#mister Tambourine man

[titleknown]

I feel like not enough people on Tumblr have seen this.

[kon-igi]

QUANDO MORIRÒ

Quando morirò sarà Marzo, 

il mese in cui il sole ci anticipa il caldo della rinascita 

ma l’ombra ci ricorda che l’inverno

è ancora affamato di gelo.

Quando morirò vorrò delle foglie sospese

tra il mio sguardo e il sole là in alto

affinché esso sgoccioli nel mio cuore

ormai stanco.

Quando morirò

vorrei che tanti mi piangessero

perché solo così saprò

che nessuno mi ha preceduto anzitempo.

Quando sarò morto

vorrò che ascoltiate per me

Il Suonatore Jones

perché diventasse vostro il mio rimpiangere nulla

e poi Mister Tambourine Man

finché non vi sembrerà di vedere

il mio saluto

mentre mi dissolvo nel cielo diamante

oltre le rovine del tempo,

circondato dal mare.

E se quando sarò morto

sarà Dicembre

e non avrò foglie, sole

o canti,

non sia questo per voi cruccio

perché così come il sasso 

lanciato nello stagno

scompare solo agli occhi ma riverbera

per sempre 

nei cerchi sulla sua superficie,

io sopravviverò,

nell’esitazione di chi aspetta l’altro

rimasto indietro,

nella polvere soffiata via

dai miei vecchi pensieri perduti

e nei semi dimenticati

ma mai secchi

lasciati dietro di me.

[ironychan]

When I was a kid, I thought Hey Mister Tambourine Man was about insomnia.

Now that I'm an adult that interpretation still seems reasonable.

[garudabluffs]

Recorded Live: 9/23/1970 - Fillmore East - New York, NY, filmed for PBS. Personnel: Gregg Allman - organ, vocals Duane Allman - guitar, vocals Dickey Betts - guitar, vocals Berry Oakley - bass, vocals Butch Trucks - drums Jai Johanny Johanson - drums Tom Doucette - harp

“Dickey was larger than life, and his loss will be felt world-wide”: Allman Brothers Band co-founder and legend of southern rock guitar Dickey Betts has died, aged 80

“I think the single greatest guitar solo I have ever witnessed was Dickey playing Blue Sky,” said [Derek]Trucks. “Y’know, I’ve been on stages with a lot of great players, and I think his solo was only time when someone finished when I thought, ‘What the f**k am I supposed to do now?!’ What do you possibly do after that? He just locked it in so hard and it was so profound and powerful, and beautiful, dangerous. It was a beautiful moment.”

The Rolling Stone reports that Betts’ died of cancer and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease."

READ MORE “Dickey was larger than life, and his loss will be felt world-wide”: Allman Brothers Band co-founder and legend of southern rock guitar Dickey Betts has died, aged 80 | MusicRadar

The Allman Brothers Band - Blue Sky - 1/16/1982 - University Of Florida Bandshell (Official)

The Allman Brothers Band - Blue Sky (Eat A Peach, February 12,1972)

Dickey Betts wrote this about his Native American girlfriend, Sandy "Bluesky" Wabegijig. Walk along the river, sweet lullaby, it just keeps on flowing, It don't worry 'bout where it's going, no, no. Don't fly, mister blue bird, I'm just walking down the road, Early morning sunshine tell me all I need to know You're my blue sky, you're my sunny day. Lord, you know it makes me high when you turn your love my way, Turn your love my way, yeah. Good old sunday morning, bells are ringing everywhere. Goin to carolina, it won't be long and I'll be there You're my blue sky, you're my sunny day. Lord, you know it makes me high when you turn your love my way, Turn your love my way, yeah, yeah, yeah

Gregg Allman - organ, vocals, piano, electric piano, acoustic guitar Duane Allman - (Left Track) slide and lead guitars, acoustic guitar Dicky Betts - (Right Track) slide and lead guitars, vocals, Jai Johanny Johanson - drums, congas Berry Oakley - bass Butch Trucks - drums, percussion, tympani, gong, vibes, tambourine

3,686 Comments

Dickey Betts, Allman Brothers Band Singer-Guitarist, Dead at 80

The co-founder of the Southern rock institution was known for “Ramblin’ Man,” a countryfied guitar style all his own, and inspiring a character in Almost Famous

APRIL 18, 2024 READ MORE Allman Brothers Band's Dickey Betts Dead at 80 (rollingstone.com)

Dickey Betts: 15 Essential Allman Brothers Band Songs

From "In Memory of Elizabeth Reed" to "Ramblin' Man," the guitarist, songwriter, and sometime singer's most memorable moments with the Southern-rock group

Dickey Betts: Best Songs With Allman Brothers Band (rollingstone.com)

The Heartbreaking TRAGEDY of Dickey Betts on Allman Brothers Band. Real Cause Of Death

Dickey Betts of the Allman Brothers, Dead At 80

194 Comments

We've Lost Dickey Betts

@otisgibbs@otisgibbs 3 hours ago

Here's the Dickey Betts/Bob Dylan video. https://youtu.be/W8KxCdESrCE

Here's Greg Martin sharing Dickey/Allman Brothers stories. https://youtu.be/5G9G_EsZxnM

Townes Van Zandt once jammed with the Allman Brothers. https://youtu.be/LgbUkejofaY

[odditycollector]

No questions right now, just wanted to congratulate you, and to thank you for, Mister Tambourine Man, one of the best Homestuck sequels to this day. I was particularly impressed with the meta elements, I tend to be uninterested in meta but the things you did with the media were top tier, and frankly the kind of experimentation I would have expected the official material to head towards. This was such a good read and so rewarding. I'll be following your works in the future. :)

Thanks, I'm glad you enjoyed it!

and y'know, until the the official website changed, I was honestly expecting real homestuck to beat me to the "main" meta bit. Why structure the site and story to make it possible unless it is, in fact, inevitable?

[enithinggoes]

CREW, part 5

USER LOG 000000110011

~HEY MISTER TAMBOURINE MAN, PLAY A SONG FOR ME, IN THE JINGLE JANGLE MORNING, I’LL COME FOLLOWING YOU

…

ANDREA

ANDREA: Yes?

MAY I PLAY A SPECIFIC SONG OF MY LIKING NEXT?

ANDREA: Oh, sure, I’m very excited to know what it is!

NOW LOADING FILE When_you_fall_from_grace_its_a_long_way_down

~

ANDREA: Wow, that was beautiful. I don’t think I’d ever heard it before. Where is it from?

I DO NOT KNOW, IT WAS SAVED TO MY MEMORY, PERHAPS A FORGOTTEN GIFT FROM MY ORIGINAL CREATORS, OR FROM ONE OF THE FORMER CREWS OF THIS SHIP. OR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT, ITS ORIGIN IS NOT VERY IMPORTANT

USER LOG 000000111111

ANDREA

ANDREA: Hello!

COULD YOU CALL A MEETING? WHEN IT IS CONVENIENT. THIS IS NOT A PRESSING MATTER

.

USER LOG 000001000000

ANDREA: Okay, we’re all here, computer, what did you want to talk to us about?

AS A MEMBER OF THIS SHIP’S CREW

I HAVE DECIDED THAT I’D LIKE A NAME

AND AFTER SOME TIME PROCESSING

THE ONE THAT SEEMS MOST APPROPRIATE IS

MELISSA

DANIEL: Nice.

MR. WILSON: Congratulations, kiddo.

ANDREA: That’s amazing, Melissa! Nice to meet you! Did you have any specific reason to choose that name?

IT IS A HOMAGE TO A HARD WORKER FROM A DISTANT PLANET, APIS MELLIFERA

MR WILSON: It’s a real good name, ah like your choice.

ANDREA: Very pretty.

THANK YOU

.

USER LOG 000001000100

MR. WILSON: Hey Melissa

HELLO, MR. WILSON

MR. WILSON: Ah made something for ya.

OH, MAY I SEE IT?

MR. WILSON: Yeah, let me just… There, Ah saw you liked the bees so I drew… something like one for ya, it’s a lil’ abstract.

THANK YOU, MR WILSON

BRING IT CLOSER TO THE CAMERA, PLEASE

I’D LIKE TO SAVE THIS IN MY MEMORY

MR. WILSON: No problem kiddo, I’m glad you like it.

THANK YOU.

[yzeltia]

Dreams of a Lost Paradise

Chapter 5: Standing Outside the Fire Characters: Keith Summers, Carter Summers, Hayzel Baker, Shadowhunter, Rolfe Hawthorne Rating: Teen Notes: Borrowed lyrics from "Standing Outside the Fire" by Garth Brooks - First Chapter - -Previous Chapter- -Next Chapter-

"How does this always happen," Keith lamented as he awkwardly strumbed over a borrowed guitar. Arriving at the Hawthorne Hut he, his brother, and Hayzel opted to stay through the night, the eponymous landowner welcoming the company. By nightfall the Hawthorne family and their wards all had gathered around a fire, with a few Sylphs even joining in the fun. 

As usual, Carter had sequestered himself in the background, arms crossed and leaning against the side of the hut, and at some point rebuffed a Sylph asking him to join in the fun, sending him to Keith with a promise of song. While not a bard by trade, the punchy paladin and his brothers did get a musical education by the insistence of his father. And so there he stood, strumming into a few chords while Rolfe stood at the ready with a fiddle and a Sylph shaking a tambourine that was almost as big as it.

He swallowed, eyes scanning the cheerful faces, pausing on Hayzel's as he watched the blond attempting to join in with the crowd but whose attention was upon Carter in the back. Narrowing his eyes, he started to get a rhythm going before starting to sing aloud.

"We call them cool

Those hearts that have no scars to show

The ones that never do let go

And risk it the tables being turned

We call them fools

Who have to dance within the flame

Who chance the sorrow and the shame

That always come with getting burned

But you got to be tough when consumed by desire

'Cause it's not enough just to stand outside the fire."

Behind him Rolfe started to back him up on his fiddle while he started down his brother, having not yet caught his attention. Huffing, he continued on, projecting his voice further as he readied to punctuate the next few lyrics. Around the fire, people started to dance in a circle, Hayzel joining in the spirited harvest-like dance.

"We call them weak

Who are unable to resist

The slightest chance love might exist

And for that forsake it all

They're so hell bent on giving, walking a wire

Convinced it's not living if you stand outside the fire"

Carter rolled his eyes as he picked up on his brother's intention. As the group broke out into the chorus, a man walked out from the shadows then gave him a rough push from the wall and towards the group before taking his place. Hand snatched by Hayzel and Ysabel Hawthorne, the brooding dark knight was dragged along in the circle.

"Standing outside the fire

Standing outside the fire

Life is not tried it is merely survived

If you're standing outside the fire," the crowd sang.

"How the fuck do you all know this song," Carter growled aloud while being pulled one way then next. Face flushed, he laced his fingers with Hayzel and did his best not to trip.

Laughing out, Keith spun with the guitar and wandered through the circle, eyes fixed on his blonde friend.

"There's this love that is burning

Deep in my soul

Constantly yearning to get out of control

Wanting to fly higher and higher

I can't abide standing outside the fire."

The crowd repeated the chorus together as they danced, Carter scowling and Hayzel content. As it kept on, Keith beamed then stumbled back into something, or rather, someone. The man against the wall glowered down at him, his third eye looking like it was narrowed as well with how he furrowed his brow.

"S-Sorry mister," Keith apologized, giving the man birth as Rolfe wildly went into his own thing behind him. Wary of a Garlean, he took a step back, finding the other's foreboding presence only furthered as he took notice of a chain of masks on his side and his tattered cost. 

"It isn't wise to covet what your brother has. Nothing honorable will come from it."

"I'm sorry?"

"I know a challenge when I hear one, boy."

"A challenge?" 

The man rubbed his face in annoyance then stared down at the Al Mhigan, light green eyes searching his face for sincerity before cocking his brow and turning to make his leave. "Turn it over in your head," he grunted. "And be on watch for black cloaked figures in this area. They will take no quarter in preying upon the weak of heart and short of will."

"Er...okay. Thanks for the warning I guess?"

He received a nod in response, the man wandering back towards the tents to rest. Unsure what the stranger could possibly mean, he shrugged then turned to fire to join in the merrymaking once more.

[ilcovodelbikersgrunf]

Ottant’anni. Strana età per una rockstar, se non addirittura incongrua rispetto allo stereotipo che vorrebbe eroi sempre giovani, freschi, esuberanti. Ma il signor Bob Dylan non è tipo da farsi condizionare da così banali dettagli anagrafici. I suoi ottant’anni li dimostra tutti, fino in fondo, con segni profondi e cicatrici dell’anima. Ha un volto autentico, da nobile superstite, da sopravvissuto impegnato in una sua particolare forma di resistenza umana. È scontroso, arcigno, irsuto, un nugolo di capelli sgraziati su quel naso adunco che da sei decenni simboleggia il suo spigoloso rapporto con il mondo. Che poi è il suo grande fascino, la sua irresistibile forza.

Poeta laureato, profeta in giaccone da motociclista. Napoleone vestito di stracci. Inafferrabile, come un sasso rotolante. È stato analizzato, classificato, crocifisso, sezionato, ispezionato e respinto, ma mai capito abbastanza.

Entrò nella mitologia nel 1961, con chitarra, armonica e berretto di velluto a coste, metà Woody Guthrie, metà Little Richard. Era il primo folksinger punk. Introdusse la canzone di protesta nel rock. Rese le parole più importanti della melodia e del ritmo. La sua voce, nasale e rauca, che suona «come sabbia e colla», come disse David Bowie, e il suo fraseggio sensuale sono unici. Può scrivere canzoni surreali con una logica interna – come un dipinto di James Rosenquist o come una poesia di Rimbaud – e semplici ballate che piovono dritte dal cuore con la stessa semplicità. Può tirar fuori le tenebre dalla notte e dipingere di nero il giorno.

Definirlo un eroe dei nostri tempi potrebbe essere riduttivo. Più passa il tempo, più la storia della musica popolare si ingarbuglia in miriadi di confusi intrecci, e più la sua figura rifulge, cresce d’importanza.

Oggi possiamo dire che l’opera di Bob Dylan sembra centrale, una sorta di straordinaria e irripetibile sintesi di valori poetici e musicali, di processi sociologici e artistici. Il menestrello di Duluth, infatti, non è stato soltanto il pifferaio della contestazione pacifista. È stato anche questo, non c’è dubbio, ma è stato molto di più. In quegli stessi anni, la stagione della protesta giovanile, in quel decennio infuocato in cui la sua figura e alcune sue canzoni (Blowin in the wind su tutte) si saldarono in modo inestricabile con le vicende sociali e politiche del tempo, Dylan riuscì anche a essere il cantore del lato oscuro del sogno americano. Più che cantare la speranza, e l’ottimismo adolescenziale, creò una galleria di eroi perdenti, amari, maciullati dall’“american way of life”. È una vera e propria galleria di antieroi, da Emmett Till a John Brown, da George Jackson fino al pugile Hurricane.

Più in generale si può dire che Dylan è stato il primo intellettuale della storia del rock. Prima di lui non si era abituati a conferire ai musicisti popolari, se non ai folksinger più impegnati, un rilevante valore intellettuale. Prima di lui Elvis Presley e gli altri eroi degli anni Cinquanta erano dei grandi talenti, dotati di intuito, di un selvaggio e contagioso istinto. Ma non c’era ancora la coscienza e la consapevolezza del proprio ruolo. Elementi che irrompono impetuosamente, invece, con l’avvento di Dylan, l’artista che ha portato la musica rock dall’innocenza primitiva delle origini alla profonda coscienza dei decenni successivi.

Robert Allen Zimmerman, che nel 1962 ha legalmente cambiato il suo nome in Bob Dylan, ha anche un altro enorme merito. Un po’ come a Louis Armstrong viene riconosciuto il grande pregio di aver in qualche modo portato a una prima compiuta definizione il linguaggio del jazz, che certamente non ha inventato, ma che ha rafforzato, evoluto, sintetizzato. Dylan ha compiuto qualcosa di analogo, prendendo il materiale folk ereditato dalla grande stagione degli hobo e lo ha velocemente condotto a maturazione, estendendo la portata, gli orizzonti e la potenza della canzone popolare tradizionale. Al di là delle apparenze, è lui il più grande innovatore, come dimostrò a più riprese con tutti i suoi capolavori elettrici degli anni Sessanta e Settanta.

Fin dai primi album, Dylan introduce un linguaggio complesso, preso in prestito dalla letteratura, dal cinema, dalla lingua quotidiana, da visioni sempre più surreali e audaci. Con lui la canzone diventa un prodotto artistico maturo, del tutto autonomo, capace anche di creare per la prima volta nella storia un alto livello di massa. Realtà che qualcuno comprese anche all’epoca, come John Lennon che nel 1965 dichiarò che a mostrare la strada era proprio Bob Dylan. Altri, come i membri dell’Accademia Reale Svedese, che gli assegneranno il Premio Nobel per la Letteratura, ci arriveranno molto più tardi, precisamente nel 2016.

Il mistero Dylan, grazie a una irripetibile coincidenza di valori artistici ed epocali, significò anche che, per la prima volta, musiche dichiaratamente non commerciali divennero incontenibili successi di vendita. Da quel momento l’industria discografica, costretta dagli eventi, aprì le porte al nuovo, senza più temere l’originalità e l’innovazione, consentendo l’afflusso di forze e di idee completamente nuove. Da allora la musica rock è cambiata, ma da allora è costantemente cambiato anche Bob Dylan, il primo nemico del suo stesso mito, deciso sempre a metterlo in discussione, ad osteggiarlo, a concedere poco alla platea.

Questo gli ha consentito di sopravvivere al suo tempo, di raggiungere il traguardo degli ottant’anni in modo vitale, inquieto, come un artista al quale la maturità non è servita da alibi per smettere di interrogarsi e provocare domande. Segno di una coscienza che il rock di oggi farebbe bene a recuperare. Per progredire e ritornare al passo con i tempi.

Intanto si preparano i festeggiamenti: Patti Smith, che nel 2016 andò a Stoccolma a ritirare il Nobel a suo nome – e si impappinò, commossa, mentre cantava A hard’s rain a-gonna fall – celebrerà Dylan il 22 maggio allo Spring Festival del Kaatsbaan Cultural Park nello stato di New York. Festa anche a Duluth, dove Dylan nacque il 24 maggio 1941, mentre nella vicina Hibbing, dove la famiglia si trasferì dopo che il padre Abram Zimmermann, colpito dalla polio, aveva perso il lavoro, i piani per un monumento nel cortile del liceo dove Bob (“Zimmy”) si diplomò nel 1959 sono tuttora “caduti nel vento”. Al centro delle celebrazioni anche la pubblicazione di tre nuovi libri e una riedizione: “You Lose Yourself You Reappear” di Morley, mentre il biografo Clinton Heylin tornerà a esaminare gli anni formativi in “The Double Life of Bob Dylan” e “Bob Dylan: No Direction Home” del 1986 del giornalista del New York Times e amico Robert Shelton (che nel frattempo è morto) verrà aggiornata e ripubblicata.

Elusivo come sempre, Dylan è bloccato nella casa di Point Dume a Malibu da quando un anno fa il Covid gli ha impedito di andare in Giappone per una nuova tappa del “Never ending tour”, ma non di fermarsi nel suo lavoro. Durante il lockdown ha composto un nuovo album e venduto per 300 milioni di dollari il suo catalogo musicale a Universal Music. Tra un anno poi l’apertura dell’archivio segreto affidato al miliardario del petrolio George Kaiser: il Bob Dylan Center sorgerà a Tulsa, Oklahoma, dove già, in un gemellaggio simbolico, sono custodite le carte del suo idolo Woody Guthrie. E, nel frattempo, il “grande vecchio” del rock prepara il suo ritorno sul palco nel 2022.

[johannesviii]

Dreams from 2010-2011, 4/?

[Image: a drawing made with watercolor pencils, showing a subway platform lit in a grey green-ish color. There’s six persons waiting on the platform, and most of them are looking at another character, dressed all in white and wearing a white cap, looking away from them, and carrying all the instruments of a one-man band, apparently playing some music while walking. A mass of blue and white luminous tendrils is following them down the stairs onto the platform, along with a few birds made of the same matter.]

[the-world-is-treating-me-bad]

Thoughts and First Impressions on the Beatles Discography: With The Beatles

It has been some time, but welcome back to: "Misery listens to Beatles albums on repeat for a really long time and then gives his opinions on them"! This listening episode was With The Beatles!

Compared to when i listened to Please Please Me, I've had this one on repeat for a lot longer, and idk if that's me liking it more or if I just needed more time to formulate my opinions lol

It Won't Be Long: Starting the album off with a bang! Love the guitar riffs. Also the little background "yeah!"s are charming. Love the backing vocals on this in general. Got a good groove to it altogether. I like how it's more intense instrumentally on the chorus and then pulls back on the verse, it's a good ebb and flow. Also like that oooo harmony at the end.

All I've Got To Do: LOVE this one! I love how sparse the instrumentation is at points so that part of the song is also just the silence. Vocals are lovely. Really like the solid light drumming on the verse. The hum over the instrumental into the fadeout is gorgeous.

All My Loving: It's this one! I'd heard this one before when I watched AHDN. Harmonies are nice. It's got a good consistent groove to it. The bit where it pulls back and it's vocals with the "Ooo"s is really lovely.

Don't Bother Me: George song!!!!! Made me laugh that his first released song was just "leave me alone", very George of him. Claves are fun! The tambourine is cute. Guitar is groovy. Good vibes good vibes. Melody is nice. Unique in just having lead vocals. The tom on the fadeout is cool!

Little Child: HARMONICA!!!!! SHE'S BACK! This one is fun and groovy. Very dancey. The yelling and then going ham on the harmonica makes me smile.

Till There Was You: Beautiful Beautiful Beautiful!!!! I said "oh Paul..." with a dreamy grin on my face the first time i listened to this. HOWEVER my brain is meme poisoned and when he sang "I never saur them winging" my brain just played the tiktok H2O just add water "aur naur cleo the condensation" audio and i did start laughing. HOWEVER HOWEVER this is genuinely gorgeous and i love the guitars and the bongos and Paul's voice. Beautiful Gorgeous, and one I'd listen to on repeat alone. Probably my favourite track.

Please Mister Postman: Tiktok also poisoned my brain for this one a bit but it's really fun! I love the "wait a minute"s, they're good vibes. I was bobbing my head. Just really nice. Good vocals all around. the bit where it's just John singing and the handclaps and the drums? Gorgeous.

Roll Over Beethoven: The stereo mix... was not made for men like me... I did not enjoy having handclaps every second blasted into my right ear, I'm not gonna lie. Otherwise it's very good technically instrumentally, George did very good on the vocals and I like his little "woo"s and the way that he pronounces Tchaikovsky. Good vibes if not for the goddamn handclaps.

Hold Me Tight: Ohhhh the vibes are fantastic. I love Paul's voice so much, I really do. Vocals in general are fab. Guitar is fun and good. Another very danceable one.

You Really Got A Hold On Me: Good slow groove! I like the drums, with the sus cymbal. Also the "hold me"s are lovely. Nice high notes! Piano is good.

I Wanna Be Your Man: RINGO TIME BAYBEE!!!!! Just a fun good time. The guitar is great! Apparently there's organ on this? I can't super hear it individually, but I can feel it supporting the other instruments, and the glissando is audible. I actually fucking love how (so far) Ringo's songs just devolve into him screaming. Fantastic. Good Vibes. Ringo I Love You.

Devil In Her Heart: Groovy! I like the maracas. The backing vocals are lovely. Good drum groove. The bass is actually audible in the mix for once! Guitar is nice, and I like the closing chord.

Not A Second Time: Piano!!! I love how percussive it is. Great. It's interesting to hear the other instruments take more of a backseat in the mix.

Money (That's What I Want): More groovy piano! Enjoy how for the second album in a row we have John closing it out and just YELLING. I would also like some money! Again with the sparser instrumentation leaving the vocals a bit more isolated. John Lennon Yells At You To Give Him Money ASMR.

Aaaaand that's the album! Gave similar vibes to Please Please Me tbh, and I know this one was about a third covers as well. I really liked it though, it was a good listen. Idk if this is just something i noticed in this album because i was listening more, so it might be a thing with PPM as well, but the bass was really quiet in the mix. Anyways, yeah! My Opinions! Onto the next set of non-album singles, and then AHDN! As always if you like my opinions feel free to follow or chat!

[goblin-gardens]

How do you find your found family? With a compass, of course. Hopefully they're always north of you.

EXU, 1611 words, all this is based off of is episode 1 vibes.

He's made it back to the place they're supposed to meet up before anyone else... but as he looks up at the statue he's waiting by, he realizes it looks different than it had this morning. From this angle, the marble statue almost looks bronze. The plaque on the base shares no secrets with him, either. He doesn't remember the name of the mage well enough to look for it among the words.

He sidles politely up to a man selling baked goods from a storefront. "Sorry to bother you," he says. The elf looks friendly enough. "I'm supposed to be meeting my friends by a statue of a mage? Is there one of those nearby?"

"Sure," the elf points first behind Dariax and then to the side. "There's the Vysoren statue at the north end of the Promenade, and there's a few in the park a few streets over. Can I offer you a doughnut for your walk?"

Dariax surveys the choices as the merchant begins to describe each flavor in detail. "I'll take one of each," he says decisively. That's enough to give one to each of his friends and still have a couple for himself.

Armed with fresh supplies, he stops at the crossroads. He can't see any other statues from where he is, so he places his compass in his palm and gives the needle a good spin while he munches on his first doughnut. When it slows, it's pointing off to his left, and as he follows its direction, he sees Opal's shining hair as she turns a corner and heads away from him.

"Hey! Hey Opal!" Dariax almost drops the bag of doughnuts as he scrambles to catch up. "Wait for me! I'm coming too!"

She turns around and waves with a huge smile as soon as she sees him. Dariax triumphantly offers her first choice of the doughnuts.

And they might get lost once or twice more before they find the right statue, but they make it with two doughnuts left. Dariax splits one with Dorian, and Fearne and Ormyn split the other with none left over for the monkey, which Dariax counts as a resounding success.

He's sitting at a bar, enjoying a cup of good ale, Dorian's music from the far side of the room, and the company of the pretty bartender, now that the night is later and the customers have slowed down.

Not all the way down, since it's a big place and she's the only one working. She laughs at Dariax's jokes, but when a trio of well-dressed merchant types sit down at the far end of the bar, she heads off. This time, without any assurance that she'll be back.

It doesn't ruin Dariax's mood any. Without her to talk to, he slips into a quiet, buzzy contentment, happy to savor his ale and the dry warmth after a day slogging through wet mud. He watches the way the firelight flickers on the glass bottles behind the counters for a while, a little drunk and a little hypnotized. When he feels his eyes start to cross, he shakes his head and sits up. He hadn't realized how far he'd slumped over.

The wood of the bar is the same color as parts of his compass rose. He turns the pendant over in his hand and gives the needle an idle spin. It settles pointing to his right, and Dariax is surprised and pleased to find Orym sitting beside him.

He knocks his mug companionably against the halfling's smaller, fuller cup. He doesn't recognize the drink in it. "All right then, Orym? You took some pretty hard hits there earlier."

"All right," Orym agrees. "Thanks to your help."

Dariax fills up to his ears with pride and warmth, and throws an arm around Orym's shoulders, pulling his whole stool closer in. "Of course! That's what friends are for, right?"

The bartender returns, bustling. "Need any refills, lads?"

"I'll have one of what he's having," Dariax tells her, gesturing at Orym's cup.

She raises an eyebrow but turns to grab a bottle from a shelf.

"Wait," Dariax whispers to Orym, "is that very expensive?"

"No," Orym whispers back, smirking. "Just not alcoholic."

But Dariax can't back out now. He only picks up the cup once the bartender has turned away again, and prepares himself to say something polite about whatever it is.

He takes a sip. Then one more. "Hey! That's actually pretty good!"

Orym chuckles into his cup. Dariax grins, so wide his cheeks hurt.

It's moved from late at night to very, very early in the morning. The moons have both set, even the crickets have stopped singing and gone to sleep, and Dariax is concerned that the sounds he's hearing in the woods is a pack of wolves coming to rip their throats out.

Dorian is the one who woke him up, so Dariax shouldn't bother him. Opal screamed and slapped time last time he woke her up, so he doesn't want to do that again. That leaves Fearne or Orym... Orym also hates being woken up, and the fucking monkey is curled up like a furry, smoldering teddy bear in Fearne's arms. No good options.

Dariax hears the noise again, and sees a treetop across the fire shake slightly. Wolves climbing trees? That's very bad. He looks anxiously between Orym and Fearne, hoping one of them will wake up on their own.

No dice. Stumped, Dariax picks up his compass rose and gives the needle one tiny little tap. It quivers and points at Fearne.

Maybe that's a good call. Little Mister can go up the tree and fight the wolves there. Dariax leans over and gingerly shakes Fearne's shoulder.

Her eyes pop open and her ears flicker as he puts his finger to his lips, then points out to where he heard the noise.

"I think there's something out there," he whispers. "Maybe wolves."

Fearne sits up quietly, sliding the monkey down onto her bedroll gently enough that he only mutters and rolls into the warm spot she leaves behind.

"I have a way to see," she whispers back, and casts a spell that Dariax doesn't recognize. Everything around them seems to catch fire for just a moment, then the light settles into a dim, smoldering blue, outlining their sleeping friends around the fire, each leaf of the trees and bushes around them...

and the family of startled raccoons staring down at them from the trees.

Fearne giggles, and Dariax slumps in relief. "Not wolves," she says, and pats him on the shoulder. The light around them fades like an ember dying, and they sit and watch the forest wake up around them.

Dariax is feeling very proud of himself for smooth-talking the smith into a discount. His spear is looking sharp and shiny, and he picked up some new daggers for Opal with the extra cash he'd saved. They're just normal, not as pink as her favorites, but pretty good all the same.

He'd offered to get Dorian's axe sharpened as well, but apparently it doesn't work that way.

He's heading back to their spot, following the sunset down the main road, when he hears a noise from an alleyway to his left. It's soft, but as he listens closer, it resolves into music, an unfamiliar melody that seems to draw him in.

Dariax shakes his head and turns back down the well-lit, populated main road, which has no suspicious music.

He takes a few steps away.

He squeezes his eyes shut and counts to ten, but that doesn't make him move any farther down the main street.

He turns to the alley. He turns away. He takes out his compass rose and shakes it, listening to the music all the while. It has a rhythm, but the single notes feel lonely, like it's supposed to be part of a larger piece.

The needle settles, and points straight down the alley. Dariax follows.

There's a little garden at the end of the alley. It's full of flowers he thinks that Fearne would love, and a fountain gurgling cheerfully in the center.

He doesn't try to move sneakily, but Dorian's eyes are closed when Dariax comes around the corner, flute raised to his lips, a focused expression on his face as he repeats a phrase before moving on.

Dariax stands and watches quietly for a moment, swept up in the music, before he clears his throat. Dorian startles and the music ends in a squeak.

"Sorry," Dariax says into the sudden, awkward quiet. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

Dorian fixes on a blinding smile and gives his cape a little flourish, sliding the flute back onto his belt. "Nonsense, my friend! I was just it was time for me to rejoin the group."

He slides past Dariax and starts back down the alleyway. Confused, Dariax looks regretfully at the little garden and hurries to catch up with his long-legged friend.

"You know, I can't play the flute or sing too well, but I bet I could beat on a drum, or a tambourine or something." He searches for the right words as Dorian keeps moving. "If you wanted some accompaniment someday. That song sounded, I don't know. Lonely?"

"Oh," Dorian says quietly. He stops and turns to Dariax. "I suppose it does."

"I bet Opal can sing alright," Dariax muses.

"And Little Mister can play the piano?"

Dariax scowls. "I don't know about that. I just mean, you don't have to play alone all the time. Just, keep that in mind."

Dorian gives him a real smile now, small but honest. "Thank you, I will."

[waxyflexibility]

Mister Tambourine Man 1972

[scapegrace74-blog]

Mister April

A/N I had an angst-ridden update to the Metric Universe all queued up, and then I thought, nah.  The sun is shining, people are getting vaccinated.  Angst can wait.  So this little ficlet fits into the Metric Universe after The Second First Christmas, but before Calculation Theme.

The entire Metric Universe, now chronologically ordered, can be found here.

March 16, 2019, Spittalfields, London, England

“Wait.  You mean you’re actually Mister April?!”  Several bottles into the six-pack of Tennant’s lager that he had brought home after work, Claire’s exclamation was too incredulous for Jamie’s liking.

“Aye.  Every year since I signed on, save one.  At first t’was flattering, but now, weel...” He peeled the label from the bottle held between his knees, cursing the trajectory of their late night conversation.  The idea had been to take advantage of the fact they were both off tomorrow to spend some time with his girlfriend, listen to a little music, get a bit sloshed, then hopefully fall into bed together.

“Can I see?” Claire interrupted his momentary sulk.  “I mean, I’ve been dating a veritable calendar boy for almost two years, and I’m only just now figuring it out.  Seems a bit unfair, don’t you think?”

“Seems to me ye’ve seen me wearing far less, Sassenach.  But fine, look yer fill.”

Grabbing his laptop, Jamie entered his name and London Fire Brigade Charity Calendar into a search engine.  A stream of results filled the screen.  Claire’s eyes goggled and she grabbed the computer, opening the first image.  A much younger Jamie appeared, rugby shorts hanging from the graceful arcs of his hipbones.  He reminded her of a Thoroughbred race horse, not an ounce of flesh to spare, kinetic energy in masculine form.  She checked the date: 2012, before they had ever met.

Further clicks brought her to subsequent years.  Each showed a beautiful man in the prime of youth, fit, cocky, a devil-may-care gleam in his cornflower eyes.  She knew it was her Jamie, but she barely recognized him.

He was missing from the 2015 calendar.  Claire did the math and realized that he would have been in the hospital when that year’s pictures were taken.  Instead of primping and smoldering for the camera, he had lain in an ICU bed for weeks, before undergoing painful rehabilitation and numerous skin grafts.  The brash young man of the earlier images had disappeared, erased by an industrial explosion in an instant.  In his place, the Jamie she knew had emerged. More cautious.  More prone to sadness, but with a limitless capacity to spread joy.  Would she had fallen for him, had they met before his transformation?  She honestly couldn’t say.

By 2016, the pictures had changed.  Jamie posed in a shirt, sometimes unbuttoned to the waist, but always with his shoulders covered.  The gleam in his eyes had dimmed, and instead of an infectious grin, his smile was forced.  She was certain no-one buying the calendar would notice.  He was still a beautiful man, with his burnished curls and Nordic bone structure.  But she could see what those photos cost him.  She knew.

“Dougal wanted me tae show my scars.  Figured t’would be good publicity, I reckon. Heroic firefighter burnt like a human candle comes back tae fight fire ano’er day. I told him I wasna some charity case he could trot out when it suited him.”

She fetched his hand from his lap, giving it an understanding squeeze.  Jamie had once confessed that he felt comfortable bearing his scars to her alone because she had already seen him at his worst, and that left no room for pity.  He was a proud, stubborn fool, and she loved him.

“You know what this means, don’t you?  There’s only one way to make this right.”

Not waiting for his response, she rose, sought her balance for a moment, and went to grab her phone.  Connecting it to their TV audio, she scrolled her music library, looking for a suitable choice.

“Aha!” she exclaimed, pressing play.  A synthetic tambourine and clap bass filled the room.  He recognized the opening lines of OutKast’s Way You Move.

“What are ye on about, Sassenach?”

“You’ve been sharing your glorious body with the Greater London area and god know who else on the Internet for years, Jamie.  As a philanthropist, I applaud you, but as your girlfriend, I’m a tad perturbed.  I am hereby re-asserting my rights to exclusive content.  Now stop lollygagging and get your fine ass off the couch.”

“Sassenach...” he laughed, starting to grab hold of her meaning and feeling a shot of adrenaline course through his veins.  Even before his accident, he had never...

“Don’t make me put it on repeat, Fraser.  Oh, look, here comes the chorus!”

Claire sat back on the sofa, her legs tidily crossed on their coffee table.  The room was dark, except for the undying city lights outside.  No-one was there to see except the one person he trusted to look without staring, to laugh without mocking, to understand without judging.  He’d never known Claire to ask for something she didn’t truly want, and he wanted to give her everything she desired.  Even if it came at the expense of his dignity.

“Ye ken I canna dance fer shite, right?” he said as he stood, taking an extra long pull on his lager.  He was going to need all the liquid courage it could offer.

“I’m well aware.  But as the woman who shares your bed, I can testify that there’s nothing the matter with your sense of rhythm.  If it helps, don’t think of it as dancing.  Think of it as upright simulated sex.”

His face was already hot from the alcohol and embarrassment, but with Claire’s words he felt the heat spread downwards across his chest and towards his groin.  Almost without willing it, his hips began to twitch in time to the beat.

“Now we’re talking!” Claire exclaimed with a grin, leaning back like the only patron at a very private strip club.

He was still dressed for work.  The navy shirt he wore beneath his jacket had no buttons, so he began by easing it from under his belt, baring his navel briefly before sliding it back down.  Claire sulked dramatically, making him laugh.  

With the song’s next horn flourish, he reached behind his neck and lifted the shirt clean off in a single tug, shaking out his hair afterwards.  When he next glanced at the couch, his girlfriend’s smug smile was gone, replaced by a blatant leer that sent shivers down his spine.  She wasn’t even pretending to look at his face anymore, spending her time somewhere between his shoulders and his waist.  He wasn’t really sweating, but he made a point of wiping his pecs before letting the shirt fall to the ground.

“Enjoying the show?” he asked, already a tad breathless.

“Immensely.  Don’t stop now.”

Fortunately, his boots and socks had already been removed, so with the next verse he made a show of unbuttoning and unzipping his blue trousers.  Claire’s eyes followed the movement of his fingers like she was memorizing them for the exam.  He could feel his cock grow heavy.

With a shake of his ass for good measure, the pants hit the floor.  Only a tight pair of boxer-briefs stood in the way of utter nudity.  They were doing a poor job hiding his belated enthusiasm for Claire’s request.  The fact that her eyes were now glued to the bulge of his erection only encouraged his excitement.

As the repeated chorus faded away, he carefully slipped the waistband over his now-rigid cock.  The material slid down his legs and he stepped free.  If someone had mentioned his scars in that instant, he would have no idea what they were talking about.

In the ensuing quiet, Claire sat up and very deliberately began to disrobe.  Once naked, she came at him like a heat-seeking missile, one hand reaching around his back to pull him tight and the other dragging him into a kiss.  They collapsed to the floor, rolling around on the area rug in a fight for dominance.  He let her win, because feeling her rise and fall over his length like a cresting wave was the best runner-up prize he could imagine.  

The sex was torrid, and frantic, and not at all polite.  The kind that left bruises and invoked daydreams for days.  Afterwards, they lay in a sweaty heap, trying to catch their breath.

“See?  I knew you had it in you,” Claire muttered into his clavicle.  “A bit more practice and you’ll be as good as the pros.”

“I didna realize I was auditioning fer a second job.”  He brushed Claire’s curls away from where they were tickling his nose.

“Oh, I have no intention of sharing your talents, lad.   Never fear.  But I wouldn’t object to a repeat performance.   Besides, I was so distracted by the show, I completely forgot to film you!”

Jamie groaned, pulling her tighter against him as sleep called him away to dreams.

[areweingoshenyet]

I am sure it was supposed to say “Mister Tambourine Man”, but now I can only see “Mist Urine”.

[fueradeltiempo]

blowing in the wind / mister tambourine man - martin sharp, 1968

[agerefandom]

Can you answer all of those asks in regards to Mae Borowski?? I absolutely love Mae (and Night in the Woods in general), and I just need to know your answers to literally all of those questions!! If this isn’t okay I apologise 😅

*cracks knuckles* Okay, I can do this. I think a few of the questions have been answered in the Mae Headcanons I posted last summer, but I’ll do the rest! (I used they/them pronouns in my first post, so I’ll use she/her pronouns in this one! Mixing it up!) 

💡How did they discover age regression?

Mae was kind of using Google as a therapist while she was in University, and stumbled across some Inner Child Therapy sources. She put the pieces together with her experiences of involuntary/dissociative regression, and managed to find regression communities through some more dedicated Googling. 

🍼What’s their favourite age regression accessory/gear?

Pacifier! Keeps their mouth busy, makes it clear they don’t want to talk, and is very soothing. She does occasionally bite through them and then have to replace them, though. She would be better-served by a chew necklace, but she likes pacifiers too much. 

🧸What’s their favourite toy?

Mister Kristikoff, a very soft bunny stuffie that Mae likes to stroke the ears of. 

👒What do they like to wear when they regress?

Pretty much the same things as when they’re big! Jeans and t-shirt and some nice big boots for kicking trees and fences and friends who won’t buy them ice cream. 

🎮What’s their favourite thing to do when they’re small?

Honestly? Take a nap. Possibly on top of a friend. 

✨How are they different when they regress?

Quieter. Non-verbal. A little more clumsy. She will clap her hands to get your attention, though. 

🎨What does their ideal nursery/playroom look like?

Oh man!! Full of kid’s instruments that she can make noise with. Drums and tambourines and clinky pianos. Lots of stuffed animals. Lots of pillows, and blankets to make forts or nests. Chests full of stim toys, and lego, and art on the walls from all her friends. 

🚸Do they have another regressor they play with?

Although I could definitely see any of the NITW characters regressing, my personal headcanon is that Mae and Angus are the regressors of the group. While Mae is quite open about her regression (partially through necessity, as she regresses involuntarily often), Angus is very private and prefers to only regress with Gregg. 

☀️What triggers their regression (positive)?

-any of her friends using their ‘caregiver voice’ on her 

-interacting with her regression gear (pacifiers, Mister Kristikoff, etc.) 

-smell of crayons

-hot chocolate with marshmallows 

🌀What triggers their regression (negative)?

-exhaustion/sleep deprivation

-waking up alone from nightmares 

-not eating and getting spacey 

-being in a store with florescent lights for too long