#vinyl institute

[garadinervi]

Bernice [Johnson] Reagon, Give Your Hands to Struggle. The Evolution of a Freedom Fighter, (Vinyl/LP), P-1028, Paredon Records, 1975 (then Smithsonian Folkways Recordings, 1997) [Smithsonian Folkways Recordings, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C.]

Cover Design: Ronald Clyne Cover Photograph: Guardian

[the-magpie-archives]

My cat as Smirke's 14:

(part 1)

The eye:

The hunt:

The web:

The desolation:

The dark:

The slaughter:

The flesh:

The vast:

The buried:

The end:

[mariocki]

All caught up on Doctor Who now and i need fandom to know that the legendary Mrs. Mills piano that plays such a crucial role in The Devil's Chord, the one Fifteen talks about so rapturously, is a real thing and was most famously played by this woman ->

[ineffablejaymee]

my favourite coffe shop in my home town is called the spiral

if thats not a domain then i dONT KNOW WHAT IS

[scoop16]

[corduroyinstitute]

In the last few years, life's circumstances have exposed the members of Corduroy Institute to various forms of music which exist to serve as incidental accompaniment for visual media or as background grooves for enhancing the ambiance of particular spaces.

Subconsciously, the raison d'etre of library records and beat tapes has become a talking point within our in-house assessments about our future directions in sound: What if, rather than pursuing a full three minute pop song, we instead aim to quickly devise a two minute instrumental that can temporarily set a definitive mood?

This approach could, perhaps, offer us an avenue for using our instruments and our abilities in a novel manner.

[art-that-fucks-you-up-tournament]

SET SIX - ROUND ONE - MATCH THREE

"Electric Fan (Feel it Motherfuckers): Only Unclaimed Item from the Stephen Earabino Estate" (1997 - John Boskovich) / "Untitled" (Portrait of Ross in L.A.)" (1991 - Félix González-Torres)

ELECTRIC FAN (FEEL IT MOTHERFUCKERS): it makes me literally insane that’s all that’s left of him and he made sure it would stay remembered, something something the last trace of a breath immortalized the only way it could be. Feel it, motherfuckers. (courfeyracs-swordcane) (also submitted by callixton and weeweewhirlwind)

UNTITLED (PORTRAIT OF ROSS IN L.A.): It fucks me up SO MUCH. The artist's partner was named Ross, and died of AIDS in the same year this was created. The ideal weight is roughly the average of an adult man. The allegory there... people taking the candy, decreasing the weight, the same way people took away from Ross and every other victim of the AIDS crisis by refusing to help, to do anything at all. Except this has an "endless supply" of candy. People can take and take and it keeps coming back. They can't get rid of us forever. We will prevail and we will rebuild and I WILL be fucked up about this forever (ceaseless-rambler)

("Electric Fan (Feel It Motherfuckers): Only Unclaimed Item from the Stephen Earabino Estate" is an electric fan encased in plexiglass with vinyl faux etching and a plexiglass base with casters by gay American artist John Boskovich--Stephen Earanbino's partner. It was the last item left in Stephen Earabino's estate after his death by AIDS and measures 56 7/8 x 22 3/4 x 12 1/2 in. (144.5 x 57.8 x 31.8 cm). It is held by The Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles.

"Untitled (Portrait of Ross in LA)" is a modern art installation consisting of wrapped candies (constantly removed and replaced) by gay Cuban-American artist Félix González-Torres after the death of his partner, Ross, by AIDS. The weight is equivalent to a healthy human male - approximately 175 lbs (79kg). It is located at the Art Institute of Chicago, Chicago.)

[nobrashfestivity]

Eva Hesse, Accession II, 1968 (1969)

Galvanized steel, vinyl

Detroit Institute of Arts; Founders Society Purchase, Friends of Modern Art Fund, and Miscellaneous Gifts Fund, 1979.

Image courtesy The Estate of Eva Hesse. Courtesy Hauser & Wirth.

[euryvices]

weird things about my town that lowkey remind me of tma

god, this is going to be a long post.

okay so. i grew up in a town in the middle east (about 200 people), with my bestfriend Whom I Will Not Shut The Fuck Up about apparently, and it was a strikingly different experience to most people who've grown up in the middle east, or in america. it was yk, a rich people town, populated and run mostly by generational wealth owners. as a result, our town was very hush-hush, despite it being in the Crackass Of Nowhere.

i started listening to tmagp about two months back, under the instructions (*cough cough coercion cough cough*) of my lovely moots (im looking at you @forflightlessbirds and @need-a-name-101) i've noticed a few things which may be...off.

the first thing i need to clarify are the rules. we had five of them, that nobody really stuck to, but we all knew of. the rules in and of themselves are normal things any parent tells their child, but weirdly specific. there weren't really any repercussions if we didn't stick to the rules - but most of the time, we didn't like breaking them. they were, as follows :

don't tell strangers your real name, and if you do, run and tell the head of the community center.

if people approach you about 'coming to god' (i.e, christian/muslim/jewish missionaries) tell them god has moved.

do Not enter the junkyard at night. (we broke this one)

always carry a knife. most of us were given jade knives, but my bestfriend got a gold one. ive teased him about it most of our lives, even after we shifted.

take a buddy with you everywhere, and if you can't find one, don't go out.

me and my brother have broken all these rules about once at least, except for the knife one and the junkyard. me and my bestfriend broke the junkyard one though. we shifted together when we were barely teens. first, we lived in the uk, then in the states. we headed back home and barely spoke for a year before he died, at the ripe old age of 17. i miss him, but thats not the point.

it was only after we moved, that we realized how truly Fucked Up our town was. we were living in the middle of war ravaged county, and we had swimming pools, and ipads, and sunset cocktails? obviously i didn't realise it as a kid, as a pre-teen even - but looking at it from the outside feels like a gut punch.

now here's where im going to yap about the similarities between tma and my shitstorm of a childhood and hopefully Will Not Piss Anyone Off. if you're from my town - you'll know exactly what im talking about, and i seriously hope you reach out and/or message me.

the things everyone knows the things. they're just. there. kinda like the bogeyman your mom scares you with when you don't eat lunch except most of us have just accepted that they're real

old man hanna if you've lived here, you know him. he's weird, he's kooky, and he's got a million books and tape recorders and vinyls. he's maybe the only person in that place that doesn't come from money. he hates electronics, says they can't capture things the way old school stuff does

the graves now, our town is mainly christian. uber arab christian. we've got graves, we've got cemeteries. but outside it, on the outskirts, lie a long line of unmarked graves. are they from the arab-israeli war? the gulf war? lord knows

the 2015 blackout this was the creepiest thing that happened here. the blackout, and then the radio stations playing that reading of the bible? my parents shut everything off and rushed me and bulos to the master bedroom

the skydiving institute i have no idea if the government approved this godforsaken place, but it was there. it led to the disappearance of nahren, who was deathly afraid of heights but she said she was ready to face her fears

the church when i shifted to the uk, i saw the proceedings of the greek orthodox church there. and let me tell you - it's so different to our church. for starters, our church doesn't even seem to have any affiliation to the goc, even though it should?? the entire thing is so different

the pond now this is rather controversial. our town's pond was created in the early 70's, but no one knows How or Why. realistically, there shouldn't have been any water supply that far inland. and the water should not be that salty. we don't acknowledge it, and no one drinks from it, even if its really hot. there's a sign outside that asks parents to hold their children tightly when passing by the pond

the soldiers they're mainly american (at least the one i met was), but they rarely enter our town. and when they do, they can only stay in one specific motel - we're not allowed to talk to them. once i did, though. im still...fucked up from it

there's a lot more, but i don't think y'all wanna know about my fucked up town anymore. just writing this is giving me the heebie-jeebies.

we usually aren't allowed to leave our town once we're in it. but my dad got special permission for us to leave, before the divorce. so we did. and then my parents got divorced. which made our family Not Happy, so we weren't exactly welcomed back.

that being said, i don't think there's anything really wrong with my town. it's just a bit...different. and i love it. even if it doesn't seem to love me right now.

god, i think i need to go lay down. i hate remembering all this.

[justjasper]

do you have any domestic moreid headcanons?

Pre-Relationship

They become fast friends, they hang out a lot, they call each other at odd hours.

Reid gets Morgan into Star Trek by making him watch Deep Space Nine. Morgan would fight god for Captain Sisko.

They fall into bed sometime in season 1, and keep doing so on and off for years while their feelings brew.

Reid wakes up alive after the events of Amplification with Morgan by his bedside, and they have a conversation full off feelings. They become "official" here.

Newly Established

They can both cook; Reid looked after his mother and went to college young, Morgan's dad cooked, and Morgan followed his example.

Nobody proposes moving in together officially, Reid just spends less and less time at his apartment until the lease runs out. He mentions it to Morgan quite matter of factly, and Morgan shrugs, smiles, pulls his pretty boy in for a kiss. "Most of your books are here already."

A morning where they don't have to work goes like this: Morgan gets up early to go for a run with Clooney. By the time he's back, Reid is making is making them breakfast. They eat, and then shower together.

Morgan has a decent vinyl collection and likes to listen to them on chill evenings. Reid is a musical sponge, and if he gets a chance when they're on cases, will seek out record shops for something interesting or rare.

Their favourite takeout is Thai. Reid is one of those "white guy with spice tolerance" outliers.

Well Established

It takes some time for them to switch to using first names in private, Morgan takes significantly longer. It's not a problem, they've known and loved each other a long time with these names. Neither of them shorten each other's names.

Clooney is a K9 dropout, and highly trainable, and Reid teaches him a lot of silly tricks. He likes to show Clooney magic tricks.

One of the properties Morgan buys has a decrepid grand piano in it. He gets it restored for Reid, who's dabble with learning on and off. He plays the piano every day.

Morgan thinks Reid doesn't really believe in marriage as an institution, and is okay with that, they don't have to get married, even if they could. Reid proposes to Morgan one morning in shower.

Reid never gets an official autism dignosis, wanting the plausible deniability while working for the goverment. They talk about it. Morgan starts packing a weighted blanket in his go-bag for him (people often ask why his go back is so heavy).

The Future

They get married once it's legal, a simple ceremony but all their important people are there.

When they leave the BAU it's a joint decision. They're both ready for a new adventure, with less actual threat of bodily harm.

Morgan goes into property full time, flipping houses and rent-to-buying them to local people/families, instead of selling them to landlord who will end up pushing locals out of the area.

Reid goes into research/lecturing.

They move to Chicago to be closer to family. They move Diana to be close them them too.

As Reid gets older, he has to use a cane more. His migranes are mostly under control, but eventually he experiences migralepsy (migraine seizures). The dog they get after Clooney passes becomes Reid's service dog.

The Future (with kid)

Reid carries (he's trans). It's an unplanned pregnancy, but they go for it. Reid is terrible at being pregnant.

They have a daughter they name Sam after Morgan's dad (bc I chose this fanon name years before CM bothered to give Morgan's dad a canon name and I am sticking with it out of spite).

Morgan's sisters teach Reid to do Sam's hair.

Morgan is very involved when sam becomes a Girl Scout, and coaches her softball team.

Reid teaches her piano. They read together every day.

They struggle not to intefer when she's a teen and it becomes apparent the girl she keeps bringing home is her first crush.

They both try so hard to be present, devoted dads that they can can fall into helicopter parent tendencies.

[garadinervi]

Bernice [Johnson] Reagon, Folk Songs: The South, FA 2457, Folkways Records, 1965 [Smithsonian Folkways Recordings, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C.]

Cover Design: Ronald Clyne Photograph (Cover): Joe Alper

[lonestarflight]

Langley Aviation 2-4 prototype (NX 29099) on January 19, 1942.

"The first model was the 2-4-65 and flew in 1940. The second model was the 2-4-90 which flew in 1941 and was taken on by the USN as the XNL-1."

"Built in 1941 from mahogany veneers impregnated with vinyl and phenol to conserve strategic materials. However, when the U.S.A. entered the war the phenol and vinyl used in the manufacturing process were found to be in short supply and so no long term manufacture was made."

Martin Jensen at the controls

Power plant 2 x 90 h.p Franklin 4AC

Span 35'2" Length 20'8"

Max speed 135 mph Range 400 miles Service ceiling 13,300 ft

Posted on r/WeirdWings by u/jacksmachiningreveng: link

source

Rudy Arnold Photo Collection, Acc. NASM.XXXX.0356, National Air and Space Museum, Smithsonian Institution.

[stillwintering]

All's Fair in Love and Politics (a modern Nessian AU - where Rhys is running for president)

Summary: In the ruthless arena of politics, victory demands risking everything, even one's own heart. Rhysand has his eyes on the presidency. Feyre convinces her estranged sister, Nesta, to join the political campaign. Nesta and Cassian find themselves forging an unexpected bond as the campaign intensifies. But can their budding romance survive the treacherous waters of modern political warfare?

Read on AO3

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10

Chapter 11

"I have it on good authority," said Azriel slowly. "Kallias is intent on staying in the race through the fall debate cycle."

Rhysand looked up from the papers in front of him. The muscles in his jaw feathered. "Does he have enough funds to sustain him until the Iowa Caucuses?"

Azriel nodded. "It seems his strategy is to split the anti-Thesan block of the party -- prevent us from consolidating the votes."

Rhysand leaned back in his office chair, his head tipped towards the ceiling. "I see," he sighed.

Cassian hummed to himself in the corner of the office, crumpled into a small chair. "You don't suppose..." Cassian's voice trailed off.

"Kallias knows he doesn't have a pathway to victory," Azriel supplied. "It's personal. For him."

Rhysand dragged his hands down his face, looking suddenly more ragged and tired than ever before. "I was afraid that was the case." His violet eyes were dark.

Cassian looked down at the worn carpets. "This is my fault," he whispered, "it was my operation in Herat that killed his men."

Both Azriel and Rhysand bristled immediately.

"Cass, don't --"

"It's really not --"

Cassian stood, pulling himself to his full height. "I made a bad call, Rhys," he said. "Now you are paying the price."

"No, you made a strategic choice," replied Rhysand. "I was the one in the field with Kallias's platoon. It was -- " his voice faltered, "I made the bad call. I am responsible for their deaths. Kallias is right to blame me."

The air in the small office turned thick as if the war had never ended. Cassian let out a shaky breath.

A sharp knock at the door broke the silence.

"Rhys, I need you to look at these polling numbers from -- " Nesta stopped. "Am I interrupting something? I can come back."

Cassian turned towards the door, his posture stiff. He frowned, eyes downcast, a man haunted. Azriel's face was blank, but his skin looked ashen.

Rhys recovered first. "I think we are done here," he said, clearing his throat.

Nesta shifted her weight, eyes bouncing between the three men, the skin on her back tingling as if something terrible had happened. "I can come back," she repeated.

"What about the polling numbers?" Rhys waved her in.

Nesta hesitated. Azriel looked at her blankly. Cassian refused to look at her.

"You would tell me if there is anything for me to know, right?" she asked, steadying her voice.

There was a beat -- she felt it. Azriel blinked. Cassian looked stricken. Rhys clenched his jaw.

She entered the office and placed the new polling numbers on the desk.

Rhys nodded stiffly. "Of course."

---

Tortilla Coast was a Capitol Hill institution -- an unassuming Tex-Mex restaurant just blocks from the Capitol Building and one block from the Cannon House Office. It was possibly the absolute closest restaurant to those seats of power, and everyone, really everyone, went there.

The windows are bedecked with decals promising "MARGARITAS" and "BBQ RIBS"; inside are worn vinyl booths, neon beer signs, and murals of leaping fish on walls of deep red and acid green. The interns showed up in droves every afternoon for cheap drinks and free chips and salsa. Yet, it was the unlikeliest power hub in town, one of Washington’s busiest venues for political fundraisers and power dealings.

During happy hour on a crisp September day, Tortilla Coast was practically bursting at the seams. Nesta begrudgingly followed the Starborn office staff to the promise of mediocre tacos and cheap beer.

Amren surveyed the clientele with a practiced eye.

The Capitol Hill set came here to be seen -- power plays were set in motion, alliances were soft launched, and deals were announced. By the door, Thesan Morgenstern was holding court. A gaggle of eager political underlings around him, holding on to his every word. Nesta immediately recognized the man next to him -- a feature writer from Vanity Fair.

"Looks like Thesan will have a profile in the next issue," she murmured to Amren.

Azriel and Cassian disappeared into a throng of top military brass and foreign policy types -- laughing and smiling like they were amongst old friends. Nesta had never gotten along with the hawkish foreign policy establishment -- The Blob, as they had been derisively termed amongst commentators -- that dominated Washington. They seemed to her like a bunch of outdated dinosaurs championing the old-time gospel of American leadership on the world stage like it was still the 1990s.

Nesta observed Cassian clap the backs of several men in sharp suits and regulation haircuts, reeking of the Pentagon. Their heads bent in hushed conversation. Cassian's face slowly turned stern and resigned, like when she had walked in on them all in Rhys's office last week.

What happened in Afghanistan? The question clanged through her.

Out of the corner of her eye, Nesta spotted Eris by the bar -- his red hair clashing against the kitschy decor. As the Chief of Staff to the Speaker of the House -- Eris was, by the transitive property, the third most powerful man in the country. The crowd around him treated him almost reverently, giving him a wide berth while he made his order with the bartender.

"Proximity to power deludes some into thinking they wield it," Amren commented drily into her beer.

Nesta hummed in agreement. Part of what made Tortilla Coast special was how much one can learn by just observing the crowds.

"The first debate is scheduled in Nashua, New Hampshire, next month," Amren said, turning back to her. "I'm going to send you and Cassian a week ahead of time -- advance team. Bring whomever you need."

Nesta nodded, her mind compiling tasks and logistics immediately. "We'll start planning," she acknowledged.

Eris's gaze snagged on her as he turned from the bar. He greeted her with a nod, then walked away into a crowd of Capitol Hill staffers.

Nothing had sat right with her since the Hewn fundraiser. She needed to know.

Nesta frowned. "Excuse me," she muttered to Amren and pushed her way into the crowd where Eris's distinctive red hair could be seen through the gaps between bodies.

The jovial laughter from his companions died as soon as Nesta planted herself in front of Eris. He eyed her intently, a smirk on his lips.

She pulled his head down towards her shoulder -- the cacophony of music and voices buzzed loudly around them. "What's the play, Eris?" she hissed in his ear. "Is Thesan going after Rhys's military record? Not strong enough on defense?"

Eris chuckled, his breath hot against her cheeks. "Why, hello to you too, Nesta." He smelled like limes and cloves and something smokey.

She walked into him, needing answers. She pushed him through the crowd into the wall nearby. His amber eyes glittered, amused and dangerous. He let her into his personal space, the bodies around them shifting and squeezing them closer against the wall. The air between them was hot, sweaty, and tight.

"Now, now," he murmured, "the interns are going to gossip if you manhandle me in public."

Their faces were pressed so close together -- it was the only way they could talk in private with everyone drinking around them.

"Botched missions? Is that it?" She continued, undeterred.

Eris snorted. "Have a little imagination."

"Then it's to embarrass Rhys?"

He clicked his tongue.

"Why Cassian?"

He leaned back against the wall, and his head thudded against the wood. "So," he sneered, looking down at her from the refined ridge of his nose. "You've got a soft spot for the brute?"

Nesta felt a jolt of electricity run down her spine. "Honestly, I didn't think I meant enough to you to make you territorial, Eris."

"Are you fucking him?" he asked baldly.

She swallowed, her face heating with a heady mix of indignation and shock.

"No?" He studied her keenly, roaming from her eyes to her lips and back. "But you want to."

"You don't know anything about what I want," she snapped, indignation winning out.

His hand suddenly rose to cradle her face. He leaned against her ear, all heat and tequila on his breath. "Oh," his voice rumbled deep, "but I do."

Nesta shoved him back -- he went easily. "Don't touch me," she warned.

He lifted his hands, holding his palms up, satisfied that he got under her skin.

There was a version of Nesta who would have let him feel her up in the back of a crowded bar, who would have even taken him home after. Nesta had kissed Eris for the first time at Tortilla Coast, years ago when she had started working on the politics beat at her first newspaper. She had been desperate and reckless and damaged -- Eris seemed right for her back then. She remembered the weight of his body between her thighs, how he'd made her keen, how she'd made him weak.

She never liked that version of herself.

"That part of our relationship is over," said Nesta, her voice firm.

Eris grunted. "I know." Something flashed across his face -- contrition.

He kept his hands raised and away. Nesta decided to press back into him, taking back control. He let her pin him against the wall -- the bar too cramped and boisterous for anyone to notice them.

"What will Beron do with the oppo research on Rhys?" she asked him. "Did you already give it to the Morgenstern campaign?"

Eris relaxed against her. "Thesan doesn't want to get his hands dirty," he replied quietly. He tilted his head, looking over her into the crowd. "He wants a clean primary, save the hard hits for Hybern. He's far enough ahead in the polls to stay above the fray. No sense in getting involved in petty party in-fighting."

She nodded. "So it's Kallias," she said. "The oppo research is for Kallias. He's meant to take down Rhys so Thesan can skate through to the general unscathed."

Eris smiled -- he always appreciated her intellect. It almost bordered on affection.

"The party higher-ups are rigging the primary for Thesan," Nesta concluded.

"You didn't hear it from me," he said as he slipped away.

Nesta watched him go. She could still smell the limes and cloves and smoke he left behind.

---

Cassian was pushing through the drunken masses towards her.

Tortilla Coast was getting rowdier by the minute as Happy Hour drew to a close -- the cheap beers and margaritas loosened everyone up. Laughter pealed over the hum of conversations, punctuated by the occasional shout as someone called for another round. Standing head and shoulders above the crowd, Cassian was striking -- a dark beacon in the dimly lit bar, his eyes locked on her alone.

He was close now, close enough for her to notice the faint stubble along his jaw and the slight upturn of his lips as he leaned in. His words were a deep thrum against the clamor of the bar, "Ready to get out of here?" His body aligned with hers in the small space, pressing solidly against her.

Nesta nodded quickly.

His hand dropped to the small of her back, a commanding pressure guiding her. Together, they began to make their way towards the exit, his presence a shielding force from the jostling bodies around them.

They spilled out onto the street and into the sunset -- it felt like coming up for air.

He stepped away from her. The loss of heat from his hand on her back made her acutely aware of the early evening chill.

"What did Eris want this time?" He pushed his hand through his hair, loose out of its usual neat tie from the workday.

She looked up at him, momentarily taken aback by his rugged features. He had taken off his necktie, too, collar open. The one drink she had earlier had worked through her system, loosening up her usual defenses.

She needed to know.

"Do you trust me?" asked Nesta.

His brow furrowed. "Of course," replied Cassian immediately.

"I know I'm crashing your little inner circle," Nesta began, unable to keep the bite out of her voice after months of feeling like she was on the outside. "You don't have to tell me everything. But I need to know -- I need to be able to do my job."

"You know everything, Nes." He was staring at her -- hazel eyes burning into her, completely open and all-consuming. Has anyone ever looked at her like that before?

"I swear I would never keep anything from you."

She felt like her skin was on fire.

"What happened in Afghanistan?" She whispered the question.

He blinked. "What -- " Then, his face twisted at the non sequitur. "Afghanistan? What does that have to do with -- "

"I don't care if -- "

"Rhys's service record is exemplary. You have access to his service record, his commendations."

Nesta steeled herself. "What did you do in Afghanistan?"

"Me?" Cassian eyebrows shot up. "What -- ? How is that -- ?"

"Eris pulled your FBI file."

She watched Cassian's entire demeanor change. His body went rigid, his expression closed. "That's classified," he said carefully.

"Eris mentioned that most of your personnel file was redacted," said Nesta, letting out a long exhale. "I need to know if there is anything in there that could be damaging to the candidate."

"Damaging?" Cassian startled. "Where is this coming from? I don't understand how this is relevant to -- "

"You can tell me what happened," she cut in, her heart beating hard against her ribcage.

Please tell me what happened.

Suddenly, he was bending down close to her, his hazel eyes intense, glowing like bronze in the low evening light. "Nes," he breathed. "I want to -- believe me -- but I need you to -- "

She felt goosebumps all over her arms; she couldn't look away from his beautiful face, frozen in place.

"Cassian," she inhaled. "I won't -- " She didn't know how to finish that thought -- tell? care? judge him? She couldn't promise him anything.

His face was only a few inches from hers, and his eyes dipped to her lips.

"My missions were top secret." His voice was low and pleading. "I can neither deny nor confirm anything he's told you. I would do anything, Nes, just ask me -- "

"There you two are! Ready for our run?"

They both snapped to attention at the door behind them, where Azriel had just stumbled out of Tortilla Coast. He observed the scant distance between their bodies and immediately pivoted.

"Nevermind, Amren said she was buying the next round -- "

Nesta took a step back, breathing hard.

"It's fine, Az," she said, surprised her voice was steady. "I need to get a run in."

Cassian looked away -- even in the disappearing light, his face was luminous -- and nodded.

---

First, they had to stop by the Congressional Staff Wellness Center to change out of their work clothes and into athletic wear. Then, the three of them took their usual 8-mile route around the National Mall. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, but the sky was still bright. The yellow September dusk made the monuments glow otherwordly.

This evening's post-work run was uncharacteristically silent. Usually, Cassian teased her. The three of them frequently talked about campaign strategy or upcoming legislation while they warmed up or paused at stoplights.

Tonight, Cassian was particularly solemn. Azriel was silent in his own unique way -- hyperaware, assessing. Nesta focused on her body, feeling her muscles work as they passed the Reflection Pool and then on to the Washington Monument. She pushed herself especially hard, needing to resolve all the tension that had built up in her body from her talk with Eris and then Cassian.

She had meant what she said to Eris, that the sexual part of their relationship had ended. After the spring charity gala at the Hewn Mansion, she felt a kind of finality to their intimacy. They used each other and for a long time, Nesta thought that it was enough. It took leaving DC and coming back years later -- older and only marginally wiser -- for her to finally be ready to let him go completely. Eris made every decision based on a calculus of power -- always looking for the upper hand in every interaction. He could never be what she needed.

But what did she need?

Nesta was a stranger to herself.

She had spent the entirety of her adult life closing herself off to her needs. She left home at 18 -- after her mother died and her father disappeared in all but name -- and never looked back. Her departure was as much self-preservation as it was an act of retaliation.

She was barely a teenager when her mother wasted away in front of her eyes. Her sisters were too young, too soft. Her father... he couldn't bear it. Nesta held a 10-day vigil over her mother's deathbed. She didn't have a good relationship with her mother, but she also couldn't leave her alone in that sterile hospital room.

Those last days were a cruel torture.

Her mother drifted in and out of consciousness -- cancer and morphine consumed everything that had made Elinor Archeron the formidable woman she had been in her wakeful life. She had asked for her sisters, for her father -- each time, all Nesta could do was shake her head, unable to speak, until finally, Elinor had stopped saying anything at all and just stared at Nesta like she wasn't there either.

Nesta would never forget her mother's last words to her. In a rare moment of lucidity, Elinor had whispered, with a ragged breath, "It's better if he loves you a little bit more."

Those words imprinted themselves on her like a tattoo across her heart. Nesta had resented her father's weakness, his absence, his failures. But she resented him, most of all, for not loving them enough to stay.

It's better if he loves you a little bit more.

Eris never loved her. She wasn't sure he could -- not with her, at least. And Nesta needed -- no.

She needed more than what she'd allowed herself to hope for.

---

Azriel peeled off from them at the last mile, making some vague excuse about needing to take a detour on the way home. He gave Cassian a meaningful squeeze on the shoulder and Nesta a soft smile before heading in the opposite direction.

Nesta followed Cassian toward the Lincoln Memorial, where they usually started or ended their evening workouts. They slowed at the far side of the steps, finding a private spot and avoiding the few tourists coming through.

The sun had set entirely now. The white marble edifice was bathed in spotlights, its magnificent columns rising like ancient sentinels into the starless sky.

Cassian turned to face her, his chest rising and falling from their run, breath heavy. His eyes were clear and intent, the exercise seeming to focus his mind.

"I trust you, Nesta," he said, using her full name for the first time in weeks.

She considered, eyes searching his handsome face, then slowly nodded.

"Do you trust me?" Cassian asked.

She could feel her heart beating hard against her ribcage -- adrenaline and endorphins flooding her senses.

When she did not reply, he asked again, "Nesta, do you trust me?"

She felt light-headed, but her words felt right as she spoke them, "I trust you, Cassian."

He stepped towards her, their chests inches apart. His hands reached out to gently grip her biceps, the contact grounding her. The professional boundary between them suddenly felt permeable. She felt a tug towards him, like falling into gravity.

"I served on Delta Force for 15 years," he began softly, his voice tinged with resigned anguish. "I was deployed with the United States Central Command and Southern Command. My focus was on unconventional warfare and counterinsurgency. I've been through hundreds of missions… done things that haunt me every day. The war was brutal. I have scars -- " his right hand moved from her bicep to her wrist, guiding her hand to rest against his right hipbone, "shrapnel wounds here -- "

He gently pushed her hand down the length of his muscled thigh, tracing the wound. Her breath hitched at the intimacy of the gesture and the horror it represented.

"I fractured my femur in three places," Cassian continued his voice a hushed murmur as she explored the outlines of his quadriceps through the thin fabric of his gym shorts.

"And here -- " he placed her left hand over the center of his chest " -- a bullet just missed my heart." His voice was low, and Nesta imagined the tattoo across his skin there, camouflaging the puckered scar. His chest was hot and solid beneath her palm -- she could feel his pounding heart.

"I've had to make impossible choices, ones that I can never take back." The intensity of his attention on her was overwhelming. Nesta listened silently, rapt. "The guilt, the weight of it all… it’s always there, like a shadow I can’t outrun. But I don't want to hide any of that from you."

"Stop," she murmured, removing her hands from his thigh and chest before she did something she would regret. "You don't have to -- "

"I do," he interrupted. "I want you to know everything about me."

She took a deep breath, letting the cool evening air fill her lungs. He smelled like black truffles, bergamot, and something distinctly Cassian.

Feeling bold from touching him earlier, she reached out and cradled his face in her hands. His eyes fell immediately, nuzzling into her touch.

"How many people have you killed?" she asked in a whisper.

Cassian's eyes remained closed, but his brows furrowed immediately, and he frowned. She traced the notched scar along his eyebrow with her thumb, wondering how that particular wound came to be.

She needed to know if she could bear it.

"I don't know," he finally said, opening his eyes -- hazel and pained. "I stopped keeping track. I don't know how many enemy combatants I have killed. There are always unintentional consequences of war. The civilians, I -- " His voice broke, looking like he was on the edge of tears.

Nesta softened. It was like she could finally see him in his totality for once -- all the jagged edges and the aching tenderness underneath. "That's why you left the military," she supplied for him.

He nodded, leaning forward to press his forehead against hers. "Nesta, my ledger is red as sin," he said. "And I'll try to rebalance it for the rest of my life if I have to. When I first enlisted, I believed in the mission, in the idea of fighting for the greater good. But war changes you. It strips away the illusions... There were times when I had to prioritize the strategic objectives over my conscience. The faces of those I've lost, of those I've hurt, they never leave me. I live with the consequences."

His voice wavered, and Nesta could see the pain etched deeply in his features. "I've tried to make amends in whatever ways I can. I work with veterans, advocate for survivors of armed conflicts, help get Rhys elected -- I'll do anything to give back, tip the scales... but it'll never be enough, I know."

He paused, his confession hanging between them, suspended in the autumn night. Nesta felt his sorrow, his regret -- a raw, untamed thing that resonated within her own soul.

"Cassian," she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her hand gently brushed away a tear that escaped down his cheek. "You are a good man."

His eyes snapped to hers, searching, hopeful. The evening lights caught the edges of his irises, gilding them with a golden hue that made them appear almost like a painting. Cassian’s hand reached up to touch hers, his fingers trembling slightly as they interlocked with her own. He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles softly. It was one of the most erotic moments of her life.

"That’s more than I ever hoped to be," he said against her skin, his warm breath sending a shiver down her spine.

Nesta felt time slow down, the world narrowing down to just the two of them, their faces inches apart.

He moved first, a slow and deliberate motion that closed the remaining distance between them. His lips met hers with an unexpected gentleness. Nesta responded instinctively, her lips parting slightly as she melted into the kiss.

Cassian's hands, callous from so much destruction, now held her with a careful reverence, fingertips tracing the lines of her jaw, then behind her ear, down her back as if memorizing the map of her body. Nesta's arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer and deepening their kiss. The taste of him -- spicy with a hint of something darker, more primal -- was intoxicating, driving her to explore further, her tongue seeking his with a boldness that matched his own.

As the kiss went on, Nesta moaned against his mouth, hands roaming over the hard planes of his back, clutching at the fabric of his shirt as if she could somehow pull him even closer. Cassian reacted with equal fervor, his lips trailing burning kisses down her neck, finding the tender spot that made her gasp, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

Cassian’s mouth found hers again, this time his kiss demanding, consuming, as if trying to drink her in, to drown in the very essence of her. His teeth grazed her lower lip, coaxing a gasp from her that he swallowed with a deep, throaty groan.

Nesta's heart raced, her senses overwhelmed by the wet heat of his mouth and the hot press of his body against hers -- every inch of her tingled like lightning was about to strike. It was like getting everything she wanted and everything she feared at the same time. She desperately wanted to lose herself in what it might feel like to fully let go of the past.

She never wanted the kiss to end.

[rustbeltjessie]

Chicago Noise (Love Letter to Steve Albini) by Jarret Keene

How many boys want to be whipped by Steve Albini’s guitar? -Sonic Youth bassist/singer Kim Gordon

Woke up this morning, as usual, hungry for white-boy noise and black coffee. Popped in – what else? – Big Black’s Songs About *!?king and blasted it at full volume on the home stereo so I could feel every

drum-machine wallop in my molars, every lacerating riff against my face, those places where noise really hits me when its good and loud. Steve, there’s something about your band Big Black

in the morning that helps me to more effectively hate birds outside my window as they chirp ridiculous tunes about nothing to no one, something in the serrated edges of the song “Pavement Saw” and

the slaughterhouse fury of “Colombian Necktie” that transports me to the Loop, jostling around inside a metal tube across an ice-cold, urban-Midwest landscape of old, bombed-out meatpacking plants.

Like it’s a clear day in March and I’m taking it all in – the canyons of LaSalle, the cliffs of Michigan Avenue, the public artworks – and there’s this satanic chainsaw behind my ears, eager to sink

its teeth into my skull, turning my lights out and then everyone else’s. This noise is dirty and yet so pure that I can’t help feeling even more comfortable in my alienation, even happier in hostile

territory. I imagine myself lying down like a lamb at the paws of a lion guarding the stairs of the Art Institute. I picture myself walking into a Wicker Park record shop (a real record shop that

actually sells, you know, vinyl) and asking the skinny, unfriendly employees there if they might sell me another Big Black LP. And when they scowl at me with an expression that says “Why don’t

you already own that record, poser?” all I can say to my fellow rock snobs is leave me alone, because I’m armed and dangerous, and about to vaporize Cloud Gate in Millenium Park, to rip

the girders from Calder’s red-orange flamingo-looking thing perched in front of the Federal Center with my incisors before flame-broiling it oh-so-slowly with an acetylene torch until the steel is tender enough

to eat with a plastic spork, to challenge the next thrash band to play the Double Door to a demolition derby-style mosh pit involving broken beer bottles and our bare chests and bags of salt.

And if anyone asks about the point of this tsunami of sucking nihilism, this whole tortured carnival ride, let me say that it’s my chance to ignore the terrifying silence at the end of this caffeinated daydream.

Anyhow, Steve, just thought I’d write you a quick letter letting you know how much your anti-corporate band gets me dreaming of Chicago and prepares me for another gray and greasy day

of corporate enslavement, chained to my cubicle, hoping for a moment to shut down my computer and loosen my tie, straining to hear a measure, the merest note, of the sweet music of birds.

[corduroyinstitute]

Three years ago today, Corduroy Institute used a random number generator to select a pair of albums to inspire our 59th song: Hunky Dory by David Bowie and Hole by Foetus. Perhaps more than any other pairing, this duo determined the aesthetic direction of our Eight/Chance/Meetings album. However, the song we recorded on January 4, 2020, is among the most significant pieces in our catalog.

This session is historically valuable since it was last time we recorded new music together before entering the prolonged period of isolation. Our next instrumental sessions would take place nine months later in October of 2020. However, on that January afternoon, we had no inkling of what the future had in store for any of us—for the sonic researchers gathered at the Bancroft Laboratory of Auditory Sciences, it was an opportunity to continue mixing two musical influences. The Bass VI and the Digitakt managed to swing like never before and the EPS 16 Plus and the Telecaster swirled up and down ambiguously tense scales.

Eleven days later, we convened to craft the lyrics for this piece. Then, in February, we gathered to record the vocals for Corduroy 59. These two meetings would constitute the last time we finished a fully-fledged song together until the October sessions. By then, it was a different world for all of us. In a sense, therefore, it wouldn't be imprecise to say that this song which eventually became known as "These Variations of Grey" is the final memento we have from a bygone age.