more.

In the space of four hours, Emma had gone from stowaway fleeing from her life, to under the care of an outlaw she barely knew. It wasn’t exactly what she’d envisaged, but then again, not having a long-term plan after fleeing the east coast, there was nothing she could match it to, expectations wise. As she clung to her safe person, she was thankful that a long last, she felt just that. Safe.

[haggishlyhagging]

Modern sickness is that of disconnection, the ego unable to feel an organic part of the world, except via chemical and popular culture addictions. But when the healers—the physicians of mind and body—do not know themselves what it is we need to be connected to, how can they solve the syndrome of disconnection? When the ego lets itself go, sinks down into the oceanic all-oneness of the beginning, and its peace—the shrinks call this “regression”! They have virtually defined "mature-mindedness" as a state of permanent alienation—the I chronically differentiated from the All. What this amounts to is that “the mature mind” is the male mind, rejecting his mother. Within Western culture, whenever the "doors of perception" open ever so little to let us catch a glimpse of the holographic cosmic mind within us—we are in danger of being locked up for psychiatric observation, and given tranquilizers and other "cures." The established patriarchal institutions all have a vested interest in keeping the individual mind disconnected from the experience of cosmic oneness, because this disconnection is patriarchy. The bulk of patriarchal industries—drugs, alcohol, entertainment media, fashion and cosmetics, pornography, the tourist business, polyester-suited politics, drive-in religious sermons, interstate freeway systems, you name it—exist and profit solely by selling momentary diversions to multitudes of "quietly desperate people," seeking anesthetic escape from the pain of personal alienation.

-Monica Sjöö and Barbara Mor. The Great Cosmic Mother: Rediscovering The Religion of the Earth.

[rotzaprachim]

absurdly good fic i read this year (which is somehow both completely unrelated and yet of a similar vibe)

1) it doesn’t mean you can explain the ocean - 14k, rageprufrock. gen

this is some background season 1 gen sam and dean road tripping america fic that works as an incredibly well-realised and dense entry into the whole magical realist on-the-road americana genre. spn fic in general tends to cluster post the season 4 introduction of the angels and castiel and so this fic is fantastic as something that marks the deeply, unnervingly isolated tone that early season spn had and then later forgot about when it really was just Two Guys going town to town. it functions briliantly both as fanfiction for the CW’s supernatural and an incredibly sharply realised depiction of small-town, middle-of-nowhere america that manages to be eviscerating (as the show never was) and deeply empathetic (in a way that i think is oddly key to the cocktail of early season supernatural, when it was good.) read it! 

There are noises in the cosmic grapevine about three women in Savannah, about prophesy and oracle and older gods than even they know the words for, and Dean hears about it from a waitress at the counter of a diner off the side of a North Carolina freeway. It's muggy outside: like collards and carrot tops and green gumbo, stewed until it's mostly brown, like mudslides and the thick scum left on everything after a storm.

Sue, whose brother is a sergeant serving in Afghanistan still, wears a yellow ribbon on the breast pocket of her server's uniform and snaps her gum as she tops off Dean's coffee. She talks about how she misses her baby brother and how she's real proud of him for standin' up for his country and fighting for the sake of freedom in the US of A; she tells Dean her momma's the best damn quilter on this side of the Carolinas and that she'd be happy to take Dean around this sleepy, southeastern town if he's gonna be round these parts for a few more days.

Sam drinks sweet tea and listens to her chatter at his brother, stacks Land O'Lakes non-dairy creamers into a pyramid and listens to newspapers rustle, the metallic slick and slide of spatulas and things on the hot griddle, the shouting of the Mexican short order cook. The diner smells like the meatloaf blue plate special and frying sausage and bacon, smells like the steak and eggs Dean ordered with black coffee. Sam looks at the counter's ugly, specked blue linoleum and the pleather covers of the diner stools, split open, with the fluff inside spilling out.

"Now what's this about oracles," Dean says and he drags out all the syllables in 'oracle' until Sue laughs, eyes bright, and winks.

2) i’ve lived since then - scioscribe, 11k, jyn erso/cassian andor, explicit 

there’s rumours round these parts (based on interviews) that tony gilroy read fanfic before fleshing out andor and well. if he did. let’s just say this one would probably be on this list. like yes, yes i DO know this is a jyn/cassian arranged fanfiction from 2017 and it’s 11k words and a good portion of those words are straight up porn. but ALSO, this fic manages to capture beautifully, woundrously, fascinatingly well the tone of andor and many of its canonical preoccupations, and yet feel fully contiguous with the characterisations of rogue one- which is something that andor itself is still fiddling with the hems of i just live for this particular fic’s depictions of jyn and cassian, who remain sharp and spikey and brutal and yet have this place in a story that neither removes them of their sharp edges nor sands them down to booktok romance leads but still suffises them with an odd, off kilter humanity and warmth. the subtle slice-of-life lived-in worldbuilding is great too. i have a particular fondness for the star-warsy birth control moment, which is so deeply scientifically bizarre and ridiculous it rests in my mind that if sw characters ever were to fuck on screen, that would be exactly what the birth control would be like. 

Cassian adjusted his jacket, which had been tailored for another man. The Alliance’s funding ran to fighters, bribes, and base installations, not to salaries, and so when someone fell, their possessions went into an informal commissary, to be bought, begged, bartered for, or stolen at will or convenience. Never entirely without sentiment, though. They all had sewing skills rudimentary enough at least to stitch the necessary black X, the acknowledgement of whoever had come before them. Maybe it was bad luck, getting married in a dead man’s clothes.

3) i won’t be going gentle - cyanocorax, 1.2k words, gen modern day odyssey trucker au 

it’s hard to choose a single quote from this, because the entire thing is dense (while maintaining a sharpness and paucity that keeps it feeling pure midcentury this-feels- like-an-Intro-To-The-American-Short-Story material. in the best way possible. this fic comes in the long and great media tradition of The Odyssey but it’s [blank]- in this case, odyseus as a long-haul trucker across middle america. like a great odyssey au it asks real questions about the odyssey itself. i’ve been thinking lately about the odyseus frame story being used by both the more recent Greek and other diasporas- russian jewish (joseph brodsky), vietnamese (ocean vuong), - in order to explore more recent experiences of war and displacement, and what ithaka can mean to so many different people across time. this fic goes in a different direction, instead twisting the stories of odysseus’s decades of wandering into the story of a working man’s struggle with daily life and to earn a living. one of the most haunting aspects that comes of this interpretation is of the mundanities of life itself as what separates him and penelope, given they are more physically united than in the myth. anyway! just really, really good writing and storytelling 

All his journeys tend to start off just the same, as is their way: in the dawn-dark, a thermos of Pen’s best (or worst, depending on who you ask) coffee burning a ring into the cup-holder beside him, the windows rolled down just enough for the breeze to turn his nose tip red. The radio, on, but silent, until he hits the interstate and can see nothing in his rearview mirror save the bleak, unyielding line of the horizon.

There’s a photograph taped to his dashboard, now ten years old, of his wife standing next to the lip of Meteor Crater with their boy in her arms, all the round, living warmth of her distilled into a single fleck of color that the passing gas station, motel lights will illuminate, briefly, briefly.

[aman-acan-andacityplan]

The Escape Room on Steroids

-Link

As demands for permanent building space craters in the retail and office markets, I imagine that spaces that possess a more performative aspect (escape rooms, haunted houses) will occupy more of the physical landscape of America. There’s a lot of underutilized space in America at this time and while a Spirit of Halloween store or escape room won’t turn around any places, it will provide a modicum of cash flow and visitors to a space.

Enter Meow Wolf, a Sante-Fe based arts collective that has fostered a reputation for surreal spaces, which has opened a new space in Denver whimsically titled the Convergence Station. Though this is the first I have heard of Meow Wolf, this is not the first time I had encountered the work. I had seen some of their marketing behind one of their previous installations: Omega Mart. The fake ads for this *ahem* unique supermarket were short, clever and quite funny. The one-two punch of viral video marketing coupled with an art installation providing a unique blend of cosmic horror and the mundane is well suited to generating buzz and publicity. I think modern companies would be well served to emulate Meow Wolf’s installations to support their own creative ventures.

I will also add that looking at pictures of Convergence Station, I get some Guardians of the Galaxy vibes about the place. This space taps into the mass culture the way few other buildings of recent vintage have. Granted, its not really grounded in a coherent design philosophy or discipline (more on that below), but I can imagine a lot of people enjoying themselves and having a fun time within this building. That already puts this space on a much a higher tier than buildings produced by the avante garde architects, which seem to be deliberately designed to confound and alienate the average person.

In brief, I guess I would say that I am of two minds on this trend. If given the choice between Meow Wolf’s installations and more Starchitect garbage, I would definitely choose the former. On the other hand, futuristic architecture of the past were at least grounded in the hopes and aspirations of a people or a nation. Even Disney’s Tomorrowland started as a kind of expo for new technology and innovations that held a lot of promise at the time. The work created by Meow Wolf though is basically quirky novelty driven by viral marketing and science fantasy. It won’t really offend anybody, but conversely it doesn’t aim to edify or uplift anyone either.

That and the whole endeavor has a kind of “restaurant at the end of the universe” quality as it feels curiously detached from the surrounding urban life and vitality of the city. Granted the site, wedged between two freeways, does a lot to contribute to that feeling of isolation and one has to wonder if even the greatest architect could make an enduring landmark in such a negative space. I could see some future for the building if they could keep the art installations fresh and relevant, opting for new themes every few years to keep people coming. Of course one doesn’t need to look further than this humble website to encounter examples of buildings that succumbed to obsolescence after trying to ride the wave of high fashion and novelty.           

[svetlanamirchevaworks]

IMAGES OF THE WORD

solo exhibition

20 Nov.–Dec. 2014, Un Cabinet D’Amateur / Olivier Boissiere, Sofia

   Four series by Svetlana Mircheva based upon chance meetings with things and words    From rebus to cosmic constellations, to twisted slogans and computer explorations    a short sampling of possible intrusions of the visual arts in the infinite world of language.      Works in the exhibition:    4 Rebus collages on canvas, series    --Fly me to the moon    --At 11 o’clock put everything in the blue pot    --Cry me a river    --Menuetto in G major    For Laika with love, series, 9 calligrams, polymer clay biscuits    Ads for happy days, series, 3 twisted slogans, 2 Glagolitic sentences    --You've got questions, we've got mountain    --How many licks does it take to get to the center of a sun?    --Non stop cri ckets    --Me, knowing the letters, I speak / Glagolitic    --Speak the word strongly / Glagolitic  Make pages, 1-15, series, thesaurus for the word "make"  Make believe, thesaurus for the word "make"  Good morning, 1&2, ready made  Possible exhibitions, model 7          RANDOM, CHANCE, BLIND DATE, SERENDIPITY      “langage=jeu galant”. Marcel Duchamp     Once upon a time, there was a flâneur. Baudelaire followed him strolling the city leisurely both distracted and attentive to the new world (it would become brave later), looking for modernity. A viewer/voyeur, he would note the remarkable in the environment of his contemporaries, the spread of commercial activities as a consequence of the industrial revolution and the raise of consumerism. The flâneur attitude marked a significant shift in the points of views upon the world. Shop-windows became familiar scenes where artists would dig for inspiration. The cubist collage and Duchamp’s ready-made replaced the representation of the object by the object itself incorporated into assemblages exposed to language that would become the rule at mid-century. Walter Benjamin haunted the Paris “passages”, the Surrealists the flea market of Saint-Ouen looking for bizarre objects of undetermined functions and forms, craving for close encounters of the third kind , expecting surprise ( “soup-rice” as the Marx brothers had put it )      “One does not do poetry with ideas, one does poetry with words”1. Mallarmé said. He must have foreseen that poetry could become image by means of “a throw of the dice”. Freeing words from one another, dispersing them on the page opens new interpretations as well as a disconcerting design. Are they pure coincidence or an effect of the Zeitgeist? Mallarme’s poem might look as a prelude to the re-introduction of the word in visuals arts. From Picasso’s first cubic collages to Schwitters’ Merzbau, to Saul Steinberg’s rebus and Rauschenberg’s , then “Conceptual’ and Art language, Kossuth, Lawrence Wiener, then Bruuuuuuuce Nauman, Ed Ruscha et al, words, sentences, aphorisms did invade the art field. An art work could both express and enounce?      The computer age has generated a new version of the flâneur, the “geek” zooming and zapping on the freeways of information. Exit the street and the city. The world has turned global and the Net its cosmic echo. An all-over set of information both text and imagery has become available at fingertip distance. The somewhat naive first fans of cybernetics in the late 60s prophesized then the advent of some new Leonardo, Picasso or other artist genius who would take up the new medium and generate new masterworks. This has not happened (yet). But the amazing field of the Web providing for all kind of opportunities of criss- cross and short cuts is currently being explored. Wait and see…      Horace Walpole coined the name “serendipity”2 from an indo-arabian old legend where the three princes of Serendip described a lost camel that they had never seen through the traces and indexes which they had noticed on the road. Serendipity was defined as discovering by chance something that one was not looking for, or the art to take notice to the surprising and give it a pertinent interpretation. It was thus chance + sagacity. The word had a discreet carrier at first until it reached the scientific domain with the discovery of the penicillin (a fortuitous accident, according to Fleming) or Albert Hoffmann’s one of LSD. Even Isaac Newton and his apple were called in. It became an argument for free versus applied research. In the art field, it sounds like a fact, No usefulness is expected. Free imagination, innovation and fantasy are supposed to be the rules of the game. Serendipity is supposed to pop up without notice.    “The stupid call these strikings of the thought “chance” without thinking that chance never occurs to the dunces.”3          Svetlana Mircheva is the heiress of all the above.    She walks the city, collects abandoned objects, bits and pieces, sheets of left over papers, fragments of newspapers (preferably old) photographs of loves forgotten, rags of faded materials evocative of lives unknown, memories anonymous.    The artist reinserts them in comic strips, little tales to be deciphered, telescoping images and words (image as text, text as image) in poetic collages in the form of rebus, those “compositions that operate this great marriage of letter and drawing which has always haunted the baroque artists.”4      Mircheva’s attention to shop windows might be triggered by petty trivial domains. Exploring pet shops she has spotted a variety of dog food, biscuits wearing unexpected words suggesting pet loves …She has used them to design candid canine calligrams, nursery rimes whistling little tunes, pretty constellations, as many tributes to Laika, Pschyolka, Mushka and other moon dogs heroes of the first Sputnik age. Ironic compassion?    Love thy dog as thyself?      The interactive aspect of the computer can take (at least) two forms: communication with brothers/sisters internauts or direct dialog with the Machine, as it offers help/services to user/client. Mircheva contacted once by curiosity programs which given a name of your firm + keyword to your activity would deliver the right slogan for your advertising. The tests Mircheva did rapidly proved deceptive, either irrelevant or conventional. But a little twist on a sentence could make them funny on the verge of the absurd. So… Coincidently Mircheva landed on the glagolitic site. Cyril and Method had elaborated an alphabet before the Cyrillic. In their devotion, they had followed up with three sentences using each letter as a key to a word all to the glory of God. A sublime early use of sacred advertising!      Following up with her “mistakes” Mircheva has bumped into new intriguing incidents. A A4 found in a paper basket had all the visual seductions of the “conceptual” art of the 60s. The content, an exploration of the keyword “make” proved most serious and hilarious. A further research led (with the help of New York curator friend Eriola Pira) to a million words thesaurus accumulated by a very serious university department in Providence, RI, on the possibilities of computers in the field of language in the early 60s. With “Make” the viewer is invited to pursue with the game. Infinitely. “Language is a virus from the outer space.”5      Certainly serendipitous Svetlana Mircheva is not fooled by the process. She is well aware that the haphazard character of serendipity cannot ever constitute a method, only a state of mind. Told about the story of the three princes of Serendip, Mircheva had but a brief comment: “there is no normal camel” she said. Think of it.        Olivier Boissiere         1 Stephane Mallarmé “Un coup de dés jamais n’abolira le hasard” in Cosmopolis Paris 1897   2 Sylvie Catellin “Serendipité, du conte au concept”    Seuil Paris 2014   3 Balzac “Theorie de la démarche” L’Europe litteraire 1833,    La Pleiade 1981 tome XXII   4 Roland Barthes about Saul Steinberg in “All except you”. Repères. Galerie Maeght. 1983.    See also Rosalind Krauss “Rauschenberg and the Materialized Image” in “The originality of the Avant Garde and other modernist myths” The MIT Press Cambridge Mass. 1985   5 William Burroughs      CATALOG ONLINE

[tandaforever]

The kid was blowing on that harmonica again, trying out different notes, frowning when one didn't quite hit the pitch he was looking for.

Armie flicked his cigarette over the side of his lawn chair, watched as the ashes drifted in the wind, then brought it back to his lips, taking a drag.

The kid's been at it a while but Armie didn't mind, only glad to have something fill in the silence.

Armie realized his eyes were closed when the fiddling stopped. When he opened them to find out why, he only found the kid looking up at him.

"What do you do around here?"

The kid was stretched out on the grass, one skinny leg crossed over the other, the harmonica lay abadonned next to him. His eyes were expectant and his bottom lip being used as a chew toy.

Armie sighed, "Look kid—"

"Timmy."

For fuck’s sake, "OK, Timmy. I told you back at the garage I'd let you stay with me on one condition. Do you remember what that was?"

"That I don't ask any questions." There's a funny glint in his eyes that Armie has a bad feeling about.

If he'd known the kid would cause trouble, he'd had left his ass back in town.

"Bingo."

"Oh come on, I'm dying here. I need conversation. Pleasseee."

Well that's just too bad, because Armie didn't want to talk.

"No."

The kid's pouting, but Armie won't budge, no matter how pretty the kid looks doing it.

Armie cursed under his breath. This has got to be some cosmic joke, some April Fool's bullshit.

The one day the Andersons closed the only motel in town for a private event happened to be the same day this kid's cheap Hyundai broke down on a nearby freeway, and Armie’s shop the only one to take his distress call.

Maybe he can make another call. Larry in the next town over might already have the spare part he's ordered. That bastard owed him one anyway.

Suddenly waiting for the part to come tomorrow, and letting the kid stay with him seemed like one huge mistake.

Especially considering the way the kid's big round eyes were looking at him now.

Yep. Armie was screwed.

[primroseprime2019]

Darkness Rising- Part Two

"Of all the Energon deposits we have located while you were away, Lord Megatron, this one, by far, is the most significant," Starscream boasted to Megatron.

"The drones have been mining without pause during your absence," Echo said, "and have massed quite the stockpile."

"You there! Fetch me a sample," Starscream said. "Starscream, now that I have returned, I shall issue the commands," Megatron said firmly.

"Of course Lord Megatron," Starscream said quickly, "then as your humble servants, shall we ready the space bridge to bring forth the Decepticon army you surely have gathered during your three years in space?"

"My army will come," Megatron said, "my time away has yielded a more... intriguing means of materializing them." He pulled out a bright purple shard, "the solidified form of the matter the Ancient Texts refer to as the Blood of Unicron."

"Unicron the Destroyer?" Echo said, surprised. "But it is said that his blood is the anti-spark," Starscream said.

"Plucked from Cosmic Shores. Gaze upon Dark energon," Megatron said.

"Legend tells that it holds the power to... revive the dead," Echo said with a frown. "We require a cadaver to be certain," Megatron said and he turned to Starscream and Echo, "are you willing to make the ultimate sacrifice?"

"Eheh, that won't be necessary, my liege," Starscream said quickly while Echo shook her helm. "If I may, Lord Megatron," Starscream said. He gestured to the body of Cliffjumper as Decepticon drones brought it over on an electronic stretcher.

"Consider it a welcome home present," Starscream said.

◊◊◊◊

"And since you know of our existence, I fear that as of last night, the Decepticons know of yours," Optimus said.

"Got it. We see any strange vehicles, call 9-1-1," Jack said, "can we go now?" "It's not that simple Jack," Paige said quietly.

"Are you insane?" Miko hissed at Jack, "I'm living a dream here in Botswana! And I will not allow you or anyone else to shatter it."

"It is best that you four remain under our watch," Optimus said, much to Miko's excitement and Jack's dismay, "until we can learn more of our enemies' intentions."

"Optimus, with all due respect, the human children are in as much danger here as anywhere," Ratchet said.

"Children?" Jack repeated, offended as Miko, Raf and Paige gave Ratchet offended looks.

"They have no protective shell," Ratchet went on, "if they go underfoot, they will go... squish." He stomped his pede forward to prove a point and the action made Jack and Raf flinch back. Paige chuckled softly.

"Then for the time being, Ratchet, we must watch where we step," Optimus said. Ratchet looked at Paige, "and what is so funny?"

"You wouldn't step on us," Paige said, pointing at the medic, "you're too grouchy to do so." "Excuse me!?" Ratchet exclaimed, making Miko and Raf laugh at the look on the medic's faceplates.

Their laughter was cut short by a loud beeping noise. "What's that?" Jack asked.

"Proximity sensor," Bumblebee said. "Proximity sensor," Raf said, "someone's up top."

Ratchet went to see who it was. "It's Agent Fowler," he said as he saw the helicopter on the roof. Paige looked to Optimus confused, "I thought we were the only humans who knew about you guys."

"Special Agent Fowler is our designated liaison to the outside world," Optimus said, "as he tends to visit when there are... issues. It may be best if you do not meet with him at this time."

Raf and Miko ran to a hiding spot with Jack and Paige following. The elevator opened as Agent Fowler stormed out of it, looking rather peeved. "7 wrecks, 34 fender-benders, a 3-hour traffic jam! And a particular note: numerous reports of a speeding motorcycle of unknown make and a custom black and yellow muscle car!"

Arcee and Bumblebee looked at each other. Paige peeked around the corner before she quickly pulled back, nearly bumping into Jack.

"So anything you'd like to get off your tin chest, Prime?" Agent Fowler demanded. "We have the situation under control, Agent Fowler." Optimus said calmly.

"They're back, aren't they?" Fowler asked. "If you are referring to the Decepticons, we doubt they ever left," Primrose said, "your planet is much too valuable."

"Then it's time to wake up the Pentagon," Fowler said. "Hear me, Agent Fowler," Optimus said sternly, "we are your best- possibly, your only- defense against the Decepticon threat."

"Says you," Fowler huffed. "Hey squishy!" Bulkhead snapped, "did anyone get splattered on that freeway? Team Prime knows when to use force." The Wrecker grabbed a tool and with that, he crushed it, "and how much to use."

"Bulkhead, I needed that!" Ratchet said angrily. "Enough," Optimus said firmly before he looked back at Agent Fowler, "military involvement will only result in catastrophe. Perhaps you can condone widespread human casualties, Agent Fowler. I, however, cannot."

"Then do us both a favor, Prime, and handle this under the radar or I will," Agent Fowler said as he walked back into the elevator and it closed behind him. "Pretty big bearings for a human," Bulkhead huffed.

"Agent Fowler is concerned for his world, Bulkhead," Firestorm said, "as he should be."

◊◊◊◊

"Let us see if the power born from darkness can ignite the spark," Megatron said before he slammed the dark energon shard into Cliffjumper's chestplates.

The red Autobot started to shake as his body started to glow bright purple. When he opened his optics, they weren't sky blue anymore. They were a light amethyst purple and the undead Autobot let out a strangled growl.

He struggled to get free of the metallic straps that were holding him down. The Vehicons nearby aimed their blasters at the undead Autobot when he broke free of his bonds and ran at one of the nearby troops.

He tackled one and started to beat it without mercy.

"Master! That's your plan? Bring Autobots back from the dead to attack us!?" Starscream gasped. "That is no longer an Autobot," Megatron said, "just a mindless beast. It's only instinct is to destroy anything in its path."

The undead Cliffjumper roared and charged at Megatron. Starscream ran to get out of the way as Echo stayed put.

Megatron unsheathed his sword and in mere seconds, he sliced the undead Autobot in half. The Autobot staggered forward before it fell into two pieces and into the mine below.

"There, Starscream, lies the indestructible seed for my army. The ultimate weapon," Megatron said. The upper half of Cliffjumper was clinging to the edge before Megatron kicked it away, sending it falling down onto a lower platform. "Once I learn to control it," he said.

Echo stared down at the platform below with fear and disdain while Starscream smirked.

◊◊◊◊

At the Autobot base, the monitors started to go off. "Blasted earth tech!" Ratchet snapped at the air, "Cliffjumper's life signal popped back online!"

"Who's Cliffjumper?" Miko asked. "How is that possible?" Firestorm asked, shocked.

"It isn't. Another bug; the system's full of them," Ratchet said. "If there's any chance that Cliff's alive," Arcee said, looking to Optimus hopefully.

"Ratchet, prepare sickbay," Optimus said, "we may need it." "Hey!" Miko called out, and the Prime looked back at her.

"What can we do?" She asked eagerly. "Remain with Ratchet," the Prime said.

"Aw," Miko groaned in disappointment, as did Ratchet. The ground bridge opened. "Autobots, roll out," Optimus said as he and the others transformed into their vehicle forms and drove through the bridge. "Be careful," Paige said to herself as she leaned on the railing.

"What just happened?" Jack asked, shocked. "I transported them to the designated coordinates via the ground bridge," Ratchet said.

"What's a ground bridge?" Raf asked, earning a heavy, irritated sigh from the medic.

"A scaled down version of space bridge technology," Ratchet said. "You're stuck here," Jack said, "on Earth."

"With the likes of you, yes," Ratchet said, "but I constructed the ground bridge to enable travel from here to anywhere on your planet."

"Whoa. Does it work for humans?" Raf asked. "Naturally," Ratchet said, rather proudly.

"You mean I could just shoot on over there and visit my parents in Tokyo?" Miko asked the medic. "Within moments," Ratchet said, "in fact, allow me to send you there immediately. All four of you."

"Watch it Ratchet," Miko said sassily. "Sorry we don't fit your standards to the point where we're not like you," Paige said as she looked away. Ratchet frowned, "I never said that."

"You don't need to say it. Your tone shows it," Paige said bitterly. Ignoring the pang of hurt in his spark, Ratchet sighed deeply and he turned back to the monitors.

◊◊◊◊

The ground bridge opened in the Decepticon mine. The Autobots walked out of it. "Energon mine," Bulkhead observed.

"Judging by its scale," Firestorm said, "the Decepticons have been tunneling here for some time." The Autobots hid behind some rocks. The drones continued to mine the energon, not knowing that the Autobots were there.

"Let's find Cliffjumper," Optimus said and the Autobots approached the Decepticon drones. As soon as they did, the drones saw them and started to fire. A drone came towards them with a drill but Bulkhead smashed it.

Arcee and Primrose shot at the drones.

◊◊◊◊

"What is this anyway?" Miko asked as she went to touch a piece of machinery. "Broken. Don't touch," Ratchet said. Miko reached to touch another piece until Ratchet said, "don't touch that either."

"Is there anything we can touch?" Jack asked. Ratchet looked at him before a sound came from the screen. Ratchet looked to see alerts coming up on the screen. "How come you guys are using human computers?" Raf asked.

"It certainly isn't by choice," Ratchet huffed, "it was handed down from previous tenants when we inherited this former missile silo. I make modifications as I see fit." He let out an irritated sigh when more alerts popped up on the screen.

"I think I can fix that," Raf said as he went to pick up his backpack. "Really?" Ratchet scoffed, "you know this is complex technology, don't you? I mean it isn't a child's toy."

"Now try," Raf said once he finished typing into the system. Ratchet looked at the screen as the alerts disappeared in a flash. He looked back at Raf, surprised.

◊◊◊◊

At the Decepticon mine, the Autobots had fought a few more drones before they all transformed into their vehicle forms and drove through the mine. "Maximum overdrive," Optimus advised. The other Autobots sped up at their leader's advice and once they got to their next destination, they transformed into their bipedal forms and hid behind some crates.

Bulkhead whistled in admiration, "quite the operation." Unfortunately, the drones heard him and started to fire at the Autobots.

"You just had to whistle!" Firestorm said to Bulkhead as he fired back at the drones.

◊◊◊◊

"Blood of Unicron, how might I fathom of the depths of your mystery? Become worthy of wielding your astonishing power?" Megatron said to himself as he stood in front of a glass tank that had the dark energon inside.

"Lord Megatron, the Autobots have been detected in the mines," Starscream said as he appeared on a small screen. "Optimus?" Megatron said.

"Indeed," the Seeker nodded. "I need more time to prepare an appropriate reception for my old friend. Ready the ship for departure," Megatron said.

"But the energon I've mined- the Autobots will seize it!" Starscream exclaimed. "Then blow the mines," Megatron snapped.

◊◊◊◊

The Autobots shot at the drones. Something caught Arcee's optic and she looked closer. She saw Cliff's body. "It's Cliff! I have a visual," she said.

"We'll cover you," Primrose said, "go!" Arcee vaulted herself over the boxes she had been using for cover and transformed, racing up a ramp and launching herself high into the ring supports of the lift. She grabbed a beam and landed the ring attached to it. She ran around the ring and launched herself off a different beam, grabbing a thinner ring and swinging herself on top of it. She jumped off that ring onto the lower lip of the platform Cliffjumper was on. She pulled herself over the edge of the platform to him.

Acree gasped at Cliff's half-bodied form leaking energon. She shielded herself from incoming blasts from two drones on a higher platform. The section of platform Cliffjumper was on started to fall. "Cliff!" She yelled. She jumped to his falling body and caught his servo. She pulled him partly up, struggling from the bad leverage, his weight, and the fact that the Cons were still shooting at her.

Optimus and Primrose fired on them and took them out. Arcee shielded her face from some falling rocks. She then looked down at Cliffjumper. "Let's get you home partner." She said but to her shock, when Cliff looked up at her, he started growling at her. Arcee recoiled and he struggled against her, ending up tearing her grip from his servo. She continued reaching for him as he fell down the shaft.

"No!" Primrose shouted. Optimus looked to Arcee who let out a breath of defeat. A laugh got their attention. It was Starscream.

"Prime!" He snapped, "I'd stick around but I'm squeamish." With that, the Seeker dropped an explosive charge at the bottom of the mine before he leapt off the platform, transformed into his aerial form and took off.

"The joint's gonna blow!" Bulkhead shouted. "Autobots, roll out!" Optimus ordered.

Arcee jumped down from the platform as she and the others transformed into their vehicle forms and sped down the mine just as the bomb went off and it exploded, igniting the energon around it and sending a fireball many hundreds of feet in the air over the mine shaft. The explosion was gaining on the Autobots fast.

"Ratchet, bridge us back! Use the arrival coordinates now!" Optimus ordered. The ground bridge opened in front of them. Each Autobot drove into the bridge and into the base. Optimus drove into the base just before the bridge closed, the Prim transforming into his bipedal form and he stopped himself from skidding into the others.

"Whoa," Jack, Miko, Raf and Paige gasped in astonishment. "Cutting it a bit close," Ratchet said, "how about Cliffjumper?"

The Autobots looked away. Miko ran over to the railing, "what was that explosion? Was there a fight? Can I come with next time!?"

"Miko!" Paige hissed. Arcee gave a low growl, "look." "H-hey," Jack said quickly, nervously as he placed his hand on Miko's shoulder, "Miko, let's go see what the Bots hide in their sock drawers."

"Seriously?" Miko asked, raising an eyebrow as she and the boy walked away from the railing.

"Arcee, what did you see?" Optimus asked. Arcee wrapped her arms around herself as she looked away.

"Not Cliff," she said, "at least... not anymore. He was mutated- butchered. S-something from those Con experiments during War." Her optics nearly rolled to the back of her helm and she fell back, leaning on a nearby crate for support.

"Are you okay?" Bumblebee asked, worriedly as he came over to her. "I'm fine, just... dizzy," Arcee said.

"Robots who get dizzy?" Miko said. "Robots with emotions," Raf said. "Robots... who can die," Paige said.

Arcee sat on the crate as Ratchet scanned her. The scan turned red before the medic saw something. "What is this?" He asked as he saw purple substance on Arcee's servo.

"Don't know," Arcee said wearily, "Cliff was covered in it. Leaking it." Ratchet lightly scraped the substance off of Arcee's servo, "go take a decontamination bath. Now."

Firestorm helped Arcee up and the two went over to the decontamination showers.

"Optimus, I hate to interrupt but... no bars," Jack said, holding his phone.

"A security precaution," Optimus said, "the silo walls isolate all radio waves."

"Well if I don't call my mom, like now, I'm pretty sure the cops are going to be out looking for me," Jack said. "Have you broken a law?" Optimus asked.

"It's curfew Optimus," Paige said with a small smile, "it's after 10:00 P.M. and my parents will be worried."

"I better get home too," Raf sighed, "or I'll be grounded for a year." "Earth customs," Optimus said, "I hadn't considered. But the issue of your safety remains." He looked to Bulkhead, "Bulkhead, accompany Miko home."

"Awesome! My host parents will freak!" Miko said excitedly. "And maintain covert surveillance in vehicle form," Optimus said.

"Curbside duty," Bulkhead chuckled, "got it." This earned a groan of disappointment from Miko.

"Bumblebee, you'll watch over Raf," Optimus said. Bumblebee looked to Raf who smiled at him.

Optimus turned to Ratchet, "Ratchet-" "Busy," the medic said, his back to the others. Arcee walked out of the decontamination shower.

"Arcee, you'll accompany Jack," Optimus said. Jack tensed up a little.

Arcee sighed, "still dizzy." Paige giggled, earning a smile from Arcee.

"You're fine, says your physician," Ratchet said. Arcee let out a heavy sigh. Optimus looked to Paige, "Paige, I will accompany you home."

Paige looked up at Optimus and gave a small nod. She fiddled with diamond-shaped necklace that had a red ruby inside of it. The Prime transformed into his vehicle form and she walked over to him. When she climbed into the passenger side of his vehicle form, she closed the door and he drove out of the base and into the streets of Jasper, Nevada.

◊◊◊◊

"Arcee, I'm really sorry for your loss," Jack started tentatively.

"What could you possibly know about loss?" Arcee asked coldly.

"What? You think you're the only one with problems?" Jack retorted, which caused Arcee to transform and to glare at Jack very hard.

"I'm not sure girl trouble counts," Arcee shot back dangerously.

"I'm pretty sure my girl troubles started the night I met you!" Jack scoffed before they saw another car roll up onto the driveway.

"'Cons!" Arcee gasped as she activated her blasters.

"No! Mum!" Jack corrected as he ran out to stall her for as long as he could. Arcee blinked before she transformed back into her vehicle form.

"Jack?" June Darby said as she climbed out of the car.

"Mum! Don't freak! I can explain!" Jack promised his mother.

"Can you?" June asked before approaching the motorcycle, "Jackson Darby, we talked about this." "I know. And-."

"You don't know!" June cut her son off, "I worry about you enough when you're not here. Now I have to worry about you driving a motorcycle?"

"I'm 16! I can't be driving a ten-speed forever!" Jack retorted. "How did you afford this?" June demanded.

"It's used," Jack said, "it's abused, really. Needs a ton of repairs, but the point is I may have been a kid when I bought this, but I'm not anymore. You always tell me to make responsible choices. Well I chose her. And I'll be responsible! I promise."

"Her?" June asked with a slight smile, "I didn't think you'd be bringing girls home just yet." "I'd like to think she brought me," Jack said with a sheepish smile.

"Well I'm glad you finally have a reason to wear your helmet every single time you ride," June said with a soft sigh, "you will take me for a spin every once in a while?"

"We'll see," Jack said as he and his mom went into the house, "she's kinda temperamental."

◊◊◊◊

"Optimus," Paige said as she walked over to the Peterbilt, "you up?"

"I am awake," the Prime said, "is something wrong?" "No," Paige said, "I just can't sleep." She climbed into the Prime's vehicle form and leaned back against the seat.

"My parents are sleep," she said. "I see," Optimus hummed. The silence returned for a few moments.

"I'm sorry about Cliffjumper," Paige said, gripping the hems of her sweater sleeves, "I know- I feel like he and Arcee were partners- they were more than that. And to have that taken away from her... she's hurting." "Paige," Optimus said softly and he was alerted by the soft cries and whimpers.

She was crying. Paige was crying. Guilt and worry filled Optimus' spark. "You're all going through this war... all this pain," Paige whimpered, "I'm sorry I can't do anything. I'm sorry I'm so useless... I'm sorry I'm a nobody-"

"Stop that," Optimus said firmly, "you are not useless. You are not nothing. You are more than that. You are something more. You are strong just like the other children. I know it."

Paige looked at Optimus' steering wheel and she felt the Prime's seatbelt tighten a little in the form of a hug. Paige smiled weakly and she slowly fell asleep to the Prime's warmth.

◊◊◊◊

At the Darby residence, Arcee was revving her engine loudly. Jack opened the door, "shh! Are you crazy? You'll wake my mom!"

"Grab your helmet. It's go time," Arcee said. Jack groaned, "it's Saturday."

"You can watch cartoons back at base with Bumblebee and Primrose," Arcee said.

"Cartoons? I'm sixteen," Jack said with a tired frown. "And Paige is older than you," Arcee said, "leave a note for your mom. She worries."

"You think I don't know that?" Jack asked as he went back inside.

◊◊◊◊

Megatron was still standing before the Dark Energon, studying it, when Starscream entered the room. "I don't think you need worry about further Autobot interference, Master. Not with Optimus gone." Starscream reported arrogantly.

"And what evidence do you possess of this fact?" Megatron challenged.

"I destroyed the mine. As you instructed." Starscream reminded Megatron, who turned and didn't look convinced.

"Optimus is not so easily destroyed." The Decepticon leader stated. "We have millennia worth of battles behind us to prove it." He turned back to studying the Dark Energon.

"Maybe you should take a break, My Lord." Starscream advised. "I worry that too much contact with the Dark Energon might allow its properties to... adversely affect you."

"Or perhaps, Starscream, I have not permitted myself contact enough!" Megatron said before he ripped a shard from the large cluster of Dark Energon and held it up.

"Wait! Lord Megatron, no! Not your spark chamber! You do not know what it will do!" Starscream protested as he realized what his master was planning to do with the shard.

Megatron took no heed of Starscream's warning and stabbed himself directly in the spark chamber. He hunched over in pain, then straitened as a type of seizure overtook him. He screamed as his energon was transformed into Dark Energon and his eyes turned purple.

◊◊◊◊

Ratchet was analyzing the components of the purple substance he had scraped off of Arcee when it began having an ill effect on the femme. It confounded him. Not in all his years as a medic had he seen anything like this. He couldn't even recognize what it was.

"Hmm...the base elements of this...goo are like nothing I've ever encountered." He said to himself as he went over the data his computers had managed to provide. "It must be extremely concentrated to have affected Arcee so rapidly. Unfortunately, complete results are slow-coming without the use of proper diagnostic tools. Thank you very much, Bulkhead." Ratchet rambled as he removed the slide from the hard-drive.

As he did, he unknowingly spilt some of the substance onto the diagnostic tool that Bulkhead broke when Agent Fowler was there. It seeped its way into the very wiring of the machinery and glowed a bright purple for a brief moment before moaning and groaning and standing on its newly acquired legs. But Ratchet didn't notice. With its only instinct to destroy everything in its path, the revived machinery approached the nearest object to destroy.

[aethergate]

He's been staring at this theory for quite a while now... some of the words here are just starting to not look real. Maybe... just maybe it's time for that break.

[holy-mountaineering]

This spread is for the homie @-ziggans-

Here’s the full Qabalistic Tree of Life Spread that I do and here you are. What I’m going to do is go through and briefly explain each card, its position on the Tree, and then I’ll give you a summary/synopsis of the spread as a whole. You know the routine.

Think of this spread as a sort of quantum map, or even the land of a regular map, everything is happening at once, in each place. It’s important to think of yourself as moving “through” the map but you are also simultaneously everywhere at once. For the sake of this specific experiment, think of this as a map. Maybe as a person, the Qabalistic Adam Kadmon.

Where we’re starting the journey from is Kether, the monad, the first sign of creation. We’ll call this your hometown, since it is where you’re from originally. Here we have the 9 of Disks, Gain. 

This card screams that in the material world, if you build from what you know you will reap 3 fold rewards. The first formulation of a shape or 2-dimensions (the triangle, the 3 card) has in this card, been multiplied by itself. If you use methods you have already mastered, you have a much better chance of Gain-ing. Here Venus, Love, beauty, personal growth is in the fertile soil or possibility of Virgo. 

Build from what you know and put yer Venusian focus in the best possible options you have available in practical, familiar way.

In Chokmah, which is like your freeway getting you out onto the road out of  your hometown is XIX The Sun, Resh, Sol. 

The Sun is The Lord of Light and Life, the center of our little Solar System. Everything in the fairly large gravitational pull of the Sun is affected by it which pulls everything to it. If it weren’t for The Sun, nothing in our Solar System (named after Sol, The Sun Himself) would be where it is or nearly as well lit or full of life.

This more or less self sufficient little nuclear reactor in space gives life and light but also pulls small things which cannot maintain an orbit around it in for the final burn. bright and full of life and light but deal not with bullshit trifles. 

Center yourself but be aware of what you effect and how. Keep pumping out the power but make sure it’s that good good renewable energy.

In Binah, which is ruled by Saturn and for the sake of this reading we will call the first stop on your roadtrip. You haven’t really arrived anywhere but you’re stopping and getting a chance to repack your car in a more efficient way. Sitting in Binah is the ass-busting 3 of Disks, Works or Work or Working.

Like all the 3s, this is the first formulation of the suit,  Earth or material world things. The 3 sided pyramid pictured on this Tarot card sits on water propelled by Dharma Wheels, spinning and causing waves. The drive and energy of the warrior Mars has become stubborn and resolute in the goat-fish Capricorn.

This idea of work is not mindless toil. This is doing the very necessary things in your life so you don’t fuck yourself over on the basic things everyone needs to survive. This is formulating the most simple workable “shape of things” that gets your at least basic needs met so you can expand and become more than basic.

Put together a simple way of dealing with the material world, something that can be expanded on. Keep your wheels turning even if they feel like they’re just spinning. Make waves, they’ll go further and affect more than you think! 

In Chesed which is ruled by Jupiter and again for the sake of this experiment we’ll say involves your influence and benevolence in your current trip is the Prince of Wands, the airy part of Fire.

This is thinking about what you’re doing while you’re doing it. This is an “on the job training” experience. You’re in the midst of or have hurled yourself into an action that you have to be mindful of while you’re doing it.

Learn about what is going on in your life and your actions by paying attention while you’re moving along and accomplishing things. You might not have time to take it all in right now, but it is time to do the damn thing while the damn thing is happening.

Across the Tree in Geburah, which is Mars Town, where you find your drive and what you’re trying to accomplish/conquer is the Princess of Wands, the earthy part of Fire.

This is the material substance that comes from fuels action. Think of this: you have to make a fire because it is cold. You have a set amount of wood. You can make a big ass, bright ass fire that will leave you cold later that night when you’re out of wood, but jazzed while it’s happening. Or you can make a smaller, less exciting fire that will keep you warm all night.

There is also a message about the last step in any action is really to become the actions and to let them become you. When your very Earthly substance is in it, you are no longer doing you just are.

Don’t burn yourself out and exhaust your resources on what you’re tackling in life right now. Do this and you shall live to dance and party another night.

In Tiphareth, the Sun and center of gravity holding all this in place, the heart pumping the blood through this, your heart is the thing you MUST focus on, XVII The Star, Heh, Aquarius.

Despite its name making me think of water, Aquarius is an air sign. Aquarius the water-bearer is the vehicle for the water she is baring. The life giving water flows through her. It has been said that “Tzaddi is not the Star” and Crowley made it so in the Thoth deck. There is a mystery in this attribution of the Hebrew letter to this Tarot card that I will not go into. 

I read this card called the “Universal Principle of Self-Worth” or trusting yourself as the vehicle of transmission. Her gaze is toward her reflection in the cup above her and she is pouring through herself to the areas below herself.

Trust that you’re a worthy conduit to transmit what nourishes life. Trust that your shit is real and who you are makes you capable. That which is above wishes to come below through you.

In Netzach, Venus town, where you have the realization about how this is going to change you as a person with a personality is the 2 of Disks, Change. 

This is the old saying, “The only constant is change.” This is finding stability in the aforementioned changing. In other words, when stuff gets different, strap in and hold on, steady yourself, and get ready to go into the unknown. Look a bit before you leap but understand that position is king, not appearances. You’re building toward the unknown and pretending to know is not the kind of posturing you should bother with. Not looking for the result of the change, being in the motion, and enjoying, embracing the motion toward the unknown is where you should position yourself. 

Disks are Earth, matter, the material world, your everyday life and 2s are the suit trying to formulate into something from the rawness of the Aces or the beginning of the idea of Earth. Astrologically, the influential and expanding Jupiter is in the highs and lows of the Goat-Fish Capricorn, think rollercoaster, possibly one that goes underwater. And like rollercoasters, they’re scary but probably not going to be the cause of your death. Unless they go underwater, that sounds dangerous. This is a great time to be aware that you’re moving around and kind of always will be. Enjoy the twists and turns of the ride and don’t stress yourself about how and when it will end.

In Mercury Town Hod-ville, where all the Universities are and everyone has real intellectual shit going on is the 6 of Wands, Victory. 

This is organizing each action to interact with another to create friction at the intersections. 6s are like the idealized form of each of the suits, in this case FIRE or action, movement. Victory is achieved through strong organization. Here the strands come together to form the rope you pull yourself up with. Each piece is strong on it’s own but when you twist them together correctly you have a much better tool. 

Don’t do isolated things, use each action to build on your goals.

On the Moon in Yesod, the receptive and reflective place that is alot about the feelings that you’re picking up from all this is the 8 of Cups, Indolence.

This is emotional stagnancy and “half fulfilled” desires. The structure and order of Saturn is pulled in two directions by Pieces. The waters have become still and a storm is on the horizon. It has been noted that the cups pictured in the card look an awful lot like ashtrays. It’s that shitty.

Try to begin to focus on emotional areas that haven’t received much attention lately unless you want them getting washed out in the storms coming. You must choose what to do in regards to moving forward emotionally or in a relationship that has become stagnant.

Down here in Malkuth-istan, the everyday life mundane, waking up pooping, and going to work world is the ever opening, III The Empress, Daleth, Venus.

Daleth is the open door, like you’d leave your bedroom door unlocked if your lover were coming over, you want them inside (pun sort of intended). This is not passivity but waiting for the spring (or Aries her partner IV The Emperor) to energize what you have. Like the symbolic Pelican (phoenix also) spitting its breast open to feed its young, or like a pregnant person, the brunt of the responsibility for your future growth lies in you. 

Be ready and prepared for new growth like springtime, but remember, this all hinges on you and your openness to growth.

So, we’re starting from a place of having multiplied what you know how to do in your regular money making life, with good-ass results. Doing this has put you in a place where you can finally take some time and focus on number 1 (not that you should think of yourself as more important than those in your orbit, it’s just that you are you and they are not, so gas up your car not theirs?) and study those celestial bodies sataliting about you, exemplifying, juxtaposing and uniting you with your cosmic neighborhood, so to speak. And the news is that you should stick with what you know because apparently that skill is well formulated and consistently produces good results that benefit you and that community around you.

Now, as far as you influencing your world, uh, well, you’re not very used to having a say in what goes on around you, but as you’re given more responsibility, you’re going to have to really learn on the fly and learn to pace yourself so you don’t just burn up and out. And that’s ‘cause ya need to be focusing on how cool you are and how you are totally trustworthy and can deal with all this stuff your way (since it is coming through you anyway) and all this new responsibility is something you can handle. 

While you change and grow as a person, just realize that you’re always slowly shifting that, right now it is noticeable because that change is extra pronounced, but again, it’s not anything “new” or unmanageable. Part of the ”new new” is thinking about your actions/the tasks you’re responsible for are all building on each other to make one big whole thing. The sum being greater than the whole of its parts. Speaking of sums and parts, you need to work on surrounding yourself with people and energy that are fulfilling emotional and “connective” areas of your life you’ve been neglecting, these higher connections and emotions have been  wholesale left to rot on the vine and it is time to pick those fruits, they are done ripening, now you gotta do something with them and ignoring those Watery areas will just leave you all dry and dusty. That being said, the answer to “HOW I DO THAT” is just being open to the experience/possibility/persons as they arrive into your life. Don’t seek after it, it will come to you and know exactly how to activate you and get the blood pumping again and everywhere!

Ta Da another successful Tarot reading for you. Let me know how you wanna proceed with the further readings.

Hit me up with any questions, of course!

-Frater N0vght

[peanutsdaddy]

PT. 2

@4fucking20-princess

Last time on the many mishaps decorating Noe's body, I was rushed to one hospital only to find they've not the means to operate on me.

Onto UCI medical center.

Can't remember much from the initial arrival here.

I know my folks were informed that I need to be amputated.

My long time emo arch nemesis; the computer chair and I were fated to be short a limb.

Or not!

A miracle, which again, murky to me, occurred.

Vascular, orthopedic and plastic surgeons all United under one cause. A slab of primetime surgery. Over the course of my 9 days, 7 in critical and 2 in ordinary hah recovery, a total of 12 surgeries. An additional cosmetic surgery born of insecurity 6 months later for a total of 13, but that's later.

Exactly how hey boogied while I was under anesthesia. I just know it.

Perhaps a couple essays of details but nah so!

First 3 days had me with my arm open.The 2 scars you saw on my forearm on the prior post. It was kept open. Unsealed. Ice packs or something that would stick directly on my sensory nerves. I mention that specifically.

Every 2 hours, the packs would need to be changed...

Imagine duct tape on your skin being peeled off. Except being doped up on morphine and still feeling one of the more excruciating pains the body will entertain. Directly on those nerves inside my arm, straight at the source of where pain is transmitted!!!!!!

Ouch.

Luckily me and pain are good friends and I react well.

Anyhow, again, I digress, often!

Orthopedics fixed the bone, placed a plate in my arm. Still there.

Vascular transplanted a vein from my leg into my arm.

Inside it's all rearranged, from the vein structure to muscle even. It's a tad odd.

Plastic surgeons, graphed skin from my thigh to make it all pretty.

Except! It wasn't.

Originally the scar on my outer forearm looked like fish skin. Mad ugly.

Note this all took place two weeks prior to 8th grade.

I recovered in time for high school.

Intense physical therapy because I couldn't treat myself like a normal functional person in recovery. I needed to be in excellent health. Low-key the prologue to my fitness-nut days.

I wore a sleeve on my left arm plus my bionic iron Man arm which I tossed halfway through my first day of school.

So much insecurity about my arm, always covering it up and the sort.

Eventually received surgery to make it smaller, now what you see in the previous images.

I'm retrospective before the final cosmetic surgery, it looked like a shark bite. Pretty cool really. I'd tell younger me not to sweat it and keep it.

Also the best part.

Half a year before this incident my folks and I were in a car accident on the freeway. That's another story.

What we earned from that incident was able to cover the crazy expenses from all this. It came full circle.

And that's that. I left out my hospital adventures, the House(medical show) like days in critical condition where a doctor and their students would assess me regularly, multiple times a day in a House like fashion. My reputation and the rumors spurred about me in my tenor there.

Left out the impact on my mental health as a whole both in sickness, recovery and eventual full health. Family impact and friends and wow, a lot happened. A girlfriend due to miscommunication, new friends in my recovery, sheesh. That's well, if you'd like to talk about it ahaha

That's my shindig on the scar on my arm so as to satisfy your query about it.

On that note I've more surgical scars from prior happenings and another from last year's happenings.

Scars, constellations across this cosmic body of mine 😁👑

[gemmeatelier]

A very cool and wise lady I’ve just met read me this poem the other day- We have come to be danced Not the pretty dance Not the pretty pretty, pick me, pick me dance But the claw our way back into the belly Of the sacred, sensual animal dance The unhinged, unplugged, cat is out of its box dance The holding the precious moment in the palms Of our hands and feet dance. We have come to be danced Not the jiffy booby, shake your booty for him dance But the wring the sadness from our skin dance The blow the chip off our shoulder dance. The slap the apology from our posture dance. We have come to be danced Not the monkey see, monkey do dance One two dance like you One two three, dance like me dance but the grave robber, tomb stalker Tearing scabs and scars open dance The rub the rhythm raw against our soul dance. We have come to be danced Not the nice, invisible, self-conscious shuffle But the matted hair flying, voodoo mama Shaman shakin’ ancient bones dance The strip us from our casings, return our wings Sharpen our claws and tongues dance The shed dead cells and slip into The luminous skin of love dance. We have come to be danced Not the hold our breath and wallow in the shallow end of the floor dance But the meeting of the trinity, the body breath and beat dance The shout hallelujah from the top of our thighs dance The mother may I? Yes you may take 10 giant leaps dance The olly olly oxen free free free dance The everyone can come to our heaven dance. We have come to be danced Where the kingdom’s collide In the cathedral of flesh To burn back into the light To unravel, to play, to fly, to pray To root in skin sanctuary We have come to be danced WE HAVE COME. -Jewel Mathieson (at The Cosmic Freeway) https://www.instagram.com/p/CLZMuVYhi-5/?igshid=4vylhgger34i

[witchymarvelspacecase]

An Enemy on the One Hand: Pt 3.

Summary: (Reader Insert - Soulmate AU/Enemy AU) The universe determined your soulmate and enemy at birth, giving you one hint for each; their initials on one of your wrists. BUt what happens if BOTH sets of initials are for the same person? Set during CA:CW

Word Count: 2109

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of violence, angst(ish), CA:CW spoilers (but seriously, what are you DOING here if you haven’t seen that yet?)

A/N: Okay, I’m taking a stab at this. I wanna thank @writingwithadinosaur (as usual) for helping me with EVERYTHING EVER, and being totally fabulous! And @imhereforbvcky for encouraging me to try in the first place.

I tagged everyone who liked/reblogged/commented on the announcement post cause I am a needy bitch, I need validation! But I am MORE than happy to add OR remove you if you’d like.

An Enemy on the One Hand Masterlist

Updated: 8/20/18

It was two years before you felt anything again.

In that time, you’d been on countless missions and made a place for yourself among the Avengers. You’d met Wanda and Pietro, and you were in the room when Vision was “born”. You fought against Ultron, and saved thousands of lives, including Pietro’s. You’d flown in at just the right moment and managed to knock Clint, the child he was protecting, and Pietro out of the way of the bullets. Wanda, Pietro, and Clint had become your closest friends; Natasha pretended to be put out about it, but she was happy that you had fit into the family so well.

Tony had needed a lot of help after Ultron. Since Bruce was AWOL, Tony had taken all of the blame for their creation, and though he honestly felt that it was all his fault, the blame sat very heavily on his shoulders. Tony seemed to harbor a lot of self-hatred, and Ultron just gave him another reason for the hate. He covered his hate in jokes and sarcasm, but if you waited long enough, you could find him in his broken moments; moments where he’d lose his facade.

Natasha had needed help too, but she was as shielded about it as Tony. Neither of them wanted to talk, to anyone, but you’d managed to get them to open up, if only a little.

Tony was easier. If you could catch him in the kitchen at about 4:30 in the morning making his umpteenth cup of coffee, and you just happened to be awake, you could get him to talk. It was easier for him if it seemed like a coincidence, although judging by the small smile that spread across his face when he saw you every morning, he was aware that your early morning trips to the kitchen were for him.

You wore down Natasha over time. She already trusted you, but she never allowed herself to really have problems. Like Tony, she accepted fault and blame because she felt she deserved it. Not because of self-hatred like Tony, but because she felt that due to the bad things she had been taught to do, due to the “red in her ledger”, she deserved whatever came her way. It was like she thought that she should have to live with the guilt and hatred as some sort of atonement for the wrongs she’d committed. As if she felt that in order to balance the cosmic scales, she had to suffer. Bruce leaving had hurt her; not because she loved him, (because as she’d say “love is for children”) but because he had needed her.  She had been necessary. Even if it was just for the lullabies, she had been needed. Need and want were different things though. You did your best to convince her that even if she didn’t feel especially needed, she was definitely wanted.

Then came the “Accords” situation. Tony and Natasha’s feelings of guilt drove them to support the restrictions that the accords imposed. Rhodey and Vision sided with them as well. Wanda was in no state to make a decision either way; she still felt incredibly guilty about what had happened with the recent bomb incident. You, Pietro, and Steve had done your best to reassure her, but you could tell she still felt the blame. Ross blaming her outright for not only that incident, but several past incidents as well, hadn’t helped. You’d had to physically restrain Pietro, who’d wanted to throttle Ross for upsetting his sister; you had to debate whether or not to let him.

You had been present at the meeting in Vienna, not to sign the accords, but to show unity among the Avengers, even if it was just for appearances sake. You’d been relatively close to the blast, but avoided most of the shrapnel.

Steve called you as soon as you left the building. “You okay?”

“Well, I’ve definitely been better, but I got off pretty easy.”

“They’re claiming Bucky did it.” Your head was still ringing from the blast, so it took you a moment to process what Steve had just said, but when you did, you had an instant response.

“Couldn’t have,” you coughed into the phone, “I didn’t feel anything.”

“What?” Steve asked. You coughed hard several times, clearing your throat before speaking again.

“I didn’t feel anything, Steve. He couldn’t have been here. I would have felt something.” Either of your marks would have burned if Bucky or the Winter Soldier had been present, even if he wasn’t in the building. You’d felt nothing.

Steve exhaled heavily before responding. He gave you an address to meet up with him and Sam. You hung up just as Nat approached you.

“You okay?” she asked, repeating Steve’s words.

“My head’s still ringing, and I imagine my makeup is a wreck, but I’m good. You?”

She raised her eyebrows a little, but nodded. She opened her mouth to speak, but her phone rang.

After a few seconds, you realized that Steve was on the other end of the line, and you took your moment to escape. If Nat had seen you leaving the scene, she would have followed you. Natasha didn’t have the marks, whether they’d never appeared on her wrists or they’d been removed somehow by the Red Room, you didn’t know. You only knew that she was a skeptic when it came to the marks. She likely wouldn’t have listened to what you had to say about your marks. So you snuck away.

…

Steve and Sam were remarkably close by. You called them from your car instead of going inside the bar that they were hiding in. The car was from Embassy, you’d removed the tracker, but you hoped to switch cars soon.

“You look like shit,” Sam observed as he Steve climbed into borrowed sedan.

“Thanks for noticing. This is my ‘I just got blown up’ look,” you said, not really caring about his sarcasm. You knew you were bleeding through your shredded clothes. “Where are we headed?”

“Do you have a change of clothes with you? Your gear?” Steve asked.

“Yes, it’s in the trunk. I don’t have all of my gear; most of it’s still at the compound.”

“I grabbed what you had in the locker room,” Sam said, “we just gotta stop and pick it up.”

“Awesome. We also need to ditch this car. It’s the Embassy’s. I removed the tracker, but it’ll still be pretty easy to find.” The guys nodded.

You left the car and picked up the gear while Steve found an alternative vehicle. Once you changed into your gear, you put on the loose fitting sweatshirt and joggers that you’d had in the trunk of the embassy car. They weren’t fashionable, but they hid the leather and spandex of your tactical gear, which would have drawn quite a bit of attention. Not that fashion should have been one of your worries; Steve’s idea of a “low profile car” was a rusty old volkswagen.

...

“Can this thing even go freeway speeds?” you asked. It had been hours since you’d squished yourself into the back seat of the VW and your cuts and bruises were throbbing, and your ass was numb.

“Barely,” Sam grumbled from the passenger seat. Steve elected to ignore both of you, so you asked a different question.

“Where are we going anyway?”

“Bucharest.”

“So another 3 hours then,” you sighed, scrunching yourself back into the seat, trying to get comfortable.

“Just about,” Steve replied, looking at you in the rearview mirror, “Are you sure okay?”

“Just scrapes and bruises, Cap; I’ll be fine. I’m more worried about Bucky.” And what could happen to him if the others got to him first…

The rest of the drive was uncomfortably silent.

…

Bucky had made a life for himself; a small one, but one of his own. He had an apartment that he’d sparsely decorated, and a kitchen that appeared to be well used. The windows were all covered, but inside the one room space, you could see a personality coming through. Steve found a journal filled with notes, memories and thoughts that Bucky must have jotted down whenever he remembered something. The covers and pages were worn, but not damaged, as if he opened and leafed through it often, like he would read through his notes to remind himself of who he was and where he came from.

He was rebuilding; you felt hope spreading in your heart. You also felt a slight burning on your right wrist. It started to burn just a little, but the temperature increased as Bucky got closer to the building, and eventually headed to his room. When he opened the door, Steve was the first person he saw.

Steve asked if Bucky knew who he was, and Bucky seemed to avoid the question, saying he saw the exhibit at the museum.

Slowly, you stepped into Bucky’s line of sight. “Do you remember me? We met in D.C. a while ago.”

“Yeah, I remember you.” His eyes darted from you to Steve, then back to you, and you saw his right wrist twitch.

“Remember what I said about your wrist?” you asked. Your wrist wasn’t burning anymore, it was more of a tingle now.

Bucky nodded in response before meeting Steve’s eyes, “I wasn’t in Vienna. I don’t do that anymore.”

“We know you weren’t there,” you said quickly, drawing his attention back to you, “but people who think you were are on their way here. And they’re not planning on taking you alive.”

“That’s smart. Good strategy,” Bucky deadpanned. Your heart squeezed; he really didn’t value his life much did he?

Bucky and Steve were still talking, but Sam called a breach and a grenade flew through the window a moment later.

Everything after that seemed to pass in a blur. Bucky said he wasn’t gonna kill anyone, and aside from some rather devastating blows, he appeared to keep that promise. Then he was jumping off the building, and landing on the roof of the building across the street. It was an easy leap for you, with your powers, and you landed just in time to tackle a man who was wearing what looked like a black cat costume, who had almost been within reach of Bucky. Landing with a thud, the man rolled to his feet very quickly and he was off after Bucky again, attacking him with sharp claws that protruded from the fingertips of his suit. He swiped quite close to Bucky’s face and you tackled him again. Bucky managed to escape the roof and headed for the nearby freeway underpass. You weren’t able to hold off the attacker for long, but while he was fast on his feet, you could fly.

You caught up to Bucky as he ran down the highway, against traffic. You were just behind him when the cat-man caught your leg and threw you to the ground. Hissing in pain, you rolled to your hands and knees. As Bucky sped away from you, your wrist began to burn again. When he had been near you, it had been a tingle, but as he moved farther away it became a burn.  

There were puncture wounds around your calf, and you were pretty sure your shoulder was dislocated, not to mention all of the wounds you already had from the bombing that were now reopened and bleeding freely. The guys had left you in the dust, but as you closed in on them, all you saw was flashing blue lights. As you got closer, the burning lessened again, not that you noticed much, you were much too preoccupied by the scene in front of you. Sam, Steve, Bucky and their attacker were all surrounded by armed officers, and Rhodey in his full War Machine suit.

You kept to the shadows, wanting to avoid notice, but you needed to know what was going on, and where the boys were being taken.

Berlin, as it turned out.

Exhaustion threatened, but you knew that you needed to beat the transport to its destination if you were going to be of any help to the guys.

You had to be able to make Natasha, and anyone else there, believe that you hadn’t had anything to do with what just happened in Bucharest; otherwise, the guys didn’t stand a chance of getting out. So, shoulder throbbing, you launched into the air and headed for Berlin. You had to stop in Vienna on the way there though to grab your things; it wouldn’t do to leave anything behind.

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[pablopunkasso]

C, J, R, Z?

c - who I like, and why I like them.

this one is difficult to answer as my emotions are currently scattered all over the place ! for now I will say n/a…

j - what I want to be when I get older.

happy. but career-wise, I want to be a graphic designer or go into either animation or marketing. something along those lines! however, my true dream would be to open my own café/coffeehouse and promote local art but that’s much less likely !

r - favorite song at the moment.

I think i’d say my favorite song this week/month so far is “cosmic freeway” by yeek // ft. max of homestead. I’ve just been… really feeling it, the lyricism moves me and I feel really connected to it rn.

z - how are you?

I’ve certainly been better ! but I’ve also certainly been worse so I can’t complain too much. life feels like it’s moving too fast and I feel really mentally, emotionally, and socially drained. things will look up though soon i’m sure..

ask away !

[whisperthatruns]

Knoxville, December 27, 2016, for Marilyn Kallet’s 70th birthday. This poem was constructed to carry any memory you want to hold close.

We

arrived

when the days

grew legs of night.

Chocolates were offered.

We ate latkes for hours

to celebrate light and friends.

We will keep going despite dark

or a madman in a white house dream.

Let’s talk about something else said the dog

who begs faithfully at the door of goodwill:

a biscuit will do, a voice of reason, meat sticks — 

I dreamed all of this I told her, you, me, and Paris — 

it was impossible to make it through the tragedy

without poetry. What are we without winds becoming words?

Becoming old children born to children born to sing us into

love. Another level of love, beyond the neighbor’s holiday light

display proclaiming goodwill to all men who have lost their way in the dark

as they tried to find the car door, the bottle hidden behind the seat, reason

to keep on going past all the times they failed at sharing love, love. It’s weak they think — 

or some romantic bullshit, a movie set propped up behind on slats, said the wizard

of junk understanding who pretends to be the wise all-knowing dog behind a cheap fan.

It’s in the plan for the new world straining to break through the floor of this one, said the Angel of

All-That-You-Know-and-Forgot-and-Will-Find, as she flutters the edge of your mind when you try to

sing the blues to the future of everything that might happen and will. All the losses come tumbling

down, down, down at three in the morning as do all the shouldn’t-haves or should-haves. It doesn’t matter, girl —

I’ll be here to pick you up, said Memory, in her red shoes, and the dress that showed off brown legs. When you met

him at the age you have always loved, hair perfect with a little wave, and that shine in your skin from believing what was

impossible was possible, you were not afraid. You stood up in love in a French story and there fell ever

a light rain as you crossed the Seine to meet him for café in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. You wrote a poem beneath the tender

skin from your ribs to your hip bone, in the slender then, and you are still writing that song to convince the sweetness of every

bit of straggling moonlight, star and sunlight to become words in your mouth, in your kiss — that kiss that will never die, you will all

ways fall in love. It doesn’t matter how old, how many days, hours, or memories, we can fall in love over and over

again. The Seine or Tennessee or any river with a soul knows the depths descending when it comes to seeing the sun or moon stare

back, without shame, remorse, or guilt. This is what I remember she told her husband when they bedded down that night in the house that would begin

marriage. That house was built of twenty-four doves, rugs from India, cooking recipes from seven generations of mothers and their sisters,

and wave upon wave of tears, and the concrete of resolution for the steps that continue all the way to the heavens, past guardian dogs, dog

after dog to protect. They are humble earth angels, and the rowdiest, even nasty. You try and lick yourself like that, imagine. And the Old

Woman laughed as she slipped off her cheap shoes and parked them under the bed that lies at the center of the garden of good and evil. She’d seen it all. Done it

more than once. Tonight, she just wanted a good sleep, and picked up the book of poetry by her bed, which was over a journal she kept when her mother was dying.

These words from May Sarton she kept in the fourth room of her heart, “Love, come upon him warily and deep / For if he startle first it were as well / to bind a fox’s

throat with a gold bell /As hold him when it is his will to leap.” And she considered that every line of a poem was a lead line into the spirit world to capture a

bit of memory, pieces of gold confetti, a kind of celebration. We all want to be remembered, even memory, even the way the light came in the kitchen

window, when her mother turned up the dial on that cool mist color 
of a radio, when memory crossed the path of longing and took 
mother’s arm and she put down her apron

said, “I don’t mind if I do,” and they danced, you watching, as you began your own cache of remembering. Already you had stored the taste of mother as milk, father as a labor

of sweat and love, and night as a lonely boat of stars that took you into who you were before you slid through the hips of the story. There are no words when you cross the

gate of forbidden waters, or is it a sheer scarf of the finest silk, or is it something else that causes you to forget. Nothing is ever forgotten says the god of remembering

who protects the heartbeat of every little cell of knowing from the Antarctic to the soft spot at the top of this planetary baby. Oh baby, come here, let me tell you the story

of the party you will never forget, no matter where you go, where you are, or where you will be when you cross the line and say, no more. No more greedy kings, no more disappointments, no more orphans,

or thefts of souls or lands, no more killing for the sport of killing. No more, no more, except more of the story so I will understand exactly what I am doing here, and why, she said to the fox

guardian who took her arm to help her cross the road that was given to the care of Natives who made sure the earth spirits were fed with songs, and the other things they loved to eat. They like sweets, cookies, and flowers.

It was getting late and the fox guardian picked up her books as she hurried through the streets of strife. But it wasn’t getting late. There was no late, only a plate of tamales on the counter waiting to be

or not to be. At this age, said the fox, we are closer to the not to be, which is the to be in the fields of sweet grasses. Wherever you are, enjoy the evening, how the sun walks the horizon before cross

sing over to be, and we then exist under the realm of the moon. There’s where fears slay us, in the dark of the howling mind. We all battle. Befriend them, the moon said as a crab skittered under her skirt, her daughter in

the high chair, waiting for cereal and toast. What a girl she turned out to be, a willow tree, a blessing to the winds, to her family. There she is married, and we start the story all over again, said her father

in a toast to the happiness of who we are and who we are becoming as Change in a new model sedan whips it down the freeway toward the generations that follow, one after another in the original

lands of the Mvskoke who are still here. Nobody goes anywhere though we are always leaving and returning. It’s a ceremony. Sunrise occurs everywhere, in lizard time, human time, or a fern uncurling time. We

instinctually reach for light food, we digest it, make love, art or 
trouble of it. The sun crowns us at noon. The whole earth is a queen. Then there are always goodbyes. At sunset say goodbye to hurt, to suffering, to the pain you caused others,

or yourself. Goodbye, goodbye, to Carrie Fisher, the Star Wars phenomenon, and George Michael, the singer. They were planets in our emotional universe. Some of my memories are opened by the image of love on screen in an

imagined future, or broken open when the sax solo of “Careless Whisper” blows through the communal heart. Yes, there’s a cosmic consciousness. Jung named it but it was there long before named by Vedic and Mvskoke scientists. And, there is

a cosmic hearteousness — for the heart is the higher mind and nothing can be forgotten there, no ever or ever. How do I sing this so 
I don’t forget? Ask the poets. Each word is a box that can be opened or closed. Then a train of words, phrases

garnered by music and the need for rhythm to organize chaos. Like right here, now, in this poem is the transition phase. I remembered it while giving birth, summer sun bearing down on the city melting asphalt but there we were, my daughter

and I, at the door between worlds. I was happier than ever before to welcome her, happiness was the path she chose to enter, and 
I couldn’t push yet, not yet, and then there appeared a pool of the 
bluest water. We waited there for a breath

to catch up, and then it did, and she took it that girl who was beautiful beyond dolphin dreaming, and we made it, we did, to the other side of suffering. This is the story our mothers tell but we couldn’t hear it in our ears stuffed with Barbie advertising,

with our mothers’ own loathing set in place by patriarchal scripture, the smothering rules to stop insurrection by domesticated slaves, or wives. It hurt everybody. The fathers cannot know what they are feeling in such a spiritual backwash. Worship

boxes set into place by the need for money and power will not beget freedom. Only warships. For freedom, freedom, oh freedom sang the slaves, the oar rhythm of the blues lifting up the spirits of peoples whose bodies were worn out, or destroyed by a man’s slash,

hit of greed. This is our memory too, said America. Heredity is a field of blood, celebration, and forgetfulness. Don’t take on more than you can carry, said the eagle to his twin sons, fighting each other in the sky over a fox, dangling between

them. It’s that time of the year, when we eat tamales and latkes. We light candles, fires to make the way for a newborn child, for fresh 
understanding. Demons will try to make houses out of jealousy, anger, 
pride, greed, or more destructive material. They place them in a

part of the body that will hold them: liver, heart, knee, or brain. So, my friend, let’s let that go, for joy, for chocolates made of ashes, mangos, grapefruit, or chili from Oaxaca, for sparkling wine from Spain, for these children who show up in our dreams and want to live at any cost because

we are here to feed them joy. Your soul is so finely woven the silkworms went on strike, said the mulberry tree. We all have mulberry trees in the memory yard. They hold the place for skinned knees earned by small braveries, cousins you love who are gone, a father cutting a watermelon in the summer on the porch, and a mother so in love that her heart breaks — it will never be the same, yet all memory bends to fit. The heart has uncountable rooms. We turn to leave here, and so will the hedgehog who makes a home next to that porch. We become birds, poems.

Joy Harjo, “Becoming Seventy”