#facade scaffolding

[tianjinwellmadescaffold]

Ladder Frame Scaffolding Manufacturing - H Frames - Wellmade China

[athenaismdb]

[focusonarchitecture]

Day 99 — Florence Cathedral I

Florence Cathedral, formally the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Flower, is one of the most iconic examples of Italian Gothic and early Renaissance architecture. Commenced in 1296 in the Gothic style to a design of Arnolfo di Cambio and structurally completed by 1436 with the dome engineered by Filippo Brunelleschi, the current facade (completed in the 19th century) is neo-Gothic, richly decorated with pink, green, and white marble. Its most distinctive feature – the dome — was engineered by Filippo Brunelleschi, and it revolutionised architectural design in the 15th century.

Brunelleschi’s dome (1420–1436) is a double-shell structure, meaning there's an inner and outer dome, connected by a network of ribs and horizontal rings. A marvel for its time, the dome was built without traditional wooden centering (scaffolding), using an innovative herringbone brick pattern that kept it self-supporting during construction. It became a model for later domes, including Michelangelo’s dome for St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. The dome was the largest in the world at its completion and remains the largest masonry dome ever built.

Photo: View from Giotto's Bell Tower, 1987

[pishifuzul]

things to ask yourself about gender as confusion—who is this accessible to? for whom is playing confusion a path to currency and desire, and for whom is it just further risk on top of risk? when you attribute the logic of confusion to someone else, a performance meant to mislead, what does this impose on their subjectivity? especially if that person is tma, already depicted as a facade without scaffolding or background? what's left when you strip that away with scarequotes? am I a "boy" or am I a boy? do I perform to confuse, or do I discover that others are confused and then make the best of the fact that I am unintelligible to anyone who hasn't had my tits in their mouth? think quickly; answer carefully.

[literary-illuminati]

2025 Book Review #22 – The Brides of High Hill by Nghi Vo

This is my second Hugo nominee for the year, and far more agreeable to me than the first. It’s also the fifth in the Singing Hills Cycle and, though it’s left behind basically all of the ambition and a large part of the structural distinctiveness of the first couple installments, otherwise a real return to form. Just a thoroughly enjoyable campfire tale.

Cleric Chih, itinerant monk and collector of histories and folklore to be recorded and preserved within the archives of the Singing Hills monastery, is once again out walking the earth. Specifically, they find themselves in a rather troubled region on the western frontier, falling in with a beautiful young bride and her family as they journey to the palatial estate of Do Cao. There, they fall into the role of the bride’s confidant and emotional support as she endures the days of feasting and negotiation involved with her betrothal to the rich and powerful (and two or three times older than her) Lord Guo. As one days fades into the next, Chih becomes increasingly, horrifyingly aware of just how many monsters are lurking behind porcelain masks.

This is actually quite a departure from the rest of the series in mood and tone – Chih’s adventures in prior books have been rather sedately paced and contemplative, and the cleric themselves has usually been more of a narrator or fly on the wall than a key part of the action (if they’re not mostly just there to provide a framing narrative for a different story entirely). By contrast, Brides – while still fairly sedately paced for a novella, and very concerned with atmosphere and aesthetics – is an extremely plotty little book. Especially compared with Mammoths at the Gate (the previous installment in the series), where the story was basically scaffolding to capture a particular snapshot of the grieving process, in Brides the most striking thing is how things just never stop happening. If anything it’s a bit overstuffed.

I personally found it a refreshing change of pace. Or, well – the way I have described this series to a friend is that Empress of Salt and Fortune was a film with thematic depth and real artistic ambition, whereas the books since have felt more like episodes of a fun and well-done episodic television serial. Trying to compare the two categories rather feels like missing the point. Both Empress and especially When the Tiger Came Down the Mountain (the second in the series) also did interesting things with framing narratives and unreliable narrators that the series has increasingly abandoned since. But compared to Riverlands and Mammoths I just straightforwardly enjoyed this far more as a reading experience.

It’s not quite a horror story, really, but it’s definitely something adjacent. A sense of eerie dislocation and looming dread, dark secrets hidden behind luxurious facades and monsters leering from every rooftop, an insane son raving about his father’s dark secrets and a too-good-to-be-true young bride – it’s all a bit reminiscent of a few different gothic horror stories piled on top of each other. Or not even gothic, really – you get the sense that any other women marrying Lord Guo would play out as essentially a pseudo-Chinese Bluebeard’s Bride. The exceptionally blood and indiscriminate karmic justice for all involved at the end really just seals the deal. I enjoyed it all immensely.

The book also has just an immense amount of fun with Chih’s own unreliable narration. They spend most of the story (literally) enchanted by the young bride, and so terribly besotted with her. The book conveys this by writing their narration like they’re the protagonist of a romance who hasn’t quite realized they’ve fallen in love with someone yet, and is instead just very preoccupied with any moment of context between them and their physical appearance, and interprets everything they do in the most indulgent possible light. It really did sell the effect quite well.

As I say every time I read one of these, they’re a really nice little episodic series and, if they’re going to keep up such a variety of tones and subjects, one I’ll happily continue reading for as long as Vo keeps writing them. You can theoretically start with any of them (though I would strongly recommend against doing so with Mammoth at the Gates, given how much it relies on you caring about Cleric Chih already), but honestly reading them in publication order is probably the best? That said i this is the only one you can get, fully recommended for anyone who likes more folktale-like fantasy.

[im4rmy]

☆06: you don't have enough boobs for that

← 吻 →

NCT 127's house, Seoul, 2019

Taeyong closed the office door once Mark had entered. "Have a seat," he invited, indicating the chair in front of the desk where Taejin was seated.

Mark's nerves were on edge. He was rarely summoned alone to the leaders' office, and it usually wasn't for good news. He sat down, trying to avoid Taejin's intense gaze: she was a striking woman, her face mesmerizing, and once caught in her stare, Mark knew he couldn't escape.

"Mark," Taejin sighed, folding her arms on the wooden desk, "we need to have a serious discussion."

Taeyong leaned against the desk, allowing his soulmate to speak: those two were incredible. They seldom displayed affection publicly, except in rare family moments when Taeyong couldn't help but show his true personality—the one of a 24-year-old in love. Nevertheless, the two halves were co-leaders; neither held more authority than the other, and responsibilities weighed equally on both their shoulders.

"Now that Jaemin has arrived, we're too many."

These were the words Mark feared the most: continually taking in strays couldn't go on forever. He knew that sooner or later, someone would have to leave. And it was obvious that the choice would fall on him; he was the one who could handle himself best among the younger members. He sighed and nodded. He saw Taeyong glance at the woman, a look Mark couldn't decipher.

"We're 17 now," Taejin continued. "NCT 127 are only 8," she stated, as if waiting for Mark to connect the dots.

The young man looked at her, puzzled. "You want to send them all away?" he asked, astonished.

Did they really want to abandon nine kids? Jisung and Chae weren't even of age yet. They couldn't do that.

"You can't—let me find a solution. Give me some time, and I'll find a way to take care of them," he asserted, standing up to emphasize his dismay.

A smirk appeared on the faces of those Mark could consider his parents. Taejin opened the side drawer of the desk and pulled out a key. She stood and handed it to Mark. "That's exactly what you'll be doing from now on, Mark."

The young man reached out and took the key, perplexed. "What is this?"

"Your new home. Yours and your team's," Taeyong interjected, unable to suppress a proud smile at seeing the shock on the younger man's face.

"M-My...?"

"Team, crew, gang. Call it what you want. You can even choose the name; of course, you'll still be a branch of NCT: you'll be a sort of... sub-group," Taeyong continued.

Before Mark could even grasp what was happening, Taejin spoke again. "You'll be the Leader; you'll manage all the members younger than you. Although, at first, you won't lift a finger without our approval, obviously."

"Good luck, Mark. We're sure you'll be an excellent Leader."

← 吻 →

Mark hadn't told anyone yet; he needed to process it himself first. But there was one person he would tell before the others.

"What is this dump?" Haechan asked, wrinkling his nose as he looked at the facade of a two-story house, the exterior plaster peeling, and the windows barely sealed.

Mark smiled as he inserted the key into the lock, taking a deep breath before entering his new home. He was bursting with excitement and anxiety. "This dump..." he emphasized, letting Haechan in and closing the door behind him, "is our new home."

Haechan stopped surveying the surroundings with his keen eyes and turned to look at the older boy. "What do you mean?"

Mark's smile lifted his cheeks as if held up by a scaffold. "Taeyong and Taejin have decided to entrust you all to me. We have our own team now."

Haechan's face remained impassive, but Mark knew the news had pleasantly surprised him. The younger boy took a step toward him. "You mean you have your own team now."

Mark's smile dimmed slightly. "Y-Yes, but you—you'll help me. You are—"

"Mark," the other interrupted.

The neo-leader responded with a panicked "mh".

"It's wonderful," he stated, looking him in the eyes and allowing a small smile to curve his lips.

Mark's eyes lit up with joy: being able to share this new beginning with Haechan filled him with gratitude. He was a special person in his life. Very special. He stepped closer, able to see the golden light hidden in the brown irises of his companion. He had looked into those eyes up close countless times, each as electrifying as the first. Mark hadn't met his soulmate yet, but being near Haechan filled his stomach with butterflies and his skin with chills. He didn't even know how to define it. Haechan was determined not to define it in any way. And when their lips met, all questions and uncertainties vanished from his mind, leaving room only for the scent of the boy in front of him, whose hands had slipped under his padded jacket. Mark surrendered to the sensations, shutting off his brain; he could only do that when he was with him. He still remembered the first time he had seen him: Taejin had saved him from a disastrous family situation. Well, actually, little Donghyuck had saved himself; he was only 12 years old. When Mark's eyes had met those of a boy with amber-colored skin and cheeks streaked with terrified tears, the older boy had sworn he felt the world turn upside down. Yet, he and Haechan were not soulmates. It hadn't been easy to accept; in fact, he wasn't sure he had accepted it.

Haechan pulled back slightly, observing his face from under dark lashes. "Stop it," he whispered, wishing only that the older boy would stop brooding over the same thing.

Mark's eyes filled with remorse and words of apology. Haechan understood and stepped back, returning to examine the new environment. Even though he was a master at hiding any emotion, Mark knew that this situation was a mess for him too.

They would find a solution.

← 吻 →

NCT D's house, Seoul, 2020

“Hurry up, hurry the fuck up!” Mark barked, holding the infirmary door open.

Jeno and Haechan rushed inside, carrying a barely conscious Jisung between them, and hurried toward the table at the center of the room. Everything had been going so smoothly—too smoothly. Until that bastard had come out of nowhere and stabbed Jisung in the side.

Mark was sweating. This was the first time they had to deal with an injury like this, and panic was creeping in fast. He had only been leading the NCT D for seven months, and he was already about to lose one of his members. He felt like a failure.

“Mark!” Haechan’s voice snapped him out of his spiraling thoughts. “This is not the time to lose it,” he warned, locking eyes with him.

The Leader took a deep breath and turned to Jaemin, the newest addition to the team. “Jaemin, it’s your time to shine. Jeno, call Jungwoo—he’s gonna need some help.”

Jaemin’s hands trembled slightly as he pulled on latex gloves, while Jeno quickly dialed the medic from NCT 127. A sharp cry pulled everyone’s attention back to the boy lying on the operating table—or, well, the makeshift one. The table barely had enough space to hold Jisung’s long legs.

“Hyung, it—hurts like hell,” Jisung gasped.

Mark stepped closer and took the younger boy’s hand. “Hang in there, kid,” he murmured, letting Jisung squeeze his fingers as tightly as he needed.

“Okay, we’re set,” Jeno announced, angling his phone to give Jungwoo a clear view of the bleeding wound on the other end of the video call.

“Jaemin, step one,” Jungwoo instructed in between bites of something.

Wait—was he eating?

“Sterilization,” Jaemin answered confidently, though the faint shake in his voice betrayed his nerves.

“Good.”

Jaemin glanced at Jeno and Haechan. “Hold him down,” he ordered, grabbing a pair of scissors and cutting away what was left of Jisung’s shredded tank top.

Once he was sure the injured boy wouldn’t accidentally knock him out with a stray kick—Haechan had his shoulders pinned while Jeno secured his legs—Jaemin picked up a bottle of disinfectant and poured it directly onto the wound, flushing out the blood.

Jisung let out a strangled scream, his torso muscles going rigid.

“Step two.”

“Anesthetic,” Jaemin continued, growing steadier with each word.

He filled a syringe with morphine and positioned it just above the torn flesh. Shit, the wound was deep.

“That needle is huge,” Jisung choked out, eyes wide.

Jaemin ignored him. “Stay as still as you can. This should help.” He pressed the needle in and administered the dose.

Jisung cursed under his breath but held onto the last remnants of adrenaline in his veins. He still couldn’t believe what had happened. And he couldn’t believe Mark had left Chae behind.

“Hyung,” he called out, desperate for something—anything—to focus on other than Jaemin threading a surgical needle. “Chae—she’s still there.”

“She’s not alone,” Mark answered curtly, making no effort to reassure him.

Jisung grabbed the front of his Leader’s shirt. “You left her there! You have to go back!” he growled.

Mark’s eyes widened at the fury in his gaze. “I have to stay here with you—”

“You’re no use here! You need to go to them!” Jisung snapped, gritting his teeth as the first stitch went in.

Mark instinctively turned to Haechan, who was already watching him. “He’s right,” Haechan said.

Before Mark could even think about contacting the rest of the team, the infirmary door burst open. Chae stormed in, her braid undone, her face glistening with sweat.

“Ji!” she cried, rushing to his side and scanning him from head to toe.

The moment Jisung heard his best friend’s voice, his mind finally let him process the pain. “Shit, this hurts,” he groaned, this time squeezing Chae’s hand instead of Mark’s—she had taken his place without hesitation.

“I’m almost done. Just hold on,” Jaemin murmured, focused on tying the last stitch.

It wasn’t a perfect job—not as clean or precise as Jungwoo’s work—but Jaemin had talent. The priority was stopping the bleeding. He’d figure out how to minimize the scarring later. This wouldn’t be the last wound he had to stitch up.

← 吻 →

Three days had passed since Chae had met her soulmate. Three days since her world had turned upside down. She had bumped into Choi Yeonjun, a guy her age. They had frozen, staring at each other as if time itself had stopped—right there, in the middle of a dancing crowd, their skin damp with sweat and coated in the bursts of colored powder fired into the air by festival cannons.

And now, she was shaking with anticipation at the thought of seeing him again.

“You didn’t say anything else to each other?” Rachel asked, watching her from Haechan’s bed.

She had walked into her room after a shower, ready to get dressed and head out, only to scream in fright upon finding the younger girl sprawled upside-down on her bed. With no other choice, she had flopped onto Haechan’s bed instead, listening to Chae talk.

Jaemin had mentioned that Chae had met her soulmate at an event she had crashed—classic Chae. But the two hadn’t had time to talk since. Rachel had to admit it: she had been avoiding her. The truth was, Rachel had always been obsessed with finding her soulmate. She had dreamed about it since childhood, craving that unconditional, desperate, forever kind of love. Chae, on the other hand, had always hated the very idea.

And yet, Chae had stumbled into hers by accident?

Rachel was jealous and irritated, furious. Not with Chae, but with Fate itself.

“No,” Chae sighed. “He… he could barely speak. He gave me his number, and we just messaged a little to set up a meeting.”

Before Rachel could say anything else, the door swung open, and Haechan walked in without so much as a greeting. He headed straight for his bed—already occupied—then gave Rachel a quick nod. “Move,” he said before lying down beside her and immersing himself in his phone.

“When are you seeing him?” Rachel asked, propping herself up on one elbow.

Chae groaned dramatically. “Tomorrow. Lunch. He wants to eat at his university cafeteria. Can you believe that?” She covered her face with both hands.

“He’s a college student. You can’t expect him to take you to some five-star restaurant,” Rachel laughed.

“Renjun did some digging. His parents are millionaires. He’s studying business and is set to inherit the family company,” Chae declared.

Rachel’s jaw dropped. Even Haechan looked up from his phone to stare at her over Rachel’s shoulder.

They were both silent for a moment before Haechan finally spoke. “Shit. Marry him and make him support all of us.”

“Sounds like a solid plan,” Rachel agreed.

Chae sat up. “Right, because the guy can’t even look me in the eye, but he’s supposed to marry me?”

“Oh, don’t underestimate yourself,” Rachel teased. “With your magic, you could probably get Haechan to marry you.”

Haechan nodded, scrolling through his phone again. “True.”

Chae laughed and shook her head, completely unaware of just how much power she held—her charm, her charisma. At only eighteen, she was already an enchantress, capable of bending people’s wills with ease. Even Haechan, the so-called anchor, solid and unmoving like a mountain, knew he could easily fall under her spell.

Chae sighed and sprang to Rachel’s closet. “What can I steal for tomorrow—oh! This is gorgeous!”

“You don’t have enough boobs for that, pixie.”

Chae shot her a glare before digging deeper, eventually pulling out a flowing red dress. “How about this?”

Rachel smiled and nodded. “Go for it.”

Chae grinned wide, thanked her, and skipped out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

Rachel exhaled and flopped onto the mattress, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling.

Haechan glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “You okay?”

He knew it had to be hard for her—watching someone else find their soulmate while she was left waiting. Watching hope fade little by little. He knew what that felt like. It was terrifying.

“I don’t know. You tell me—do I look okay?”

Haechan studied her for a few seconds. “You look beautiful as always.”

Rachel’s eyes softened, and she smiled, shifting closer to wrap her arms around him and rest her cheek against his chest. Haechan sighed, forcing himself to tolerate the hug like a normal person—like Jaemin or Jeno would. Rachel was affectionate with everyone, but especially with those two; in no time, they had become inseparable. She sought security and protection in Jeno, warmth and affection in Jaemin. But with Haechan, she found comfort, respect, honesty.

“Great. Now your bed is free. Get out,” he said, pushing her off.

“Ouch.”

← 吻 →

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[kiyomitakada]

i think for me, the thing with yotsuba light is that he's hollow. he has the facade of the good and dutiful son, he has all these upstanding morals like the skeleton scaffolding of an abandoned infrastructure project, but there's nothing in there. light was like that before the death note, yeah, but at least he let himself have his little cynical commentary about the people around him. yotsuba light is so utterly determined to be good that he forgets to be human and this is why he crumbles immediately upon touching the death note: all that scaffolding falling away like tissue paper when the concrete pours in

[ghostshipglamour]

“A trace of the true self exists in the false self” is Fitzjames living up to his selfdescribed heroism even when the audience is gone but he can’t see it in himself through the scaffolding he built to maintain his own facade i love that man

[inneedofsupervision]

I didn't ask, did I? (Chapter 7)

Happy begrudgingly steps aside and walks after Tony into the diner. The billionaire skillfully ignores the gasps of surprise and the poor attempt to take pictures of him secretly as he strides straight up to the counter. "Two cheeseburgers and a large fry. To go." "Please get in line and wait for your turn, Sir." "Excuse me?" Tony slowly pulls his sunglasses down and glances at the skinny teen behind the register. "Bad hearing comes with age, huh?" mutters the teen under his breath. Happy makes a choking sound behind him. ___________________ Or, how Tony Stark gets sassed by some high schooler working part-time and makes it his mission to figure out what he did to make this kid he'd never seen hate him. If that means annoying the hell out of said high schooler, that's not his problem.

Chapter: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, 10

Chapter Summary: Rhodey and Tony finally leave, and Peter is left alone with his thoughts.

(Read on Ao3)

Peter's forehead leans against the door. Only after the engine of Mr. Stark's car howled and the tires started to roll did the teen dare push his fingers between the blinds and pull them aside to peek out of the window.

They are finally gone.

With a deep sigh, Peter raises a hand, ready to run it through his hair, only to stop when he realizes that it's still covered in paint.

If Aunt May knew about what he did, he would get sentenced to a week's worth of house chores. Including a deep clean of the bathroom.

"Not my most glorious moment."

After several minutes, with the help of half a bottle of dish liquid, an old sponge, and lots of hot water, Peters's hands were reddened but free of paint and smelled, according to the dishwashing label, of gentle citrus dreams, whatever that meant.

While drying his hand, the teen couldn't help thinking about his act of revenge. It was petty.

Peter feels ashamed to use his abilities for something so childish and silly. He is Spider-Man. He should be the one keeping people from vandalizing, and what did he do? Smearing one of the most important buildings in NYC, just because he let Mr. Stark provoke him.

"If I simply hadn't said anything. Why can't I keep my big mouth shut?"

The guilty conscience grew while he worked on a persistent sauce stain on one of the tables with his rag.

Mr. Stark mentioned his action costing Stark Industries millions. At the same time, Peter felt like the man didn't care about the money but rather about his image, and the flippancy with which the man talked about losing money sparks Peter's anger anew.

It's already dark outside by the time the teenager closes the shop. With his hoodie deep in his face and his head ducked, he quickly walks down the street. May won't be back until tomorrow morning, and if he hurried, he might manage to patrol for two hours before going to bed.

On his way through the city, he walks past a construction site. He halts, and his eyes wander along the scaffold that takes up the whole facade.

"A truck hit the front at full speed a few weeks ago."

Peter turns away from the destroyed building. A man leans against one of the street lights. He has his, several times patched coat tightly wrapped around his body, a bottle sitting comfortably in his hand. He tosses his head, taking a hearty sip before pointing at the building.

"One of the best shelters in the whole of New York. Never mind how busy you got treated like you meant something. They even let your furred friend in there if you had one. Now, we can only hope they rebuild it. To our luck, they put another cafe here."

"I heard about the incident," manages Peter to get out, voice hoarse.

"You're okay, boy?"

The homeless man squints his eyes at him, and something in Peter's stomach coils as the guilty conscience hits full force at the thought of a man without a roof over his head worrying about a random teenager.

A man who didn't have a roof over his head because Spider-Man hadn't been here.

"Yes, I mean, not really," stammers Peter before taking a deep breath, attempting to collect himself. The man eyes him with worry, partly curiosity, and takes another sip while waiting for the teen to finish his sentence.

"It's just that I knew someone. Someone who came here often."

Peter feels ashamed when he catches the man's eyes widening with realization. The man shortened the distance between them, stepping closer, and despite the strong sense of alcohol prickling in his nose, he knew he wasn't in any danger. A heavy hand lays on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry about that, boy."

It's embarrassing how his eyes start burning. Peter had to look away from the empathy-filled, bearded face.

"I don't know who you knew from the bunch, but I know many people hanging around here, and most are decent. I'm sure whoever it was, he would appreciate a fine young man like you to remember him. Many people in this city don't recognize us as humans, but you are alright, boy."

The hand on his shoulder gives another tight but comforting squeeze while Peter uses the back of his hand to wipe over his eyes. He manages to whisper a small thank you.

The man didn't look happy with a crying teenager in front of him.

"You want some?"

Peter eyes the bottle with a high percentage of alcohol before his eyes fall back onto the worried eyes of the man. A small smile blooms on his face, and he has to chuckle at the ridiculousness of the situation. He sniffles and wipes at his other eye.

"No, thank you. But there's something else."

The man pulls the bottle back with a grin.

"I'm listening, boy. Spit it out."

Peter manages to give him a grateful smile.

"Would you tell me your name?"

The homeless man raises an eyebrow in disbelief before grinning.

"The name's Jason."

Jason holds out his hand. Without batting a lid, Peter takes the hand, including the filthy fingerless glove, shaking it tightly.

"I'm Peter."

[ballonleaparadise]

The Roles of the RVT members in Pokemon Horizons

One of the things that I love about Horizons is how the members of the Rising Volt Tacklers are all unique in their role/occuptation. Each member seems to subvert the expectations or stereotypes associated with their position:

Friede is officially the leader and pilot of the Rising Volt Tacklers. Ironically, it's the other members of the group who take charge of him, if you will. For instance, Mollie and Orla counteract his eccentric personality with their sensibility and level-headedness. Also, the other members are quick to correct Friede when he forgets to tell Liko important information. An example of this is when Mollie scolds him for keeping Liko in the dark about the group's intentions in episode two. Although Friede is in charge, the real authority on the airship is the support and knowledge that comes from his friends. Each crew member (apart from the protags) plays a crucial role in the ship's functionality. This is proven further in episode 13 when Orla reveals that she engineered the Brave Asagi on behalf of Friede's wishes. To add, the ship was originally Ludlow's fishing boat, so the ownership goes back to him. By saying this, I don't mean that Friede has no power by himself. However, his leadership is very much scaffolded by his connections to Orla, Murdock, Mollie, Ludlow and Dot.

The other RVT members also subvert the expectations of their retrospective roles. Orla takes on the traditionally male role as both a mechanic and the engineer of the Brave Asagi. Meanwhile, as a male character, Murdock has a more domestic role of cooking. I feel like this was done intentionally to show that the RVTs are all outsiders to some extent. In Mollie's case, she is a nurse joy who took the different path of travelling and caring for wild pokemon. Ludlow, despite his old age, is still eager to travel alongside the others. Even Friede, the head of the group, is unconventional. In episode 12, Liko's mum points out that he does not look like a Pokemon professor. In response, he says "I don't mind. I feel better like this." (according to the subtitles). I've said this in the past, but I think that the reason Friede does not want to be called a professor is because he does not want to be boxed in by that label. He is not just a professor- he is a battler, pilot, friend and Dad. He is an individual in his own right.

One of the things I'm looking forward to seeing the most in Horizons is Liko, Roy and Dot finding their own sense of identity. With how the story has progressed so far, I would love to see how the adult characters continue to influence their development. Speaking of the younger cast members, Liko Roy and Dot are already unique in their own ways. Liko is taking over from a male protagonist after 25 years. Similarly, Roy is the second protagonist, filling in for what has so often been a female sidekick in past seasons. Arguably, he has a much bigger role than a sidekick (being a mc) but he is still the second major character after Liko. In Dot's case, she breaks the binaries between introversion and extraversion through her dual personality. As Nidothing, she wears a facade of confidence and excitement. However, underneath the costume, she is reclusive and hates social interaction. She represents the human condition, imo. Irl, a lot of people come across as more confident than they actually are. This is symbolised through the extreme example of Dot and her personality as Nidothing. (Or that's how I like to think about it).

Overall, the Rising Volt Tacklers are all unique in their own ways. One of the biggest themes in the new anime seems to be overturning common character tropes and stereotypes, and exploring new 'horizons'.

[vnhiuetsjohfgodovsifjldkfjvmf]

think one of my favorite Things is when a show uses a set but it clearly doesn't care about making you Believe in the set. like in a lot of japanese reality shows where they just allow you to see little peeks of the studio behind the bright facade. bunch of barely visible bits of scaffolding and stuff just barely on the border of the camera, really poetic visual even if it's functionally meaningless. it's the TV version of kayfabe, like yeah it's on a set no shit but it does lend a lot to making you feel like you're "in" on the illusion yknow. and also whatever the hell alfonso ribeiro did for this bit

[meme-streets]

dollars event day 7. prompt: justice (content warning: implied law enforcement violence) ---

The first thing Blondie sees when he rides into town is that they’re building a real gallows.  That changes his plans.

He keeps on slow, trying to keep up a facade of detached innocence as he discreetly surveys his surroundings.  Past a wide, squat jail with an alley round the side. The sheriff saunters out on the porch.  He's a big brutal kind of a man, yellow-headed.  Behind him like lean hungry dogs slink two mean-looking deputies with glinting eyes and bruises on their knuckles.  Like a reflection of someone knew once. “Howdy, stranger,” says the sheriff over-amiably. Blondie stops the horse.  “Howdy.” “Coming along right nicely, ain’t it?” Takes him a second to realize what that’s about; he follows the man’s gaze to the scaffold.  “Mm.  Looks like it.” “Not long now till it’s ready.”  That’s self-evident. “She’s a beaut,” says one of the deputies. Not a word Blondie would ever use for it, but all he says, with a touch of irony just for him, is: “Sure.”  He tips his hat, and before any of them can make any further attempt at conversation, he starts back on.  There’s work to be done.

~•~

Tuco’s cooling his heels in a cold, stinking jail cell trying to figure on a way out when he hears the first inklings of a commotion.  It’s a distant shout at first, but sure as the sun rises it grows steadily, becomes a clamor of voices out there in the night, some commanding, some frantic.  “Aw, hell,” mutters one of the deputies, “I’d better see what that’s about.”  He and the other converse mutedly, and then he leaves.  The remaining man eyes the jail cell nastily and then settles back down at the desk.

Not long after comes the low, muffled boom of a far-off explosion, prompting the other deputy up sharply from the desk.  Tuco wonders if the war’s found this place so soon.  

The clamor multiplies quickly; it sounds like half the town.  New light comes faintly through the high, barred window, wavering and orange.  The deputy paces and curses and paces and looks at the window and paces some more.  Tuco feigns sleep.  He swears he can feel the man’s eyes on him. “Shit,” the man says, and leaves.

A beat.  Two.  Three.  Tuco waits till he’s certain, then rises quickly with a low grunt of pain.  This is his break.  He scans the desk, picks out the keyring, then scans his cell for something to try and grab at it with.

A face appears in the window and startles him backwards.  A familiar face, when he looks, and stunned, he opens his mouth. Blondie holds a finger to his lips.  Tuco mouths at him wordlessly, trying to make some kind of sense of what he’s seeing, but he doesn’t speak.  Maybe he’s dreaming.  Or, hell, maybe that two-faced sonofabitch has just come to gloat one last time.  Yeah, that sounds right. Then Blondie’s wedging a kind of a metal hook round the bars of the window, and just before he drops back down, he winks.  Alright.  So it is a dream.

There’s a clatter of hooves, of wheels, a thunderous groan of straining rock and metal.  A crash, and open air.

~•~

The cell wall collapses into the alley exactly as he’d planned, the horses clattering onwards still trying to drag the thing behind their hitched cart; hurriedly he frees the chain attaching the hook and lets them go off into the street. Tuco stumbles out into the alley, his eyes wide.  He moves stiffly.  Blondie thinks of the deputies’ bruised knuckles and bites down hard on his cigar.  There’s no time for getting mad now.  He’s got a second horse waiting and he jerks his head for Tuco to mount, half-wondering if he’ll have to pull him up in his own saddle.  But with a wince, Tuco manages it. They ride.  Rounding a corner, they catch a glimpse of the buildings he’d set ablaze, crowds watching and crying out, the fire squadron trying to douse the inferno.  They plunge onwards into the dark, and no one sees them leave and no one follows.

Tuco, mercifully, waits until they’re well out of town before he starts yelling.  Less mercifully, they’ve dropped to a pace slow enough he can hear it in full. “Blondie, what the hell are you doing here?” “Oh, just saving your neck.  Again.” “Saving my neck.  Yeah, after what you did–” he stops.  “What the hell?” he says again. Blondie doesn’t answer.  Not much of a question anyway. “Why–how come you were in the right place at just the right time?” “Just lucky, I guess,” he says, and deigns not to mention newspapers and wanted posters skimmed in every town, ear pressed to the rumor mill.  It’s still not untrue. Tuco huffs.  After a minute he says, without malice, “You really are a two-faced sonofabitch.” Maybe so. It strikes him, then, the realization: Tuco hasn’t yet broken off to go their separate ways.

They make camp in a low scrubby wood and sit round a low fire with the night huddled very dense and very black around them and they look at each other sometimes across the flames or just stare into the fire.  Blondie’s doing a lot of the latter, biting down too hard on his cigar, trying not to fidget.  He thinks Tuco’s eyes are on him.  He hasn’t checked in a while and he hasn’t got the nerve now.  Beneath the crack of wood he hears the occasional shuffle of movement, adjusting and readjusting.  Antsy.

The line in the territory between justice and murder is thin. They both know. Wanted dead or alive is dead sooner or later, and the lawmen don’t take their time. The old rope-cutting con had relied on that: any bastard trying to make a buck could be judge, jury, and executioner, and if not him then someone else the next morning if he drug his bounty in alive like Blondie had. In and out of town in a flash. Judge, jury, and executioner.  Blondie’s killed half a dozen men for Tuco now and he’s not sorry for a single one.  

“What are you thinking about?” Tuco says at length. He wants to go back and kill those three sons of bitches.  Which is plain foolish because he can’t. “Nothing worthwhile,” he says, which is true, and Tuco scoffs but lets it go. They lapse into silence.  The night presses thicker and thicker at their backs.

“I’ve never been busted out of jail before.” That does make him look up.  Of all Tuco’s bullshit stories there’s a scant few he figures might be true; one was of a judge’s wife who’d been so enamored with him that she’d broke him out of his cell in the night.  He had mostly believed that because it sounded believable, because Tuco’s dodged death more than any man ought and he can charm his way out of just about anything.  Blondie’s loathe to admit it but it’s sure worked on him. He opens his mouth before he can think better and then stops, wonders if asking would just salt the wound. “What,” Tuco says tiredly. His eyes narrow, cautious.  “You said something once about a judge’s wife...” He barks out a laugh, harsh and sudden.  “And you believed that?” Blondie looks down.  Maybe it’s the fire but his face burns. “You of all people oughta know,” Tuco mumbles after a minute.  His voice is almost gentle. “Yeah.”  He doesn’t try to explain himself.  No point.  After a long minute he says, very quiet and half-strangled and for no good reason, “I don’t like lawmen much.” He can feel eyes on him, piercing, for a long beat. “You used to be a bounty hunter.” Now it’s him who laughs, almost sheepish.  “And you believed that, huh?” “Weren’t you?” He shrugs.  “A little.  Here and there.”  He sucks in a breath, lets it out in a slow sigh.  “Heart wasn’t in it.” Judge, jury, and executioner.  Sometimes he wishes it bothered him more.

A long minute passes.  Across the fire, Tuco stands, and Blondie stiffens.  He’s not sure what he expects.  Maybe for him to saddle and mount and ride off into the night.  Maybe just for him to bunk down for the night.  Not for him to walk round the fire and stop in front of him, wavering in the orange gloom.  Blondie stares at his boots. “Blondie?” He looks up at last, one of the few times he’s ever been able to do that given their heights.  The look on Tuco’s face is raw and indecipherable.  It seems like a question but Blondie doesn’t know what he’s trying to ask.  Then he toes cautiously at the dirt by his side, and Blondie nods slowly, shuffles over to let him sit.

A long time passes before he starts to lean.  Slow as the moon scraping cross the night sky; it feels half an eternity before their shoulders first touch. Blondie lets him.  Doesn’t move with it, stays firm against the pressure growing against his side.  At long, long length, he slips an arm around Tuco and leaves it there.

[athenaismdb]

[sorrysomethingwentwrong]

"The Melting Building"

The Hausmannian Building on Georges V Avenue in Paris, France, is called the 'melting building.' Referred to as trompe l'oeil (trick the eye), it's a mural and an optical illusion that appeared in 2007.

The old building needed restoration work, but instead of contemplating the scaffold, a creative solution was found. Artist Pierre Delavie made pictures of the building in its original form. Then, the images were distorted by a computer program and printed on large canvases, which completely shut down the house's facade.

Frederic Beaudoin pasted over the image of the foam cornices, and distinguishing reality from the picture has become very difficult, especially at a distance.

[erhangwang]

DP3 - The Lost Boys: “It’s OK to Cry”

Week 11:

During the break I started designing the facade and wall systems for the concept of a layered building that gets eroded/decays over time. My original idea is to have a scaffolding that never decays and casting of oyster concrete (in different grades) on the scaffolding that decays and gradually reveals the central core memorial.

This week's tutorial suggests that this strategy needs to be changed: considering "sacrificial scaffolding" as a key speculative idea for this project, the skeleton frame of the building, i.e. scaffolding, can be sacrificial and gets eroded over time; oyster castings can go on top of the scaffolding and gradually taking it up. This strategy challenges the existing method of construction maintenance: when structures in marine conditions gets corroded and an existing structural components gets repaired or replaced by a new one. The key idea is to explore a strong permanent oyster castings that "grow" on top of the sacrificial scaffolding and prevents accidents to happen in the future.

I should do some computer modeling of facade details of the sacrificial scaffolding and oyster castings in relation to a space to reveal the idea described above. Simple structural diagrams can be used to communicate how the structure is going to be held together.

I also worked on the space planning of the "nose cone" RNLI building. I made design decisions based on case studies of existing RNLI spaces and the circulation of two group of users: RNLI staff favoring the efficiency of using the spaces and visitors going through the spaces for experiential and learning purposes. I should now focus on the Life boat station for the next 3-4 weeks to detail the space (logical circulation, facade, interiors, mechanical details) before moving on to another space.

Some ideas to be kept in mind:

Stephen Biesty cutaway drawings

Exploration of the sensorial qualities of spaces: e.g. Peter Zumthor's Bruder Klaus Field Chapel, cathedrals.

Paternoster using water energy to transport

Physical Model of erosions: using water pressure to achieve?

Nguchi Playground

Look up fire stations?

Regent Street Disease

[nagoyish]

The shop’s facade has changed, with the worker on scaffolding on the left continuing to remove the sign. The gathering storm clouds above seem impatient for his completion. 🛠️🌩️

左側の足場にいる作業員が看板を取り外し続けています。上空に集まる嵐の雲が、彼の作業の完了を待ちわびているようです。🔧⚡️