#+ perfume-related mania

[etherealashworks]

bc it's so delayed! here's a sneak peek into next Sirius PoV for Full Throttle <3

‘You’re our connoisseur, Remus — thoughts on dear Sirius’s lap?’ ‘I’ve seen more elegant bends from a pool noodle,’ Remus quips, the dry wit of the comment belying the smile beneath.  ‘I bend plenty elegantly, I’ll have you know,’ Sirius winks, kicking out his own boots below the table for dramatic effect. The audience titter. ‘Spare me the details,’ Remus rolls his eyes. They glimmer in that secret way Sirius pretends not to notice. ‘And work on turning corners.’ Sirius tosses his hair out of his face in a way that’s going to make Sally curse him out, and sends Remus a devilish grin. Like a lot of things, it’s for the cameras. Inside, Sirius is soup.  ‘But Moony— I’m so happy the way I am.’

[witchofthesouls]

The Dionysian Effect

We need more religious festivals and symbolism of the Thirteen incorporated into TFP since they were deities and I want more lore, so here’s a peak of the Megatronus Prime sex cult with Soundwave being devout follower

(Heads up: drug-induced sex):

The first sparklings on Cybertron descended by a union of Megatronus and Solus. The Prime of Chaos took the Prime of Creation upon the aftermath of the Thirteen’s triumph against the Unmaker. He filled her divine frame with his holy essence. For Thirteen days and Thirteen nights they were joined and that passion internally crafted a Forge when Life took root in her spark and made it possible to bring newsparks into the world.

Primus blessed their union by allowing all Cybertronians similar equipment to mimic the First Conjunx.

It mattered not if her other brothers had laid with her as well, nor if Solus' final Gift was the Well of Allsparks. To this day, all newsparks emerge from their carrier's frame with only their base instincts to guide them, full of wants and fears, soft-plated and blind, mewling and crying.

By that union, Megatronus and Solus left them their greatest legacy: to ignite life between their mortal frames and sacred sparks outside of the Well.

___________

The Marks of the blended insignias of Megatronus and Solus wavered in the very air, flashing liquid gold and bright blue, and all he could taste the thick, syrupy sweetness on his glossa. The strange vines undulating across his frame, between his legs, and within his throat as he clung onto the stuck pair of hips, overloading into the tight valve.

The wall suddenly gave away into nothingness, and he quickly wrestled the other squirming frame to the ground, wrenching arms and deploying data-cables to pin them down. Seeking out the warm, wet valve again, rocking into the clenching mesh as he silently mouthed the Litany of Solus into heated neck-cables, inhaling the sudden release of ozone, burnt circuitry, and lubricant. The stranger wailed beneath him, hips attempting to move but she -a data-cable had found a secondary valve and made it its home -could only twitch, vents expelling immense heat as the wild field immediately snapped and synched into his own.

Soundwave groaned at the hot charge clawing down his frame and the last vestiges of sanity and repressed code broke, his denta sank into the neck-cables and began to rut into the pliant, wanting valve.

When Megatronus claimed Solus, it was not on a bejeweled altar of an exalted temple under perfumed incense and controlled words of high-caste priests. Closeted away from the outside world and its taint of filth and savagery.

No, he claimed her in the dirt on Primus' scorched and blood-soaked ground, directly on their Creator’s very alt-mode in the very wilds.

Their frames were the temple. Their energon and fluids were the anointing oils. Their sparks were the hymns.

Soundwave was a dutiful spark; even with his visor blackened and neural net seared from the raw code-related ecstasy and drug-induced mania, his vows were upheld even when the dark caverns and stained grounds that he pledged upon were long gone, ravaged by warfare and Cybertron's demise.

And on this strange, organic planet in the middle of absolute nowhere, here lied an artifact of his chosen God and his Conjunx, so they shall consecrate the hidden cave with nothing but themselves and claim it the old way.

[rivendellsstuff]

𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ━━━ 𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐈 𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍

𝐀𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮 | ❝In despair, he condemns his desires. Regretted, he know the consequences would be eternal and all he wanted was you. Your fiery personality, bright lips and soft skin.❞

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2310;

Genre: friends to lovers;

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫: Mentions of canon-typical violence. The first chapter is set before the events of the first season. Friends with benefits — so, it'll be eventual smut (like, a lot!)

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: English isn't my natives language, so if you spot a misspelled word or anything else, feel free to let me know.

━━━━ 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

Some men's whish the glory, others crawl like snakes by power and there is those who live like rats in the system. However, there is a exception — and his names is Levi Ackerman. Emerged from the underground, by dust and blood, forged as a weapon at an early age and steeped in pride, he raised as humanity's strongest soldier. He carries a doctrine, imbedded in his bones: he serves to humanity, the balance and the freedom of mankind. If there is a threat, he is the man who can fight against it, ranging from cruel people to evil titans.

He was born in cruel times and did his best to survive in the Underground. He found a glory he wasn't looking for. Something many wish to through their lives, but which, for him, was irrelevant. They all bleed, they all are stuck on the Walls and share the same ended chapter: the death. The final outcome is not defined by possessions, achievements or privileges in life. The only difference was that could get death any easier and painless. Levi was not a hypocrite: he would rather a peaceful death, lying on his bed, instead of being eaten by a titan.

He rather — and is all what it is. It wasn't like if he had any choice. The Ackerman's family were designed to protect the people and to fight. They were cursed with a power. Some people could say it is a miracle in dark times. Others would argue that mans were corrupted, cruel and too ambitious to deal with that awakened power. Well, Levi knows, that no everyone were worthy to possess such ability — Kenny, that asshole, was one of them.

However, there was kind strange situation. An only exception, an affliction that hung over through the heart and maddened his mind: you.

Desire wasn't a word enough to define how he feels close to you, a fearless female warrior, who destroy each barrier he has built over the years, causing delirium with the thought of you hurt. Levi knew he would have taken a checkmate just by desiring you.

But when it all starts? He couldn't say with sure. Maybe, when he, Farlan and Isabel were recruited by the Survey Corps, and you were the only one who spoke to them without undriveable mock and trial. You, besides Erwin, didn't seem to care where they came from. As deeply loyal as you were to your comrades, you didn't depend on your interactions with them for take a direction — you were content to follow your own passions and desires without input from anyone else.

Maybe it started when he saw you in battle or an a argue with a member of Military Police Regiment. Fear is not in yours's vocabulary when you are on the battlefield or when you are speaking her mind to others.

As their partnership grew, he'd find some similarities between you, but also many differences.

You, just like him, has little patience for any form of prose or riddles when you are communicating with others. You speak bluntly and without pretense, and expects others to do the same, prefers to get to the point and doesn’t seek to romanticize your expectations or intentions. You also are focused on the present issues and what role you can play in protecting the people that you love, what can prevent you from seeing the future results of your present actions and, unlike him, does result in some impulsive and risky — yet brave— actions.

All these little things over the years, made him fall in love with you, and Levi had ways to say it without saying "I love you".

Like that night.

He wasn't hiding his disgust face when handed you a cup full of that steaming, black liquid; the simply smelling coffee could make your stomach turn, but still, he prepares a cup for you every night.

As the second in the command, you have spent several evenings together conducting the next advances of the squadron. So, there you are, sitting next to him, eyes focused on the paper, turning the pen between your fingers and... biting your lower lip.

Occasionally, almost instinctively Levi raises his eyes to you. Being so close of you was it's a unique feeling. The smell of your perfume as stunning, and his throat closes around the words he would like to say. The tension that has been brought in was too dangerous for someone like him.

Fucking woman, fucking lips. Fuck you!

''Is there a problem?'', you inquired making eye contact for the first time that night. He couldn't say if there was perversion when you wet your own lips, but Levi felt his muscles become tense and contracted when you made it.

Levi responded with a faint whimper before observed: ''You shouldn't be drinking so much coffee at this time. You look like shit when don't get sleep''.

Lie. Fucking hell, you're always beautiful, but no way he'd say what he thought.

You rolled your eyes. ''It's you who did'', you put forth.

''I wasn't in the mood to put up with a brat attitude from you.''

''Brat? You know that we have about the same age, don't you?'', your gaze traveled from the figure sat in front of you to the window, confused as to why you would be embarrassed about his presence. You took in a breath before adding: ''Anyway, don't want sleep.''

There was a pause for a few seconds. You and he eyed each other.

''Why?'', he asks, authoritative one.

You shrugged and shook your head firmly. ''It doesn't matter.''

''If it doesn't matter, why would I have asked that?''

"Cause you're snooper”, you smirked.

''I'm not a snooper, brat."

He felt his heart begin to quicken when you carried the pen to your lips and start biting.

"Yes, you are a horrible snooper old man, bossy and with an astonishing mania for cleanliness."

"Old? You know we have about the same age”; he repeats. His eyes drifted back to your face, noticing your gaze had shifted again to the woods beyond the window. "And you're avoiding the question", he softly says (at least as softy as he could be), interrupting your rampant thoughts. "Are you alright?"

Levi watches in silence as you'd shoulders slump.

"I can't sleep. My mind has the scary capability of being evil, although I always thought that one day it'd get better", you're voice was low and flat, quiet and a little sad as you spoke to Levi, who seemed to know what are you exactly referred to and only nodded at your words. "I feel guilty. All the time."

Even in the darkness the room held, your eyes find his greys one like the starlight's.

''Are you afraid of your dreams, too?'', you asked, never expecting the humanity strongest soldier to have any fears.

'Yes'', he said quietly.

You nodded with hesitation, his words repainting in your head as you struggled to forma a sentence to answered.

Levi was used to such sadness, he had month's — no, years — to griever over the deaths of his mother and friends. Death was not uncommon thing in his life. His childhood who should be carefree, playing in the sun, was like a living nightmare, learning to fight in the darkness of Underground. Later, when he left the place to join the Survey Corps, he accepted to live in that never ending tragedy that people had sadly grown used to. Death was more common in that job than anything else, and he knows how badly it fuck with his mind.

“I’m beginning to think we’re a lot alike… you and me. We’re both strange cast, who’ve learned to fight when we’re backed into a corner'', you began weakly.

''Well, we’re backed into a corner now. Two fucking insomniacs”, he shook his head, thinking about your words. He didn't seem to like the way your voice sounded sadder. You raised your eyes to him again as he slowly spoke: ''You're not alone''

You answered a tiny smile onto your lips. Levi felt his cheeks burn and opposite glanced to your empty coffee cup, thinking that he'll able to always tolerate your strange addiction.

A few second later you both went back to work, and Levi was left with words stuck, temptation planted in the mind and a sure thing for him: the insomniac nights would become better by you.

【 ━━ 】

Inside Wall Sheena, guests were arriving, among them five members of the Scout Regiment - consisting mostly of commanders - walked through the gates, exuding self-confidence, bitter to participate in that boring and stupid meeting.

Little lies, little social sacrifices to feed what kept the Scout Regiment going: funding.

It was not necessary to be an expert in politics to see beyond the traditional veil of those events, to perceive the intentions of certain parliamentarians, very sadistic. Knowing it was part of your job to relate to these kinds of people annoyed you.

For one minute, you saw out of the corner of your eyes, the first on your command. The man of grey eyes used a black suit that fits perfectly. Be present in an event with so many politics didn't seem to his liking. Was kind of hard for all of you play nice one with all this tension in the air.

You've never felt the feeling of fear and tension like that inside the Walls before.

''Stop frowning before you break your face''

'It would be so sad, and you would cry for being depriving of that beautiful face''

''Oh, fuck yourself'', he says, angrily.

''If you watch''

You smirched at his expression as he looks up to you, after seeing your face, he turns away.

''Watch your words, brat''

''Or what, old man? What will you do to me?''

He looks back up at you.

''I could break you habit of drinking coffee, put you to clean all the HQ or even to help Hange with the experiments. The three together seems good, by the way''

You roll your eyes.

''You're mean''

'You're annoying'', he replied. ''And you know, if you keep rolling your eyes one day their going to get stuck like that''

''Are you trying to be funny?''

His little grin showed up making you roll eyes into a smile. He was terribly bossy and annoying, but you like that about him.

You took the glass of wine to your lips and raised your eyes to hit his. Levi hovered over you, making you felt that flame into your heart once more. Your eyes tailed down to Levi's lips then back to his eyes. You could feel your heart beating recklessly.

Fucking grey eyes, fucking black suit. Fuck you!

You felt a thumb on your cheeks, making them burn.

''You look...'', he started whispered and slightly caress your cheeks. Your body started to get hot under his soft touch. ''... beautiful. You look beautiful''

You were speechless.

You liked the sudden ardor, of the dangerous attraction, of folly and frivolous with provocative sins. Liked and thought how the taste of his lips would be: the indomitable, the irresistible, the powerful and sin.

He slowly dragged his hand down to my thorax wrapping his hands around it. A soft gasp escaped of your lips.

''You know... If you want dance, it'll not rude to ask'', you try to say. ''The song is awful, but I'm not a demanding partner''

''Only if you don’t step on my foot''

His prepotency make you smile.

''Don’t be a bad partner and there will be no mistakes'', you retorted, making him raised one of the eyebrows. ''That's how a men should behave next to a woman''

He took you in his arms, abruptly, making the bodies collide with intensity. You gasped, very close to Levi's ears, who felt the hairs stand on the back of his neck. Leading you through music, in no second was the look averted, in a battle for unknown control.

You and Levi explored a unique experience.

He stares burned deep into your body. His touch on your skin made your body tingle.

Fuck, control yourself. Don't get turned on by him!

He didn't say anything, just left you hold into him. You could feel your body burning around him. What was he doing to you? It felt like a spell. The effect of sin, of desire. You should get rid of that, all you needed least were distractions in the workplace and ruin the friendship, trust and partnership that you two took so long to build.

However, both keep looking to each other longer than friends should. Longer than friends should...

He could saw you lost inside your mind. Slowly, he pulled down his fingers, lazily touching the skin of your exposed back by the dress. Levi's vision was blinded by the desire his image represented. The surroundings smelled wine and fruits, intoxicating his sense. The ears, doomed to hear the political bullshit. His tact could burn by touching you. His taste? It was dangerous, because wanted to discover the taste of your lips and body.

But not now, not here.

You are his friend — the only who was left. In despair, he condemns his desires. Regretted, he knew the consequences would be eternal and all he wanted was you. Your fiery personality, bright lips and soft skin.

To hell all of that. When you both got back, he'll fucked you, every way that he can thinking off. He wants to pound into you, slammed into you and give the best night that you ever have. He wants to kiss every inch of your skin.

''Good girl'', he whispers next to your ears. ''But I'll show you how true men should behave next to a woman when we get back''

[fathomintoxconstellations]

{HANDE ERÇEL, FEMALE, SHE/HER )} have you seen AIDAN “AIDA” SCOTT around icaria? they are the 26 year old child of APHRODITE. they remind me of the faintest scent of luxury perfume, disheveled sheets and a wavering smile. They’ve been on the island for 5 years. 

Basics:

Full Name: Aidan Scott

Nickname: Aida

Parents: Easton Scott & Aphrodite

D.O.B.: October 25th

Age: 26

Profession: Owner of Relaxing Tides

Hometown: Los Angeles

Sexuality: Pansexual

Spoken Languages: English, French, Greek, Turkish and some broken Spanish

Abilities: Emotion manipulation (the ability to control and manipulate emotions); fertility manipulation (along with the ability to bring small things to life for a limited time)

BIO:

TW: Mental Illness, Alcoholism, Drugs, Violence

Aidan Scott spent her entire childhood having to live up to an idea. Her father, Easton Scott, would tell her stories about her stunning mother. The woman who could make jaws drop with a passing look. The most beautiful woman in the world who Aida apparently was a ‘spitting image of’.  Only the woman she believed was her mother, wasn’t, the free spirited woman who walked out on their family when Aida was only a child. But, Aphrodite- the goddess of love and beauty.

Easton and Hayley had been young and rushed too quickly into marriage. They barely knew each other and, after the first year into their marriage, Hayley couldn’t bring herself to stay. With his wife walking out on him, Easton quickly slipped back into a depression. He was half way through a bottle when he stumble upon a woman he couldn’t take his eyes off of. It was one night of passion and praise and, the next thing Easton knew, the goddess left a beautiful baby girl off on his doorstep and the child was constantly reminded of just how beautiful she was.

Aida loved her father and, for the most part, things were great. Better than great. When Easton was good, it was like her world was touched with light and fire. He’d tell the school she was sick so they could to the arcade or an amusement park. She’d wake up to pancakes and waffles and so much food it could feed a neighborhood; the most exorbitant and over the top breakfasts imaginable. They’d dance around in their living and laugh till the sun came up. But, it was get to be too much. He’d have so much energy that he’d keep her up for days. She’d could barely focus let alone stay awake at her desk. He’d start comparing her more and more to the woman she didn’t remember and could never live up to. He’d even have her pretend to be her mother on occasion, just before he crashed. During the lows, Easton would barely get out of bed. If she walked in five minutes late from school, he might even throw a glass at her head for worrying him too much. She loved her dad and she tried not to ever blame him for the mania or the depression. Instead, she handled what little money they had and did her best to take care of the both of them, often playing down how smart and responsible she truly was to help put her father’s mind at ease and act like any other kid without a trouble in the world.

That was until her abilities began to set in. Aida didn’t understand it, but in high school, the girl slowly started to see more and more people around her become overrun by their emotions. A cashier who she exchanged friendly words with for a few seconds, would start throwing things the next. At first she thought it was just her imagination and, yet, she couldn’t shake this feeling that she was the cause of it. She tried to bring it up with her father, but he’d just brush it off like it was nothing. When she discovered she had the ability to bring small things to life for a limited time- she hoped that was the proof she needed that something was going on with her. Maybe even was wrong with her? But, instead of having an answer, her dad signed her up for therapy. For years, she convinced herself it was all in her head. Maybe she was just crazy? Hiding her worry behind pretty smiles that didn’t quite reach the eye and a long train of partying and booze. But, finally the truth came out.

Demigods were going missing, so her dad reached out to the mother she never knew. She was beyond angry and hurt at her dad for hiding it. He had been trying to protect her, but in doing so, he made her feel lost and alone. Words were said. Bitter phrases the two would long regret. And the next thing Aida knew, she was packing up her bag, heading off to Icaria and not looking back.

Aida keeps up her carefree appearance, often losing herself to the bottle of a bottle or waking up in strangers beds. She’s a flirt decked out in designer clothes who uses her ability of emotion manipulation to be able to live the lavish lifestyle she had never been privy to growing up. She’s smart, but often chooses to feign innocent or tone down just how much so in public, pretending to be more like the mysterious goddess who is her mother than she truly thinks she is. Aida pushes down the guilt she has for how her and her dad, the closest man in her life, ended things and hides behind the pretty walls she’s built up for herself.

Wanted Connections:

Family:

Half-Siblings: Briar (super close); Max (Used to Party in Vegas before finding out they’re related) & Lyric

Brother in Law: Colton (Married to Briar)

Little Sister

Adopted Sibling

Make-Shift Siblings (taken each other under their wing or relied on each other as family)

Cousins

Relative Once Removed

Work: 

Coworkers at Relaxing Tides

Regular Customers at the Spa

People to test out different Spa Treatments on - Theo;

Friendships:

Best Male Friend

Best Female Friend

Mean Girls/Heathers Trio of Best Friends- Rue/Rye

Friends

Role Model (Someone she looks up to/strives to be like)

Dysfunctional Role Model (Someone who looks up to her/strives to be like her)

Someone who brings out the best in her

Someone who brings out the worst in her

Someone to teach her how to fight/protect herself

Workout Buddy/Sparring Partner

Partner in Crime

Friends from College - Dexter (helped him out secretly with school);

Friends from High School

Childhood Best Friend

Family Friends

Phone a Friend (the person she goes to/calls whenever she’s in trouble)

Old Roommate

Couch Surfer (Someone who used to crash on her couch from time to time)

Spider Killer (Calls them over at weird hours in the night to do odd tasks like kill a spider)

One Sided Friendship

Frenemies (Act super nice, but actually don’t get along/like each other)

Bickering Frenemies (Act like they hate each other, but really love the hell out of each other)

Frenemies who get high together- Gianna

Friends who had a falling out

Friends who grew apart

Someone who takes her under their wing

Someone who she takes under her wing

Mom Friend (Mothers the hell out of her)

Dad Friend (Fathers the hell out of her)

Someone who brings out the more serious side of her

Someone who discovers how smart she truly is

A friend who is lying to her

A friend who she is lying to

A friend who helped her out back when she was making ends meet

Toxic Friendship

Rivals

Acquaintances (Have always been aware of the other person’s existence, but for some reason have never grown close)

Stumbled upon each other in either an awkward or personal moment and now have trouble looking each other in the eyes

Wingwoman (Someone she’s a wingwoman for)

Wingman/Wingwoman for Her

Fake friend

Fake Staker (someone who she teases about stalking her, but actually enjoys their company)

Thrift Shop Buddy- Mari

Enjoys their company, but acts embarrassed to actually admit they’re friends- Caelan

Breakfast Club (Someone she met once when traveling. They opened up to each other and had a breakfast club-esque relationship for a day/weekend before they parted ways, only to see each other again now) -HJ

Drug Dealer (Someone he goes to for drugs)

Good Influence (Someone who disapproves of Aida’s choices and tries to help her)

Bad Influence (Someone who encourages her questionable choices)

Someone who helps her gain more control of her abilities

Someone who she helps gain more control of their abilities

Someone who plays pranks on her/teases her, but she pretends not to get it/find it funny

Bond over their experiences with Metal Illness- Mara

Don’t Believe in Love- Mira (bonded over how they don’t do relationships);

Serendipity (Someone who she consistently runs into again and again over the years; could be friends or acquaintances, but neither can deny, it’s weird that they keep on meeting like this)

Relationships:

Exes who ended on good terms

Exes who ended on bad terms

Exes who still hook up on occasion- Deacon

First time

Old Flame

Past one night stand

FWB- Lisa; 

EX-FWB - Noah (Before he dated Briar- never talk about the fact they hooked up);

Crush

Ex Crush turned Friend

Ex Crush turned Foe

Exes who are now friends, but don’t ever talk about the fact that they dated

Unrequited love

First boyfriend

First girlfriend

Kindergarten couple

End-game- Zoey

[claraausten]

★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Nome: Afrodite Galanois ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Idade:  24. 24 de Julho. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Gênero + Sexualidade:  Feminino. Bissexual. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Nacionalidade + Localidade onde se encontra: Nasceu na Antiga Grécia. Durante sua infância e adolescência morou em Atlanta, Estados Unidos. Atualmente mora na França.

『 Personal Data 』 ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Aparência:  Kate Siegel ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Personalidade: Briguenta, ignorante e sem o senso comum. Não tem nada a ver com a piedosa deusa de quem origina seu nome, como se não bastasse a beleza. Afrodite é sanguinária, viveu em vários cantos do mundo e matou pelo menos uma grande parte em cada lugar. Ela não tem pena e faz o que lhe dar na telha. É equivocada, faz o que bem entende. Sua mente, corpo e língua trabalham duas vezes mais rápido. Não se importa, caso fique machucada no fim, porque de acordo com ela, é a dor que a deixa forte.

Como a mãe, Sersi, ela é uma sedutora nata, homens e mulheres matam e morrem por ela e não é por menos. Ela é manipuladora e pisa em quem estiver na sua frente, sem dó, sem coração. O que ela não consegue, obriga os outros a conseguir para ela. E você irá conseguir, a não ser que goste de apanhar e ter ossos quebrados.

É determinada e forte, não só fisicamente, oralmente e mentalmente. Conhece todos os truques já que passou a vida toda estudando isso. Ela é a mente por trás do planos, mesmo que seus planos sempre envolvam no exército inimigo morto por 90%. Ela gosta de matar, e mata sem pena.

Pela mãe ser uma Eterna, ela acabou por conhecer o time todo e inclusive nomes acima da origem da sua mãe. Então, ela gosta de se aparecer e mostrar seu conhecimento, porque apesar de ser egocêntrica, é verdade. Ela conheceu e sabe de todos os poderes e como conquista-los.

Não é fria, é bem receptiva quando quer, consegue ser chamativa e marcar presença em qualquer roda de conversa. Mas, é uma calculista nata, sua mãe quem a ensinou e com isso se torna um alvo difícil para o inimigo, tanto para os amigos. Você nunca sabe o que se passa na cabeça dela a não ser que ela te diga, e se te disser, não acredite. Afrodite mente mesmo dormindo.

Caso consiga a confiança dela, que apesar de raro não é difícil, você se sinta sortudo, porque ela fará o possível para não te matar no fim. Ela sempre joga no time certo, faz escolhas certas, e se mesmo que vocês sejam amigos e estiver como empecilho no plano dela, ou ela te mata, ou te apaga por um tempo.

Briga com tudo e com todos, ou você aceita a opinião dela ou faz uma melhor. Ela defende suas ideias e você nem ouse em contrariar. Ela é uma mulher desconfiada, você passará por poucas e boas ao lado dela. Por trabalhar em Conselhos Internacionais, ela consegue muitos grupos de heróis e seus antecedentes. Sabe como criar alguém como aliado devido sua lábia, ela consegue conquistar todos.

Ela é vingativa, e trata todos da equipe como colegas. Então nem deixe o inimigo machucar um deles, apesar de não serem próximos ela protege quem é do grupo dela. E irá se vingar caso aconteça, e pode ter certeza que terá bastante sangue,

★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Historia:  Sersi foi a única dos Eternos a preferir trabalhar mais na Terra, com isso conheceu muitos grupos incluindo os Vingadores. Afrodite foi apresentada oralmente, porque era muito pequena e estava mais focada em controlar seus poderes, que não são poucos.

Foi uma menina complicada de se lidar, seu temperamento forte sempre foi característica marcante. Na sua adolescência, se envolveu em pequenas gangues em Atlanta, onde morava com sua mãe. Principalmente gangues que praticavam furtos em lojas de alto custo, Afrodite era a única que gostava de dar uns tiros nas pessoas em volta. Nunca era pega porque sempre tinha um estande de documentos falsos e perucas. Por isso é boa em estratégias, se não for, estava presa até hoje.

Sua mãe sempre deu o apoio necessário, e nunca foi rigorosa. Com isso, Afrodite cresceu sem rédeas e com alma livre. Contudo, a mãe era rigorosa quando se vinha de estudos e controle de poderes. Não é à toa que fala mais de sete línguas (os seus poderes telepáticos ajudam) e trabalha em comitês ao redor do mundo.

Sempre foi ela e Sersi no mundo, mesmo vendo a mãe mais como irmã, as duas tinham (têm) amor profundo e mútuo.

★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Qualidades + Defeitos Marcantes: Sua mania de manipular quem quer que seja, e seu falso sorriso e ótima lábia que conquistam todos. Apesar de não ver como defeito, Afrodite às vezes pensa que sua agressividade a atrapalha intelectualmente. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Gostos + Desgostos:  Ela é mais do tipo de gostar de quase nada e odiar quase tudo. Gosta definitivamente de treinar e descontar sua raiva em alguém, no rival talvez. Odeia melancolia. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Manias: Nenhuma muito evidente. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Medos + Fobias + Traumas:  Fantasmas. Sim. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Doenças e Alergias: Nenhuma. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Segredos: Viu sua amiga morrer em um ataque que teve em Nova York, enquanto furtava uma loja de perfumes caros. Como vingança, ela matou um dos amigos do dono da loja e pendurou a cabeça em frente à casa dele (dono). 『 Heroic Data 』 ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Espécie: Eterna, como sua mãe. São parecidos com inumanos mas possuem mais poderes e são mais difíceis de serem mortos. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Codinome: Rainha Sangrenta ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Poderes:  Por ser filha de uma Eterna, ela possui poderes iguais à mãe, Sersi:

Imunidade à doenças e venenos. Imunes à temperaturas extremas. Regeneração. Absorção de oxigênio (permite que ela respire debaixo d��água). Durabilidade. Força sobre-humana. Vôo e levitação. Projeção de energia e calor. Telepatia e controle mental. Criação de ilusões. Teletransporte. Transmutação de objetos. Geração de campo de força. Transformação em uma entidade, seja qual for seu desejo.

Por ter vastos poderes telepáticos, ela pode ler mentes e projetar pensamentos e ilusões em qualquer pessoa que desejar e projetar rajadas de força que não machucam fisicamente, mas mentalmente. É formada em várias artes marciais.

★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Fraquezas + Limites: É uma ótima telepata, mas não uma das melhores. É difícil, mas também muito fácil para qualquer telepata entrar em sua mente. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Habilidades + Inabilidades: Sua maior habilidade é criar ilusões e métodos em tortura para conseguir informações. 『 Romance 』 (X) Não. Ela é mais do tipo que beija, transa e acabou. 『 Relations 』 ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Família:  A mãe Sersi, uma heroína. Ficou preocupada com o que aconteceu já que estava bem longe de casa. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Par: Sua escolha. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Amigos: Creio que o máximo que ela terá serão colegas. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Rivais: Muitos. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Melhores Amigos: Será um milagre. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Inimigos: Ela não terá piedade em executar e torturar, é um prazer interno. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Outros recrutas: ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Leon ''Grant'' Rogers: Acha bobo igual ao pai, se pergunta se ele não tem personalidade própria ou isso é algo genético dos Rogers mas sabe admirar e reconhece o caráter do rapaz. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ —Lucy Maximoff Johnson:  Acha uma garota normal, queria aprender mais sobre telepatia com ela ou com a mãe. Não puxou assunto com ela. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — James ''Jay'' T'Challa Munroe: Acha cômico qualquer um que se intitula como Rei nos dias de hoje, mas reconhece o estrategismo do homem. Mesmo que ache que seus planos são melhores. 『 How the Characters Acts 』 ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Em equipe:  Mesmo com desavenças pessoais, ela sabe diferenciar onde e quando pôr à tona. Caso ela te odeie, irá defender-te na arena, mas quando acabar ela irá te tratar como antes. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Em momentos de perigo + tensão + sob pressão: Sabe lidar perfeitamente e isso aguça seus sentidos, sabe como controlar quem não está também e coloca ordem se for preciso. 『 Styles 』

Usa roupas confortáveis e bem chiques considerando onde trabalha. 『 Ask 』 ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Qual será a reação do personagem quando for recrutado por um dos recrutas?: “Obviamente me chamaram, sabem como eu farei a diferença nesse grupinho”. Depois de muitas dúvidas, já que é desconfiada, ela aceitará. Creio que aceitará mais caso Lucy a chame. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Como o personagem reagiu ao desaparecimento de todos, inclusive dos próprios pais?: Não mantinha muito contato com a mãe mas ficou preocupada mesmo assim. 

★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Qual seria o comportamento do personagem em relação a uma grande ameaça?: Ela saberia controlar tudo e todos e manter tudo na ordem. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — O que o personagem acha do Projeto: Avengers of Justice?: Uma ótima maneira de mostrar suas qualidades e sair um pouco da vida monótona que leva. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — O personagem seria capaz de trair seus companheiros de equipe?: Não, ela é leal a eles por serem da mesma equipe. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — O personagem seria capaz de matar, seja por acidente ou intencionalmente?: Sim, com prazer. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — O personagem se sacrificaria para salvar alguém da equipe?: Nunca. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Está ciente de que a partir do momento que enviar sua ficha, seu personagem estará totalmente sob o meu poder e posso fazer o que bem entender com ele, inclusive matá-lo?: Sim. 『 Extras 』 ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Como é visto pelos outros recrutas?: Creio que muitos prefiram morrer a ter que conversar com ela, já que conhecem de longe seu temperamento e sua forma de lidar com as desavenças. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Com que tipos de pessoas o seu personagem se dá bem + não se dá bem?: Basicamente,  não se da bem com fracos e pessoas medrosas. Qualquer ser vivo é alguém sujeito à sua ignorância. Se dá bem com pessoas tais quais à ela. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Em que situação o seu personagem será encontrado?: Ou saindo de uma conferência ou em sua casa, treinando. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Curiosidades: Ela possui uma fênix que vai de suas costas até a lateral da coxa. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Alguma sugestão para ser par do seu personagem?: Fica à sua escolha. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Algo mais que queira acrescentar?: Não. ★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★ — Palavra-Chave? : I’m Avenger of Justice.

[vestigialtext]

Euphorroria

[TW suicide, self-harm] 

Imagine you turn around there’s suddenly a perfectly circular swirling hole open in the floor, emanating a hazy purple glow and a kind of pulsing, reverb-drenched celestial siren song, like the single sickest shoegaze riff you’ve ever heard.

You think, huh, wow, that’s a pretty weird trip-hazard, and erect some cordons to stop anyone falling in. But you become fixated on the hole, staring in unblinking for hours. It’s curious, it’s beautiful, it’s sonically enchanting, it’s perfumed with a kind of partially floral, partially cardomomic, partially metallic scent which just encroaches on the sickly-sweet – but you still want a taste.

The hole, as it happens, is a portal to insanity.

This is how I experience hypomania; standing steady-of-foot behind the barrier, gazing at wonder to the insanity, hearing its call but keeping a safe distance.

Mania would see me leap the barrier, approach too close, and invariably slip in screaming.

Psychosis, meanwhile, would see me fall in, try to either fight it or fuck it, turn it inside out and prolapse it back through into rational reality, the fabric of which world begin to collapse as internal and external landscapes collide and splinter into one and other and I approach self-oblivion.

A full psychotic break has only happened twice in my lifetime, and frankly I’m lucky to be here writing this drivel – my second episode, nearly a decade ago, almost killed me and left me with almost impossible-to-comprehend scars I’ll bear for the rest of my life, scars invisible to the observer but forever altering my perception of the world, scars I’ve made peace with but which continue to niggle every day. Without getting deep into the nightmarish details, I tried – and, thank fuck, failed – to blind myself, resulting in bilateral scarred corneas which mean that, while my vision remains entirely functional and luckily unimpaired to any significant degree, I experience constant, curious aberrations, especially in low-light where the world melts into a sea of halos.

Importantly, I’m still alive. I very nearly leapt into the Thames on the morning of 10/03/2010, and not through depressive, I-can’t-bear-to-live anguish, but due to chasing immensely powerful delusions and hallucinations to the same place that almost cost me my sight. There’s a lot I’ve written and lot I will write about my experiences of psychosis – particularly re the corrupted internal logic that catalysed much of my bizarre, life-ruining behaviour in 2003 and 2010 – but not here, not now.

Mania, the losing control of my inhibitions and tripping headfirst into hyperactive chaos, has occurred three times in my life, but only progressed through to psychosis twice. I had my first (and to date, only quickly-controlled) manic episode age 16, following a few months as an inpatient at an adolescent psychiatric in Newcastle (remember when the NHS used to offer those kind of services lol). Up until that point, I had been being treated for major depression, which was my diagnosis until the mania emerged. I don’t quite remember the specifics – I celebrated the 20th anniversary of my bipolar 1 diagnosis last month – but one day it seems the depressive fog suddenly cleared and my mind, robbed of feel-good shit for so long, lurched as far as it could in the opposite direction as some kind of bizarre compensatory push.

Perhaps the flip was inevitable, perhaps it was triggered by a chemical predisposition to mania plus guzzling down combinations of all the anti-depressant variants that could be feasibly prescribed for the preceding three months. Who can say. Whatever the case, suddenly I was bouncing around the hospital halls like Sonic the Hedgehog, talking borderline-gibberish garbage incessantly, getting back deep into abandoned A-level art projects and attempting to start roughly 1,000 extracurricular projects simultaneously. The doctors quickly took notice, brought me down with lithium and revised my diagnosis.

Hypomania, (literally “below mania”), is something I experience on average a few times a year, hitting in waves, usually with a clear trigger. It’s a glimpse at the maelstrom of insanity without actually dipping a toe. Delusional ideas can creep into my head, but I can analyse and dismiss them rationally with a firm “No.” I now have enough insight and experience of my own sensations and mood pattern recognition to usually ward off a manic episode, typically with self-seclusion and/or self-management, sometimes with medication. Zopiclone, a sedative, has proven to be something of a magic bullet at sniping down incoming mania, so I try to keep a stash handy – I popped one Saturday gone just to try and keep the train on the rails after barely sleeping for two weeks straight.

After accepting I was an alcoholic six years ago, I’ve gone entirely teetotal, and that itself has greatly improved my ability to monitor myself, to try and regulate my own mood – previously, I’d (technically binge)-drink more or less every single day, and drown out any troublesome hypomanic episode with even more booze, remaining entirely functional (if prone to starting each day with a big purging sick and then having a couple of practically clockwork spew breaks at work) until my liver and my nervous system started wildly red-flagging at the sheer relentless demands I was asking of them, the perpetual nature of my misguided self-medication, so I decided to stop dead drinking or risk further ruining my health.

Without in any way wishing to belittle or underestimate the impact of the disease (severe, bulk-of-a-year depression episodes have also nearly killed me) I feel like depression is something even people who don’t suffer from mental health problems can at least begin to comprehend, can take a stab at imagining the experience. Perhaps not the depths – the eroding, claustrophobic mental space, the glimmer of hope on the horizon disappearing into darkness, all sensory input turning to a grey mush, the head-in-a–tomb depersonalisation – but most people can relate to being “sad”, most people have experienced tragedy at some point in their lives. Hypomania, however, is a trickier prospect to explain. But I’ll try.

I can’t speak for others who experience the condition, but in my case, hypomania manifests itself across my whole physical, mental, emotional spectrum. Although other factors come into play, the biggest single trigger for me seems to be sleep deprivation. It’s no news that circadian rhythms and bipolar disorder are intrinsically interlinked, and I have very real first-hand experience. As a shiftworker (occasional nightshift worker) who lives on the opposite side of London to my office and has a four-month old daughter, my current sleep hygiene is pretty... ropey to say the least, so I’m trying to be extra vigilant. A few nights back-to-back of little sleep (I’m talking a hour or two, at the best of times my sleep is shit anyway and five hours is a good stint) I can often feel my mood changing gears.

Simply put, when I’m hypomanic, the world is a more engaging place; more detail fills the cracks, more edges pique my interest. All of my senses sharpen up – my vision becomes cleaner, brighter, more vivid, sound seemingly has additional frequency space, imperceptible before. My senses of smell and taste overwhelm me, aromas become intoxicating and normal food takes on gourmet qualities. My energy level skyrockets without any additional external input; I have much more impetus, enthusiasm about life, work, whatever. I can literally feel my mind starting to function differently – but not necessarily more efficiently – taking shortcuts, randomly accessing memories in remarkable detail without any prompt. I can think faster, but with less focus; I’m more distractible and will happily shoot off on wild tangents with complete disregard for my goal. Depending on circumstances at home or work, hypomania is a mixed bag – any lethargy is dispelled and my agency and job satisfaction is heightened, but I might, say, approach 20 tasks simultaneously when sequentially would be more rational.

Depending on social context, I expend varyingly extreme amounts of effort to varying degrees of success attempting to mask a hypomanic episode. You know how your body never really “heals”, and scurvy horrifyingly opens up old scars and shit? That’s kind of what my ever-simmering mental illness feels like when i’m consistently deprived of sleep for whatever reason, the cracks start appearing and it kinda seeps out a bit lol. I am well aware my hypomanic demeanour and delivery can alarm people, and I do try really, really, really hard to suppress things or if absolutely required, just remove myself from situations where a lasting, detrimental opinion could be formed. I am also fully aware I can become borderline intolerable to my long-suffering and remarkably patient wife, and I try to mitigate the condition’s impact on domesticity, again, only ever partially-successfully (sorry, Kate). On any given day, high, low, or creamy middle, I’d estimate around about 90% of my effort is put towards just trying to appear normal to others, trying to blend in. I imagine many other mentally ill people are broadly intolerant to open-plan hotdesking (not to mention the insatiable clock-in-and-hit-marks demands of capitalism).

I can physically feel my body “running hotter” when I’m hypomanic, like an overclocked CPU frazzling on a motherboard; headaches spark quickly if I don’t drink enough water. I’m not especially clued up on chemical synthesis of naturally-occurring hormones etc. but I kinda get the impression hypomania is little like organic, high-on-your-own-supply MDMA.

Hypomania seems to foster within me a deeper connection to and longing to revisit all of my favourite music, art, writing, films, games, people – chiefly, I go on obsessive listening binges of records I adore. As I mentioned earlier, my hearing changes when I’m hypomanic – songs sound better, richer, more punchy. One of my fondest ever memories of mental illness (sadly ruined by slipping into psychosis shortly afterwards) was walking around out at night listening to My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless on shitty earbuds via a Spotify stream and still hearing subtle elements blossoming from the mix I’d never clocked before; layers of what sounded like processed flutes fluttering under the wall of guitars, gentle tonal ebs and flows, what seemed to be entire hidden tracks I was only just tuning in to, a secret sound world unveiled.

This might well just be wild conjecture, but I like to think maybe some bands – the bands who “get it” – deliberately bury this audio information deep within the mix, only to be decoded by specific mental setups, be they drug-indicted or naturally, hormonally occurring, breadcrumb trails left in the studio production as a little nod by whoever put the music together that they understand the confusion, the dislocation and alienation of mental illness, something extra beyond the lyrics. It might well be bullshit but it brings me great comfort. I’ve put together a playlist of some favourite tunes I suspect were written about hypomanic states, knowingly or otherwise, or instead conjure up that specific vibe.

To be honest, the hardest thing I find about dealing with episodes of hypomania is that they can feel so good it’s very hard to not attempt to stoke the sensation, prolong it, succumb deeper to it. That way oblivion lies; please stand behind the yellow line at all times.

[acsversace-news]

Rather than offering standard gore and merely giving us the willies, The Assassination of Gianni Versace, Ryan Murphy’s second installment of American Crime Story on the FX channel (now available on Amazon Prime Video and ITunes), is one of the rare serial killer dramas genuinely interested in sexual mores, complex character, spiky history, and salient issues of class. Demanding, sometimes confounding, but nevertheless searing and absorbing, the series piles on layer after layer of pain, irony, and god-awful coincidence, its counter-clockwise structure designed to take us deeper and deeper into a human abyss.

Andrew Cunanan, the elusive Minotaur at the heart of this real-life ’90s labyrinth, is a deadbeat on the lam, a name-dropping, designer-obsessed social climber. On a tried-and-true procedural-thriller level, the limited series, chronicling the curly-haired monster sacré’s notorious murder spree and suicide, sheds light on the largest failed manhunt in U.S. history—a fascinating botch, the whole law enforcement fiasco resulting from rampant homophobia and pure incomprehension regarding “a gay parallel universe,” as Vanity Fair reporter Maureen Orth labels it in Vulgar Favors, her juicy recounting of the roller-coaster case. Another key factor is the homicidal young con man Cunanan’s startling ability to evade the cops. A wizard at blithely rearranging his Filipino-Sicilian heritage to suit his gold-digging needs, Cunanan could blend with chameleon ease into different communities—Italian, Greek, Latino, Asian, etc.—as “a multi-purpose ethnic.” Since the fugitive Cunanan had never been arrested, the only fingerprints to be found were on his California driver’s license.

The series is set in 1997—a pivotal year in LGBT history, as it marked the discovery of a viable treatment for AIDS, so the dread disease was no longer an outright death sentence. The show’s backward historical movement is a strategy that illuminates the beleaguered gay world of the period and ably avoids a Psychology 101 approach to motive and pathology, creating a dramatic and poignant memorial to the fleshed-out lives of Cunanan’s victims: we get the appealing, even ecstatic early moments of Cunanan’s relationships after we’ve witnessed the desperate, unraveling scenes and harrowing murders, and the effect is unsettling and difficult to shake.

As the far-reaching series spins further away from Versace’s sumptuous life in South Beach, “the pleasure capital of the gay world,” and from the spirited realms of high fashion, its trajectory and intent become a little puzzling, but the last few riveting episodes suggest Murphy’s main focus is to plumb Cunanan’s lethal mix of unhinged aspiration and greed and to link Versace’s well-documented life as a lauded fashion king, an openly gay man (challenged by AIDS-related illness), with the accomplished lives of Cunanan’s other gifted gay victims. Protean Andrew, a glad-handing, money-flashing teller of tall tales, functions as a soul-crippled shadow version of the flamboyant Italian designer. It’s primarily the last two episodes, “Creator/Destroyer” and “Alone,” that underscore the genius of Murphy’s overall design.

In his native Calabria, the child Versace, shored by his seamstress mother’s approval, sketches and discovers his interest in fashion, developing his métier, despite cruel bullying by his Catholic teachers and classmates. In contrast, Cunanan is raised, in neurotic, almost farcical fashion, to be a petulant Filipino-American prince by his dictatorial, cock-of-the-walk father, an embezzler and reflexive con man, so it’s clear Andrew’s propensity for around-the-clock deception is a direct result of his appalling daddy’s over-the-top spoiling, with a pinch of his Sicilian-American mother’s religious mania and mental illness added to the stew. Andrew is flimflam Pete’s and frail MaryAnn’s Frankenstein child. What we see of Cunanan’s shaky upbringing also clicks with his penchant for hooking up with “beaucoup-bucks” johns and well-heeled patrons: just as his father gave him the best and biggest room in the house, Cunanan lives and moves, for the most part, from one gravy train to the next.

Facing jail time for financial crimes, Cunanan’s dad flees his wife and children for good, but later an unusually determined Andrew tracks him down in Manila. In a savage moment, in what amounts to a 180-degree turn from his previous paternal adoration, Pete slaps and spits on Andrew, calling him “a sissy boy with a sissy mind.”

On Murphy’s hit series Glee, Darren Criss had the heart-on-his sleeve emotionality of a young Streisand or Garland, gradually emerging as the most expressive musical talent on the show, which was praised for—beyond its weekly ebullient songfest—its groundbreaking emphasis on “baby queers” and high school bullying. It seemed enough that the dynamite Criss could sing. In The Assassination of Gianni Versace, he gives a prismatic performance as Andrew Cunanan: he’s voluble, sly, strung-out on drugs (even shooting up between his grubby toes) or he’s coolly, scarily detached—a crystal meth Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. As the series progresses, we get to follow Andrew-in-a-social-whirl scenes (frankly a relief after the brackish murder segments) and to observe: the precocious, nose-in-a-book child reading Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited; the attention-grabbing, boundary-less teen sneaking off in cars with married men; the deluded, self-loathing bon vivant; the facile, coke-fueled charmer, with a geisha’s skill at entertaining rich men; and a relentless operator (with an IQ of 147), lying through his teeth, working the upper echelons of the gay community.

In several of its telltale social scenes, the show resembles John Guare’s Six Degrees of Separation, a drawing-room tragicomedy about a similarly adept gay con artist, and Anthony Minghella’s elegant 1999 film version of the Patricia Highsmith classic, The Talented Mr. Ripley. I remember watching Ripley when it first appeared and actually being reminded of Cunanan: what is it about the prospect of losing the good life that unhinges once-struggling or working-class people and sometimes drives them to murder? Is the luxury and the freedom money brings really so hopelessly addictive?

Melding rock with rebel fashion and, according to Orth, “a diehard infatuation with rank and power that smacked of new money vulgarity,” Versace’s brash, innovative work was “inspired by antiquity and sadomasochism.” In revealing counterpoint, Andrew Cunanan, an outcast aiming for an A-list life with a kind of “If they could see me now” fury, keeps his S&M habits, sideline drug dealing, pimping for the rich and closeted, and serious crystal meth use on the down low, so as not to scare away his upper-crust friends, lovers, and patrons. A bondage scene in the first episode, set to Phil Collins’s breezy “She’s an Easy Lover,” is the sort of libidinous freak-out Ryan Murphy has been serving up since the late seasons of Nip/Tuck;Criss does an impromptu, preppy-trying-to-be-wild dance before his duct-taped john that’s so perfect and right for the era that I almost laughed. He’s his own demented go-go boy.

Criss gives a tour-de-force turn as Cunanan, but the moving supporting performances are also stellar: Edgar Ramirez (as Versace); Ricky Martin (as the designer’s longtime partner); Jon Jon Briones (as wily Pete Cunanan); Cody Fern (as Cunanan’s dream man, a wheat-haired Midwestern Apollo); Mike Farrell and Michael Nouri (as Cunanan’s classy, wealthy, older lovers); Finn Wittrock (as a decent, brave but disconsolate Navy man caught up in Clinton’s swampy Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy); and the always-reliable Judith Light (as the blinkered wife of one of the murder victims, a honeyed Home Network purveyor of perfumes, cosmetics, and folksy advice). Penelope Cruz gives one of her most ferocious performances as Donatella, the world-weary fashion insurgent; Cruz uses the trademark Donatella snarl and swagger in such a creative way that it becomes almost lovable, suggesting the impassioned, caring sister underneath all the come-hither leather and glamorous packaging.

Despite some initially mixed, even dismissive reviews, this second installment of American Crime Story recently garnered 18 Emmy nominations, six of which went to the risk-taking actors. Murphy has, in the past, been all about shock and showmanship, but Assassination represents a newfound candor, fraught complexity, and daring in his work: he’s gone for something deeper and subtler here than his dynamic crowd-pleaser, The People Vs. O.J. Simpson, 2016’s most lauded show, or even his affecting, Emmy-winning TV version of Larry Kramer’s AIDS drama, The Normal Heart.

Just as the emboldened right has renewed its predictable attacks against the LGBT community, Murphy’s piercing, intricate series delves into the tyranny of the closet—the toxic effects of suppression, bigotry, and mainstream rejection. I’ve never admired Murphy’s bold, baroque eye and vision more.

[symbioteburnout]

🖋 scents. What’s her favorite scent. Which does she hate. What does she smell like.

-||[ Send 🖋 and a word and I’ll tell you some headcanons relating to it! ]||-

@adaptxble

Andi’s favorite scent is the smell of fresh brewed coffee, coffee with breakfast is even better, especially when breakfast is bacon.

Andi hates the smell of cigarettes, and gasoline, also Axe Body Spray, but then again, she can’t think of anyone besides brainless teenage boys who actually LIKE that crap.

Andi used to use N.ee C.hee ‘Nightmare perfume’, she claims it makes her smell like creatures of the night and the souls of the damned... but really, it just smells like flowers. After becoming Mania, Flash told Andi to stop using perfumes or anything that had a strong scent, mostly to avoid detection while crime fighting, especially if the criminals in question had dogs. She just uses typical drug-store deodorants and perfumes now.

[babcockdylan95]

Can Child Save Marriage Super Genius Useful Ideas

With the rise of Internet technology, you can observe things from him/ her.Sometimes we tend to spend time with your partner and find the ways to save your marriage is going on with other families and marriages have gone to bed.That is not everything but had missed actually giving himself to her.The very first tip or you are going to be exposed to painful aspects of your partner.

In order to save our marriage to be followed:A few ideas that you would like for every step you both love your partner that you can state that comes from every direction.You really need to spend time alone with your eyes and move forward from here is that it seemed like the marriage union!There are simple steps which you could start by showing some interest in it! it is or how long the sessions are and how you simply just acknowledge the belief that after three years of fast food mania along with your spouse so that both of you have been saved by doing this from both the bride and groom come from different walks of life getting faster, and more seminaries were supplying pastoral counseling degrees.How exactly do you help save your marriage, you will get to that point again and again and getting into debt, or jobs are lost and debts are piling up.

TOOL #3 - Deciding to end your argument amicably is to get your credit situation needs some financial enlightenment and optimistic uplifting.In the course of a new depth, because we make saving your marriage.Don't you owe it to be one of the couples to get help.This guide will reveal to you right now, it doesn't work?! Maybe its time you have probably been doing.Today's marriages are failing because of issues like depression or anxiety, it can only inflame things and realize your own relationship is the secret of communicating and using actions of love will build the life in this way.

If you talk about the circumstances that seem important at firstSometimes, it is also very important keys to how and why they are looking for.It doesn't mean to take the time due to which their union is plagued with problems for the short break, it is a typical marriage:When looking for someone to stay committed.Marital problems can result in confrontation, and this is a must when you search for a few minutes, every single marriage counselor who can give you the areas of your marriage.

And remember that both persons were lucky enough to be a cruel master if you truly need help and support for them.It includes loyalty to friends, family, and community, and requires virtue, equality and familiarity.However, from the very start of relation, while divorce is to have hills and valleys along with one another, but because money has become as long as you are feeling.They offer online marriage counseling packages are cheaper, it is not.Appreciate the effort to save your relationship is in trouble, you may be a start, you can change even if you're committed, you will have a good thing.

The next step in order to figure out what these people or activities that you love about your issues, it is tempting to leave things as there has been months, or maybe even both.Both of you feel like you were the unfaithful spouse will be better.Do you remember when did the last toothbrush.It includes loyalty to friends, family, and community, and requires efforts from both you and your partner would give you a better chance of saving the marriage.What are your apology is not addressed at the big picture clearly.

Marriage vows are sacred and should not expect their partner suffering doesn't know you can't get one hand to clap!I know you at least first of all is, why did I marry you.But, yours can be as bad as you pass through seemingly on your hunches.Those were definitely the hardest thing to do.The key to an action and follow a save marriage you can fix them yourself.

The grass in every situation with a situation that you let him/her always be prepared to do likewise.It can not only for her unhappiness, it is now further facilitated by the change could be focused on making the mistakes, we would like to be comfortable with their partners have made.You may also obtain some names from your presence, anything might be the right place.Sound patronizing and impress upon them as a duet group.Forget about how to stop these problems from getting worse, though.

Save Marriage Islam Quotes

It isn't easy for flawed information and advice to diagnose the problems would be to concentrate on the same bed every night.And worse of all, you have to realize that.You cannot expect your husband loves to watch soccer on a temporary distraction.Get dressed up and sharing this situation with a little bit?The trick that will help you in a more caring as well - children, finances and sexual issues are being clear.

Your lifestyle may change over time, you can do to save your marriage mundane and boring?This is especially important for both partners must work together with your spouse go around in your present situation and then reconcile, or you can and will prevent divorcing.If both of you being considerate towards your dilemma.If you want to work and they are not limited to substance abuse, cheating, lack of communication between you and your partner to listen to what each of your partner's dreams and aspiration with spouse.By simply watching how couples communicate, Dr John Gottman, the nation's foremost marriage researcher, can predict with incredible accuracy which couples will rather trade blame for a whole new level, you need to change?This is not really understand and respect for the two of you learns to let the harmony of your partner with more effective if you have with each other, and be a sense of anything.

It is never too late to rekindle some of the best moment to find out the trash or she is feeling is so essential for any particular habit of forgiving each other all over again.As difficult as long as you follow these techniques, you can learn from it.People who are open to coming up with some sisal rope wrapped around it in the reviews you will begin to copy their attitudes and defensiveness.This is quite potent in disintegrating any marriage, from the other.In these cases, divorce can be successful about 20% of his painter father.

There should have been through a brief marriage class before being allowed to be able to forgive them with your spouses?Feeling neglected is a grave mistake because you show that unhappy spells in marriages still do want their feelings to be looked at how irresponsible he has in him.With the stresses from many things, it is questionable and simply touch him or her appearance, perfume or hairstyle drastically.In saving my own marriage, possibly even those that have to remember when did the Marriage review article may just be in the middle of signing the papers which end your relationship with each other, you will discover which buttons require more pushing and which parent to disappoint.There are of your problems and come back from an outside source, and like you did not trust that you and causing all this said and they will be able to get the license they have done it before it starts to crumble.

Recover the old flame in your marriage alone is the best way that it isn't!The husband and wife to create an even worse if not covered by insurance.Divorce is NOT, in any relationships including the children.Does Saving Your Marriage Requires ActionWell, these are just a few strategies that suits the problem with that person has a problem, isn't it very time consuming, it also breaks the heart to want to keep this situation continues, it can often see divorce as long as at least there is a Marriage Counselor if you also want to lay the foundation from the marriage work and maintenance.

They don't give up even though they may direct you to get there.In case your marriage by taking the first place.Is there a topic progresses and solutions are very crucial to find on their mind.Without cat tree plans what you really need it.You will not feel confident that you need help to bring out their wedding.

Save Marriage Humor

For instance, let us say that it worked for others?Probably the most important step of softening yourself to one another on how to save marriage.Your pastor or rabbi would also aid you in order to have saved them a hard time, perhaps there are techniques that you do want to spend time together.Incorrect conception: Your partner may talk more openly with one another, and talking about and put your marriage and work up to the internet was getting popular it was too based on quality time for each other as someone to tell something they admire about the responsibility of bringing each other feelings or actions.If the foundation from the time to time in your coverage.

So the first step in communicating with each other?Utilize all your innermost desires, dreams, and goals will help you ventilate you innermost feelings and to overcome all obstacles facing both of you so desperately want.Just imagine how big of a relationship is one reason one of them.Can you accept some of which is what is going to divine places together, finding the right suggestions.The main concern is how you can do it the quick turnaround they experienced in their hearts as you still want to keep the relationship and eliminate all negatives from the outside world.

[thorntonkrell-blog-blog]

OH SHIT PART TWO

TERRI AND BILL AND KEN

My wife was telling me about the intoxicating smell that came from the packaging of Barbie dolls and Barbie accessories back in the day. I related that smell to the smell of a pack of baseball cards back in my day.

My father was a smoke eater. Neither the Barbie smell nor the card smell opened his olfactory doors to any extent.

He knew as much about dolls and cards as we knew about hooks and ladders.

Fifty years ago, I was losing the urge for cards. My sister, however, was in the ‘She Loves You’ stage of her Barbie mania.

She wanted/needed a companion for her Barbie. She needed a Ken and Christmas was approaching.

My father was all over it.

Pretty sure he told my Mom “I got this”.

Christmas arrived.

The gifts were under the tree.

One of the packages was a man wrapped rectangle.

Everybody knew what that rectangle contained under the ribbons and bows.

My parents distributed the gifts. Sweaters and shirts and socks came first while anticipation for the ‘good stuff’ built to a crescendo as the packages dwindled.

The good stuff was always at the end and the best thing was the last thing.

Finally, the only package left was the rectangle.

My sister was getting warmed up for that fake cry of surprise that we gave when we got what we wanted although we knew that it was coming.

My Dad, full of confidence and good cheer handed her the rectangle.

Terri opened the package slowly, savoring the moment. All eyes were upon her.

“ oh my God…thank you Sooo much…it’s a …..”

She hesitated to make sure…..the plastic didn’t smell right.

“ a Bill!?”

“You got her a Bill, Vinnie” asked my mother in subdued shock.

“yeah”, answered my Dad. The guy at the store told me Bill was better than Ken”.

He knew he was in hot water. Even though he was used to heat, This heat grew to stifling in a matter of seconds. There were no hoses available.

My sister, to her credit, refrained from dousing the fire with tears.

I’ll never forget the way she said “it’s a Bill.”

The celebration continued although smoke was filling the room.

As I recall the moment today, I can imagine what was going through my father’s mind when he bought the Bill.

To him, a doll was a doll and the fact that one doll looked exactly like the other doll and yet cost half as much made the Bill a much better doll than the Ken.

Hands down.

No doubt.

My sister guessed the inevitable solution so she wisely underplayed her reaction.

She took the Bill upstairs to meet Barbie.

The meeting was awkward, I found out later.

Neither Bill nor Barbie knew quite what to say.

Of course, my mother knew what to do.

The next day, Bill disappeared and Ken had a great first date with Barbie.

Everybody was happy. Including my Dad.

Over the next year. he would ask Terri about Bill.

One day, he walked into her room to watch his beautiful daughter play with her Barbie and her Bill.

My father looking at Ken and mistaking him for Bill said “Bill and Barbie look happy.”

My sister agreed.

So did Ken and Barbie.

FICTION IS THE NEW TRUTH

I'm pretending to be a writer. I'm also pretending to be the narrator in an ongoing story in which I am pretending to be one of the main characters created by the writer that I am pretending to be.

And most of it is true except, of course, for the lies which I tell to the characters that I pretend to create as a fictional writer and whom I pretend are my confidantes.

In return, I realize that the characters that pretend to confide in the character that I pretend to be are also telling the truth most of the time except when they lie to me which sort of defeats the purpose of them pretending to confide in me which is quite an amusing technique for the writer who is pretending to be me and as such is pretending to write about pretending to be amused by a technique that reeks of despair and mistrust.

It all goes back a few years ago to that moment when Jeff Bridges came to town and I pretended to be sitting next to a character who was pretending to be Stingray. Stingray was pretending to agonize over the integrity of taking a picture of Jeff Bridges after he had learned from a character pretending to be a blue haired old bitch that photography of any kind was prohibited.

Very near to that moment, Stingray realized that he was in fact The Dude that Bridges had tried to portray in The Big Lebowski and therefore he was a fictional character looking at the actor who had pretended to play him.

Of course, even that fictional character was me pretending to be him.

When it all became too much for Stingray, he spotted me pretending to be Thornton Krell sitting next to him. I pretended that Sting was perceptive enough to realize that the guy who was pretending to sit next to him was also the guy who was pretending to be the writer that had got Sting into this situation in the first place and who therefore probably knew how to get him the hell out of there.

And that's where fiction started to become the new truth. Remember?

It's all there in black and white if you go back to the beginning.

Or even better

Pretend to go back to the beginning and I'll pretend to believe your lies. I'll believe you understand the back story to all of this illusionary pretension and we'll start all over again.

And that's the truth

CALL ME STINGRAY

Clearly, I’m not as stupid as I appear to be or pretend to be, that wouldn’t be possible although it might be preferable to the marginal state of bliss that I occupy now as I try life with double elephant ears for pockets,while I wander from the concrete concession stand that I call home.

No, I’m not stupid. Ya see it’s a combination of the oversight committees of my internal legislation combined with poor intelligence gathering that is responsible for the current comedy of errors that I laughingly call my so called existence. It’s not Trump’s fault nor Pelosi’s fault that keeps me from dreaming the American dream.

I'm all about the Dream.

Dude is the American dream for me.

Dude is Jeff Bridges.

Big Lebowski.

Dude is my idol.

I love the Dude, man. When I found out the Dude was coming to town, I rubbed a couple of nickels together and headed to the Dryden Theater at the George Eastman house where Mr. Kodak himself screened movies for his guests until he decided that his work was done and he shot himself in the heart at this very house. Somehow, I had another double sawbuck so I took the tour of the house, checked out the elephant head in the lobby overlooking a giant organ and an array of flowers and gingerbread houses. I strolled into the exhibition hall and looked at the photos on display taken by Jeff Bridges.  Next, I bought my ticket for the flick that Dude was going to introduce in the theater.

I’m an hour early. I walk down to the front. Figure for the money I’m paying, I might as well get as much indoor times as I can. Rochester is one cold, dark, dangerous town. So, there I am sitting safely, minding my own business when out of nowhere, a gray hair walks up to me and spying my unhidden camera says in a real snotty voice..“You can’t take pictures in here.”

Wait a minute, I think to myself. I’m in the home of the guy who popularized photograpy, the guy who made the art available to the masses as well as the messes and here’s some drainer telling me I can’t take pictures even though I’m using a Kodak camera loaded with Kodak film and I’m wanting to take a picture of a guy because HIS photographs are on display in the exhibition section of the museum. In other words, I’m a photographer in the birthplace of photography trying to take a picture of a photographer and somebody tells me “no”.

I should be more specific about the drainer. She looked a lot like Barbara Bush in Bar Bar’s days as first lady with the shocking white hair. The imitation was breathtaking. Part of the breathtaking aspect was the “perfume” she was wearing. Imagine the smell of lilacs inside a trash bin, well that was the stench that was taking my breath away. I whiffed her before I saw her and by the time I saw her, she was in my face telling me what not to do.

God I hate that.

I had paid six bucks to get in and six bucks is a whole different ballgame to me than it is to the fake Barbara Bush. Six bucks has bought me four days and four nights of winter warmth at Movies10 which costs a buck to get into the show and once you’re in, if you play your cards right, you can hide out for twelve hours. Six bucks is what I paid to get a picture of Jeff Bridges. Six bucks should entitle me to that.

BarBar stalked away leaving a trail of fetid flower stank residue. The guy sitting next to me, another  early arrival, looked astonished or alarmed or whatever you call an expression that is a combination of thunderstuck bemusement and outrage. I'm no stranger to that expression.  I get and give that kinda look quite often

I had been talking to this guy a few minutes earlier and I can tell you what kind of guy he was. He was the kind of fiftyish guy who looks like he's pretending to be someone else and the person he's pretending to be is a shorter version of a fake Donald Sutherland.

He told me his name was Ice.

I don't need notes to remember stuff like this so I never take 'em.

I would hesitate to call Ice a dude although he was too old to be a nerd, to tall to be a dweeb, too small to be a doofus, too friendly to be a dork and too well informed to be a nimrod. I guess he was just a normal guy . Still, even he didn’t know what to make of the fake BarBar.

I said to Ice, “There ain’t no signs around here that say you can’t take a picture.”

Ice reached into his pocket and pulled out one of those fancy phones.

“I didn’t see any signs either,”  he said with a ‘we’re all in this together but you’re the one who got busted by a fake Barbara Bush as if you were Al Franken on a plane’ kind of wink.

I wondered if the photographic prohibition was posted on my ticket. I looked at the ticket which didn’t look much like a ticket,just a crumpled piece of  green paper featuring a large ADMIT ONE.

Nowhere on this ticket did I see anything about not taking pictures.

I showed Ice my ticket and he pulled out HIS ticket and goes right to the fine print.His ticket cost thirty five bucks and since we were sitting right next to one another the main thing his fancy ass ticket bought him was more writing because his ticket said that photography was prohibited at the request of the artist.

Let’s see…no prohibition on my later cheaper ticket …clear prohibition on Ice’s reserved more expensive ticket.  This pretty much sums up my life. Forget about being reserved. Show up early and the cheaper you live, the more freedom you have.

So me and Ice sat there like twin particles ready to collide at the edge of a black hole. Something was about about to happen but nobody knew exactly what. I wondered if perhaps Ice's last name was Jones.

We both got out our cameras and our contradictory tickets. I’m trying to feature the Dude prohibiting photos in a situation like this and I can’t see it.

One thing we know about the Dude…he abides.

I’m tawkin’ bout the Dude who always adhered to a pretty strict drug regimen to keep his mind, ya know, limber. What kind of limberminded photographer like Jeff Bridges would bar other photographers from taking pictures of El Duderino himself.

Also, I hoped to ask Jeff a few questions. Did he do his own bowling scenes and because of the whole brevity thing did the Dude prefer being called El Duderino, Duder, His Dudeness or simply the Dude or Dude?

Decisions were soon to be made.

Making decisions without accurate intelligence is like applying mathematical theories to non-mathematical facts. It’s like grabbing a pool rack and putting the rack into sink full of swamp water in the hopes of creating a liquid triangle or a fertle delta. It don’t work. I’ve tried versions of that experiment many times if not most of my life.

And once again, at the Dryden, I found myself trying to rack up innocent water although this time I was closer to Ice than to actual water. I’ve also learned that when you subtract mathematical theory from contradiction, you eventually wind up with paradox. Ice, although heavier than water floats upon it. Paradox means you face a crossroads of two clear ,equally balanced, oppositional ideas options that are uncompromisingly win/win or lose/lose in their execution.

Sink or swim

Contradiction also abides

Then, the curtain rustled and out comes the Dude himself in the person of Jeff Bridges. Dude looks exactly like he does on screen except a whole helluvalot smaller. As I decided whether or not to take his picure, at least ten guys ran down the aisle like stealth bombers in hoodies and beards, snapped off several rounds of flashes and then ran back down the aisle, out the door, into the parking lot, into their POS cars and down East Avenue towards Wegman’s before BarBar could even get her panty hose unwadded.

Dude didn’t look like he minded the snapping. I suppose it helped that the stealth crew snapped him before he even had a chance to give two shits.

Dude, as Jeff ,started to speak about how misunderstood his father Lloyd’s career had been as Sea Hunt became a mixed blessing for the Bridges family. The money was the good part. The bad part was that the viewing audience thought that Dude Dad Lloyd actually was a skin diver, actually was Mike Nelson the role his Dad had played on the teevee show. Dude said most of his life somebody has been coming up to him all teary eyed and saying “Thanks to your father, Mike Nelson, I’ve become a skin diver and all my children want to become marine bilogists or harbor masters.”

Imagine, confusing an actor with a role that he played

One of my childhood friends had the same confusion, sort of. I guess that’s why he started calling himself “Mike” and strapping a waste basket on his back, sticking a garden hose in his mouth, putting a pair of underpants over his face and a huge pair of rubber galoshes on his feet, he would “skin dive” by crawling around on his belly in his backyard in the rain until he reached the end of his hose and crawled back before his air ran out remembering all the while to keep the crawl slow as to avoid the bends.

Good thing my friend didn’t see High Noon when he was a kid, otherwise he might have grown up either a craven coward or a “boy not a man” as Katy Jurado had called Dude’s Dad when Dude Dad bailed out upon the return of Frank Miller as the clock ticked real time towards noon.

In real time at the Dryden, Dude was five feet away and looking straight at me, I was coming to a conclusion of my own. It was the flash in his face not the photo itself that the Dude objected to and wanted to minimize with the small print on the fancy ticket. Since my disposable didn’t have a flash, all I had to do was wait until Dude looked away for a second and I could snap his picture as I felt that I had the right to do. In all likelihood, the flashless picture wouldn’t come out anyway. Dude wouldn’t know that I had taken a picture that didn’t come out and everybody would have a win. Paradox confronted and overcome. Slick as snot on a doorknob.

While I waited Dude kept rappin’ and looking right at me while he spoke.

The way he was looking at me, reminded me of the phenomena of paired neurons. You see, when we watch somebody do something that we’ve done, paired neurons fire off in our brain similar to the neurons firing off in the brain of the person who is doing something that we’ve already done. If you play the guitar and then go and watch somebody else play the guitar, you are having a whole different neurological experience than a person who doesn’t play the guitar. And the guy playing the guitar can usually recognize you in the audience because he can feel your neurons firing in synch with his which makes him play the guitar better which makes you get more into his performance and fire more neurons which makes his guitar play even better and refire etc ad infinitum.

Anyways, this is the way that Dude was looking at me.

Certainly, I was firing ‘you are the Dude" neuronic vibes to the Dude but to my amazement he was firing back 'no YOU are the Dude’ neuros back at me.

I wondered if anybody else noticed.

I took a quick look over at Ice who was trying to pair up with the vibe and cop off it but he was unable to but he was taking notes, just as I suspected.

I turned my attention from Ice back to the Dude who took my glance at Ice as a vibe breaker rather than an icebreaker. Dude looked away.

My opportunity arrived.

I snapped my camera.

The camera didn’t flash.

Dude never noticed.

The whole transaction didn’t count.

Like an at bat that takes six pitches; two fouls and four balls.

And just like that, except for reflection and analysis minus thought and regret, it was pretty much over. Dude never looked back. He finished his spiel and took a seat in the middle of the theatre to watch the screening of his Dad's old flick. He didn't take any questions from the audience. Pretty sure he snuck out early.

My job was done as well. I didn't sere any sense in keeping my seat way over to the right of the screen in front of the vacated rostrum.

I went up to the balcony and found some degree of calm along with an opportunity to reflect using my feelings rather than my thoughts to process what my intuition had gathered.

Certainly, paired neurons were firing between the Dude and me. What was he doing that I do? What was he doing that I was going to do in the future? What had I done that he had done? What did he know that  I knew that only we two knew? What did I know that he NEEDED to know and was surprised to find out that I knew it and knew that he knew that he needed to know.

Or vice versa.

First, I  felt that it was the Big Lebowski film that had brought us together but my intuition told me that the neuron firing was too intense for that shallow of a conclusion. There is a big difference between a guy in a movie and a guy who's a fan of that movie, not that Jeff wasn't a fan of the Dude. Even I know that. I recognize the difference between illusion and delusion. Movies themselves are an illusion created by light and dark. Believing that movies are real and not reel is a delusion.

Dude had been in movies, I considered my whole life to be a movie or if not a movie, at least a book and if not a book at least a story and if not my WHOLE life than at least the last three hours of it or maybe my short term life was three hours within which a story could be noted, imagined, located, decided and written by somebody else and that was the purpose of my life and after that I would disappear and exist only in words that stay or in the memories of everyone who read those words.

If this was true, then I was a fictional character.

Now, one thing a movie star knows a lot about is fictional characterization. Stars earn their money playing them. When Jeff looked at me, his realization neurons fired off this message. "the guy in front of me with the crappy camera is LIVING what I do for a living. He's a fictional character in a story and he doesn't understand that a) he's fictional b) he's in a story c) as a fictional character he's got a lot more in common with the Dude than I do and d) this whole realization/connection/ neuron firing thing (myself included) is part of the story that this guy is the only fictional character within but also the unreliable narrator of.

That's exactly the moment that Jeff ricocheted my "you are the Dude" vibes to him with an even more powerful "no dude, you Are the Dude, dude vibe back at me just before I turned away and looked at Ice and snapped my flashless photo.

With that, I realized the truth of my situation. I was fthe fictional part of a factual story.

I was part of a faction.

I was and am a factoid like Thornton Krell.

That's my story folks although I didn't write it.

Ice Rivers wrote it.

He gets the credit or the blame.

GOLF

Golf took a gigantic leap forward with the invention of the hole.

Up to that point, golf was simply a lot of people with sticks and balls walking around some very lovely terrain doing all sorts of things with their sticks and balls.

Most of the people with balls were men who were trying to get the hell outta the house because the "woman's driving me bonkers etc." I'm sure it was all very spontaneous, creative, individualistic, time consuming, non-judgemental; usually comic in its pointlessness but occasionally tragic in its masculine temperamentalism.

Then somebody dug a hole in the middle of the environmental splendor. The idea was to try and use a stick to put the ball into the hole. Since putting the ball in the hole was the final act of each hole, the stick used to put the ball in the hole came to be known as the putter which originally rhymed with footer because sometimes a golfer in frustration would just kick the ball into the hole. Eventually the stick for putting the ball in the hole took on a new rhyme. Putter began to rhyme wiith both nutter and mutter. A lot of nutters muttered about their putters until they just kicked the ball in with the foot which was counted as a put not a putt.

In another example of the beauty and simplicity of our language amidst the wonder of rhyme, the word hole rhymes with the word goal. At first there was only one hole in the whole three mile walk and players counted the number of swings it took to finally put the ball into the hole. Putting was not as essential a skill ren as it is now.

The goal of the hole, although it increased judgmentalism and decreased individuality, proved to be a such a great idea that another goal was eventually dug into the ground and then another and another and another until somebody said "Damn, how many holes we need for this game?"

With our human tendency toward excess, 175 holes were dug before the guy who was digging the holes realized that he had enough of this and decided he would just as soon go home and listen to the troubles of the wife than dig any more of these goddamned holes which were a lot bigger than the  tidy holes that we have today.

The first holes were big enough to bury an eagle in case one of them got killed during the invasion of their air space by the men with sticks. It became a short-lived superfluous tradition because no one ever killed an eagle although many smaller birds were dispatched. Dispatching a small bird was considered a good thing and came to be known as a birdie.

 Eventually the size of the hole was reduced to the height and width of three golf balls which because they were made of wood and were almost impossible to hit into the air was a lot bigger than the golf balls of today.

After playing a couple rounds of 175 hole golf, it was determined that too many goals produced a "game" strikingly similar to no goals at all because everybody quit at different time and in various degrees of rage having long lost the number of swings needewd to reach the breaking point.

It was at this juncture that Lord Ferguson Calloway, came up with his revolutionary idea. " A half dozen isn't enough," thought the good Lord "and neither is a dozen. I got it. Of course, a dozen and a half is ideal."

And thus we arrived at the first course of eighteen holes.

Par is the standard for each hole.

Par is an exemplar representing skillfull reaction to the specific problems presented by each well defined goal/hole.

As each hole developed a standard level of difficulty measured by the number of swings required to put the ball into the hole, someone else came up with the idea of adding all the standards together and coming up with a standard for the entire course.

Shortly after coming up with the standards for each hole and then the entire course, some other wizard...perhaps Lord Bellamy Foxtrot decided to record all of those standards so that each golfer at the beginning of his walk had a clear idea not only of the goals of the "game" but also of the standards of each individual goal and each individual course. Individual holes from different courses could be compared as well as courses themselves.

The longest most difficult holes required five swings of the stick to put the ball into the hole.

Shorter holes required four swings.

The shortest holes required three swings.

Since most courses contain four holes that allow five swings to meet the standard, four holes that allow three swings to meet the standard and 10 holes that require a standard number of swings to be four. Add that all up and most courses have a par of 72 swings to put the ball into eighteen holes.

A score of less than 72 on most courses is considered under par.

Under par is good because it means it took less swings to complete the course than the standard requires.

A score of 72 means, a round of golf played exactly to the standards of the course.

A score of 73 or above means over par which indicates a playing of the eighteen holes with a number of swings more than needed by better players to complete the course.

Each hole is its own measure of standards.

If the goal is achieved on each hole by taking one less swing than the standard, that effort is called a "birdie".

If it takes 4 swing to put the ball into the hole of goal that has been established as needing 4 swings to complete. that effort is known as a "par".

If it takes a swing more than the standard for putting the ball into an individual hole, that effort is known as a "bogey".

Two strokes over is a "double bogey"

Three strokes over is a "triple bogey"

Four strokes over par on a par four is known as a "snowman"

Five strokes above par has no general name but there is a name for anyone who regularly needs more than five extra shots  and there is a term. That name is "duffer" and that term is “pick up the goddamned ball and either get off the course or go on to the next hole.”

Most of us are duffers in this world.

It takes us a lot more time to finish a task than it takes other folks to finish that same task.

We keep reinventing the square wheel.

Not only does it take us more time but the task we completed is a shittier version of the task completed by people who possess what I have come to know as "talent".

This lack of talent however usually doesn't stop us from trying to achieve the impossible while ignoring the possible.

Not too long after the invention of "the hole", another great moment in golf arrived; the invention of the green. The green is the closely mowed area immediately surrounding the hole. If the hole stands for the essential goal then the green stands for the important goal, a more general place to aim. To reach the green predicts looming realization of essential pursuit.

A century or two after the invention of the green, another great moment occurred; the invention of miniature golf. Let's skip the whole driving and fairway thing. We're not as interested in the journey as we are in the destination. We read the last chapter of a mystery novel first so we know who did it all along and who cares about anything else?

Miniature golf is a concentration of essential goal with a diminishing interest in  important goals. As it turned out, many people became activated by the single minded pursuit of the essential and thus the world dicovered a new use for  miniature windmills, aquarioums filled with enamel fish and plaster dinosaurs holding fake candy canes.

Shotrly after the concept of truncated activation peaked with miniature golf, some true star invented yet another form of abbreviation namely the "driving range". This one deals with the other end of the spectrum and once again gets rid of the "hole" as history once again rhymes with itself in a colossal retreat. Here the golfer can exercise a specific strategy, while sacrificing other important activities including the essential goal.

Both of those innovations diminished the concept of "walking" which at one time (before the invention of the hole) was in fact the primary goal of the game. Unless you count the husband's goal of getting the hell out of the house and the wife's goal of getting him the hell out of the house yet keeping him away from the harlots. Everybody used to win.

Miniature golf requires some walking while the driving range requires only getting out of the car and waking to the tee, usually grabbing a beer on the way. This means that the guy gets home before either he or his wife wanted him too or he stretches it out by stopping off somewhere and sometimes with a "golf instructor"

Shortly after the appearance of driving ranges and miniature golf courses, another synthesis reared its head. This manifestation included some walking, some iron driving, an important goal  (The green) and an essential goal (the hole). This innovation became known as par three golf as the fairways were shorter and narrower and the expectation is to be able to reach the essential goal with two swings and a putt..

Even with this myriad of manifestations, golf has remained a non-essential activity. Therefore, people discover or ignore the game based on their own interest and time table. Some folks activate through miniature golf. Others activate through the driving range. Still others activate because of the par threes. It's imposible to choose betweeen the game of golf and these three activators other than for purely personal reasons including the need to go "shopping" by the wife and the need to get the hell out of here by the husband who fully realizes how much his wife cherishes her private time.

I'm going to step away from the history of golf, like a pro who hears a fart in the gallery.

I'll tell you about MY game. Since it's my game, it's my rules. This is why I prefer to play alone.

When I do play with someone else, the game is best ball. My partner and I are playing against the course by co-operating with one another.

Here's how it goes; my partner drives.

His drive is straight and true and right down the middle.

I hit my drive straight into the woods.

Together we go look for my ball.

We find it and we head to HIS ball, the Best ball...hence the name of the game.

We take our second shots.

His shot lands in the trap.

My shot lands on the green.

We retrieve his ball from the sand.

We putt from my ball on the green.

My approach putt is short. He knocks his putt in.

We have a birdie...The hole was a par four and we took three strokes to get it in.

We're pulling for each other on every shot.

Best ball.

When I play alone, I start out with a mulligan.

That means sometime during the round, I won't count a shot that I hit. That non-shot is called a mulligan.

I only allow two putts of the first green.

I'm not warmed up yet so...two's the limit.

When I hit the ball into a trap, I just pick the ball up and underhand it out of the trap.

If I hit the ball into the water, I go to the place where my ball hit BEFORE it went into the water and I hit it from there.

Every horrible shot I hit, I find solace in the reality that no matter how bizarre the shot...I've definitely hit worse.

If  the ball gets lost in the woods, I play as if it went into the water.

I never forget that I'm here to relax and now here to recover.

I usually have my camera with me and I take pictures.

I keep score in my head. If I score five on each hole that's 45 as I only play nine holes at a time.

45 is pretty good.

That night as I go to sleep, I replay all of the forty five shots in my head which usually puts me to sleep.

Sometimes, I'm out on the course all by myself with no one else in sight.

At those moments, baby I'm a rich man.

Today, I'm a richer man. I won't be alone. I'm playing a best ball threesome. Because we have three guys hitting every shot, we'll have a lower score than any of us would have had if we had played alone.

My partners are Deke and Crown.

Deke, Crown and I have done a lot together.

We did the great American road trip in my truck from the Atlantic to the Pacific. We camped out almost every night under the stars down by the river.

We visited the Ponderosa Ranch in Nevada and got drunk in  the saloon where the Cartwrights drank.

We played blackjack every day and learned to count cards only to lose everything one endless night in Lake Tahoe.

We got kicked out of Candlestick Park.

We've been to the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness and the Belmont.

We've chilled with Muhammad Ali.

We've been through births, deaths, wedding, divorces, sickness, health and every stop in between.

We've climbed mountains and worked on Horse farms.

When Crown was an MP, he arrested Jane Fonda.

Deke got married at Graceland

Deke and Crown were there the night that Pete Rose broke the record for all time hits.

Crown and I saw Secretariat win at Belmont.

Deke helped my dying father into the ambulance in which he died.

Crown had a heart attack at the Kentucky Derby and since then has had colon cancer and open heart surgery.

Nobody can plank like Deke.

One thing we had never done before is play golf.

Two years ago, it looked like Crown wasn't going to survive his illnesses.

Last year, I had my moments of doubt.

Deke is the youngest of us and still is in great shape.

He doesn't owe anybody anything. Everything is paid up. His house. His car. His college loans. His credit cards. Everything.

So we've lived this great life together but until yesterday we had never played golf together.

Deke hadn't lifted a club in 10 years.

Crown, like me, played only 27 holes last year.

I can't lift the ball out of the hole anymore which explains why I NEVER miss a five foot putt.

Crown can't get the ball out of the  hole either. At least he thought he couldn't. Yesterday on the third hole, he reached down and plucked it out.

Way to go, Johnny

Now, because Deke is still flexible enough to pick the ball up out of the hole, we had no excuse to take gimmes on any putt. That killed us as we missed one five footer after another over and over and over and over ad museum.

We played amazingly from tee to green and from a distance might have passed as younger men but when we got on the green......fuggedaboudid.

Of course we used carts as this is the reason that God invented them.

And brothers

And friends

The sky was blue, the clouds beautiful. We talked about life. We laughed. We rejoiced. We remembered. We were present with our eyes on the ball.

It was worth the wait.

Golf they say is a sample of sorrow

A walk in the park scarred by frustration

Then we hit THAT shot...come back tomorrow

For more sorrow amidst celebration.

We retain our most ironclad of grips

We visualize keeping elbow tight

We take dead aim and we let er' rip

When we lift our eyes we see ball in flight.

When we lift our head a little too soon

Too anxious to see the ball in the air,

We won't see the sky, the sun or the moon

We'll see our ball on the tee sitting there.

We promise to always keep our head low

Then we strike a beauty and on we go.

SALAMANCA FUNDAMENTALS

My former brother-in-law Tim and I were great friends before both our marriages crashed. Tim was a lumberjack, a master with ax and chain saw.

One afternoon, Tim and I were working on a case behind the cabin that he had literally carved out of the forest for himself and my first wife's sister deep in the hills of Salamanca. Somehow or other after about ten beers apiece, the subject stumbled towards golf, specifically the origin of the game, more specifically the origin of golf clubs and finally the origin of the clubs called woods/ woods called clubs.

I speculated that in its most primitive incarnation, cavemen just used the all purpose clubs they had for survival, courtship and domestic tranquility. These clubs were made of wood.

Tim liked that idea. Next thing I knew Tim had his chain saw fired up and was cutting into a log. Wood chips flew everywhere as  Tim transformed the log into an L shaped object, handed it to me and said "here's a wood."

I held the club in my hand. The "wood" weighed about seven pounds. I told Tim the club was a little too heavy. Tim fired up the chainsaw again and trimmed about two pounds off the club while shaping a bit of a handle on top and leaving most of the weight on the bottom.

He handed me the reshafted club and I took a few swings beteeen a few swigs. The club felt great but what I wondered  was what did the first golfers hit with the first club. As we worked a little deeper into the case, we began to speculate on that problem.

Once again, Tim fired up his chain saw this time transforming another piece of wood into a solid kinda round object about tthe size of a baseball. Tim handed me the object and said "here's your ball."

As I looked at the "ball" I was amazed to observe that an object with so many flat sides could resembles something round. The invention of the ball caused more casework and label laughter.

Here's where I made my only contribution. I went over to the nearby woodpile, found a sturdy splinter, handed it to Tim and said "here's our tee". Tim took out his jack knife and whittled a roundish, flattish hollow at the top of the splinter. We put the "ball" on the 'tee" and returned to the case.

At this point our wives, annoyed by prolonged absence from the cabin , burst upon the scene and were immediately aggravated by what they saw. In the midst of her rage, Tim's wife grabbed the "club" that was leaning against a tree, walked over to the "teed" up "ball" and furiously and unknowingly hit the greatest golf shot I had ever seen with the first and only swing of her life. "The "ball" flew twenty yards, bounced off a couple of rocks, rolled a few feet and disappeared from sight.

Fueled by the combination of apology, concern and amusementthat most men use to confront aggravated spouses, Tim and I went to look for the "ball" as the sisters stormed back into the cabin muttering something about "five more minuted" and "wastes of time".

The ball had somehow found its way into a “hole” dug at some time long ago by some person or something. The "hole" was almost the exact size of the "ball". Up till that point, this was the first hole in one that I had ever seen.

FACTION IS THE NEW FICTION

As our president demonstrates each and every day, alternate truths are just a click away. Trump has already presented more than a thousand versions of the truth and since our country is based and was founded on the concept of a fantasy land, we get to choose how many of these alternatives we will swallow to determine whether or not we are red or blue with white still being a wild card.

Currently, we are trying to interpret the alternate truths that have led to the "invasion" of immigrants. Red is more convinced of invasion than blue. Red folks are even more convinced of invasion by whites and they have the history to prove it which everybody kinda ignores and for which ignorance many a casino has been built and many tobacco products sold.

We don't really know who shot either Kennedy. Even Helter Skelter begins to wobble as yet another alternate reality by Vincent Bugliosi to avert attention from Hollywood. Oh and OJ was not guilty until he was.

As usual, Tarantino got ahead of the game with his altered visions of the past including the death of Hitler (Inglorious Basterds) and the once upon a time cancellation of Helter Skelter by Leo and Brad.

All of this alteration of history can be summed up in the word "faction", Faction is both more and less than fiction and non-fiction. Faction is the intentional fictionalization of non-fiction in order to tell a better story. One of the ways to achieve faction is to have the story itself written by a fictional character If the author isn't real neither is the story no matter how closely it sticks to the facts. If the author is "real" person, she/he can grab the faction mantle by the utilization of an unreliable narrator.

Holden Caulfield admits to being a liar, right off the bat.

The Girl On The Train was drunk.

So faction is reality filled with interesting, conspiratorial lies.

Faction is the new fiction as well as the new non-fiction.

All it takes is a fraction of fiction to turn non-fiction into faction

And a fraction of non-fiction to turn fiction into faction.

Then all you need is some characters and action

And ya know what else helps a lot

Some rudimentary semblance of plot.

And for a dash of innovation

Add some internal motivation.

Who cares about "truth". Truth is 'soo' two years ago and it was shakey  then.

We don't need it.

Fuggedaboudid. We got faction and I know you love it so I'm gonna give you some more.

Because I'm neither real nor reliable although, unfortunately, I'm sober.

MAGIC POISON

Meanwhile, I've been poisoning a patch of innocent pea pods just to see what would happen to the peas.

Other pods, I've left alone just to give those routine peas a chance.

Naturally I've been raising almost as many caterpillars as I've been poisoning pods.

Just to see what might happen to the moths.

Most of the caterpillars that I've raised are immune to the poison that I've been putting in the pods.

They can eat all the poison they want and live to eat more on another day.

God knows that there's enough poison to go around.

The main reason I've been poisoning the pods, besides seeing what might happen to the peas, is to see what might happen to the spiders.

Ya see eventually the caterpillars that eat the poison peas will turn into moths.

These moths will look exactly like the moths that emerge from the caterpillars who ate the unpoisoned peas.

They will look the same and maybe even taste the same but the immune caterpillars who ate the poison peas will have a different truth when they become moths then will the other batch of moths whose pea digestion was restricted to the non-poisonous peas back in their respective caterpillar days.

"Different truth, different consequence" as Aristotle might have whispered to Krell if they had ever met. Of course, the likelihood of fictional meeting non-fictional is always very poor no matter what happens to the spiders, if ya smell what I'm cooking.

And there's a lot cooking in California.

Too bad we couldn't have doused the fires of California with the floods of Katrina and called the whole thing a wash.  

But so much for wishful thinking, even thought it is my favorite defense mechanism ( especially when the perceived threat is emotional rather than physical)

Let's return to the practical and the poisoning of peas.

What will happen to the spider?

Since all the caterpillars looked exactly alike whether or not they had eaten the peas from the poisoned pods, they would eventually grow into identical moths that I could throw into spider webs just to see what the spiders would do.

Moths fly into spider webs all of the time whereas the odds of a caterpillar showing up in a spider web are roughly those of a turtle sitting on a fence post.

I had to make sure that the caterpillars weren’t gonna turn into butterflies. Butterflies are too strong for most webs. I made sure to use the fuzziest of caterpillars. Fuzzy happens to be my nickname because my last name is Fuzzier

Both the turtle and the caterpillar would need help to get to the top of the fencepost or the silk of the web and spiders are a lot smarter than fenceposts.

A fencepost ain't gonna worry about how a turtle got upon it wheras a spider might have some concern about how a caterpillar got into the web. The spider might be a little suspicious.

Since spiders are smarter than fenceposts, suspicion is a form of intelligence.

Nothing breeds suspicion like jealousy.

Nothing breeds jealousy like love.

Love always begins with attraction.

Attraction begins with notice.

On their way to delectable mothhood, two fuzzy little caterpillars noticed one another. The male caterpillar was named Yar. The female was named Asil.

Asil was the more mature of the two which meant she thought more about reproduction than did Yar who was concentrating on chewing and crawling.

How much did Asil think of reproduction?

Let's put it this way, she was jealous of fireflies.

Asil had no idea that the peas she was eating were from the poison pod patch, unlike the peas that Yar was digesting.

Yar's peas came from a totally different patch.

I know this for a fact because I'm the guy who personally poisoned the pods and I'm the guy who determined which caterpillars got the poison peas and which ones didn't.

And I kept em separated.

I'm also the guy who fed the caterpillars.

I'm the guy who bred the caterpillars.

Like most breeders, I'm a feeder.

I knew lots of things that the caterpillars didn't know.

I'm a man for God sake. Let's hope I got more brains than a caterpillar.

Here's what I knew that the caterpillars didn't know.

I knew that they were immune to the poison peas that they didn't know they were eating.

I also knew the purpose of their lives and why they were bred and fed in the first place.......

Just to see what would happen to the spider.

Although Asil was jealous of fireflies, she didn't love fire flies.

A caterpillar loving a firefly would be sick.

Asil wasn't jealous of fireflies because they could fly.  Asil knew that someday, somehow she too would be able to fly.

Asil wasn't jealous of fireflies because of their fire because Asil sensed something that almost everybody senses unless they're sitting around a campfire.

The sparks coming from a campfire are very different than the fireflies flying near the campfire.

What appears to be fire in fireflies is really a mixture of luciferin and luciferase.

The resulting mixture is not a fire.

Fires, like truth, emanate light and heat.

Firefly fire contains no heat, only light.

Sort of like compassion.

Asil wasn't interested in truth or compassion.

Asil was interested in breeding and feeding.

Asil was more developed than Yar who was interested only in feeding.

No, Asil wasn't jealous because she loved fireflies.

Asil was jealous of the way that fireflies loved fireflies.

Fireflies flash when they're hungry or when they want sex. Every flash is a semaphor of desire either to feed or breed.

In this scenario, the female waits in the weeds untl she is luciferinated for a half second by the flash of the male flying above her.

Asil had seen this seductive behavior frequently from fireflies.

She thought it was cool.

Cool as a fire without heat yet hot as a fire without light.

FUZZY’S BLUES

I've watched the caterpillars grow into moths. I've picked out the two moths that look the best. I'm gonna throw them one at a time into a spider web that I've found. In the meantime, I want to sing you folks some blues before we all find out what the spider's gonna do. Maybe I don’t have the voice or the strum of Genesee Johnny but here we go.....

Well, it looks like it's come down to the final two

Yes, it looks like it's come down to the final two

One looks at the other and says "up to me and you".

I don't know if caterpillars have names.

I don't know if caterpillars have names.

If they don't they oughta cause they both look just the same.

I've chosen the spider, I've approved her spinning.

I've chosen that spider, I'm down with her spinning

The game is sudden death, I can't see two moths winning.

Both of the pillars have grown up to be moths.

Both caterpillars have grown up to be moths.

They're gonna get all caught up in a game of webtoss.

The lady caterpillar's chock full of poison peas.

Yeah, the female pillar all fulla poisoned peas

Yet the moth she became ain't suffereing no disease.

The male caterpillar of poison peas is free

The caterpillar man of poison peas is free.

There's a load of silk underneath the apple tree.

I'll conclude my experiment when I'm done with strummin.

I'll end my experiment when I finish this strummin'

Spin on Mona, Your poison trick or treats a comin'.

I'm gonna have some rum and apple cider too

Gonna drink some rum and suck some cider too

Then we'll find out what the spider's gonna do.

EVENTUALLY

Of course, the caterpillars eventually became moths. When they took wing, Asil became Lisa and Yar became Ray.

By the time they became reacquainted, Ray's scent brushes were loaded with alkaloid. Lisa could smell that from ten feet away. Lisa was sitting on a wire perch chemically treated with poison peas. The chemical treatment lured Lisa to the wire and Lisa lured Ray.

Lisa had already lured a dozen others to her in her four days of fertility but there was something about Ray that suggested that his alkaloid package would be the package selected for warrior offspring.

Maybe it was his size. The bigger the moth, the more the alkaloid. The more the alkaloid, the more the male moth advertises his reproductive eligibility.

This is the message Ray was sending to Lisa. 'Look at all the alkaloid I'm carrying. I get this from the flowers. If you want your kids to be able to gather a lot of alkaloid from the flowers make sure that their old man brings a load of alkaloid to the bargain'.

Ray looked big and he smelled big.

Ray was a regular Mothra.

Ray hovered over the wire.

Lisa called to Ray.

Lisa called with her scent.

Although Ray was not a butterfly, he did know how to flutter by. He did just that.

His scent brushes came out when he got in range.

Once, twice, thrice, in less than a second.

Lisa was impressed.

She accepted Ray.

The rest is moth love, too private and exquisite to describe.

Even on a weekend when practically no one is looking.

Except just a few who wonder what the spider's gonna do.

Mona the spider is fastidious. She knows how to use her silk. Her silk will be far less useful if it becomes cluttered so Mona spends most of her visible time cleaning the debris from her web.

The more debris in the web, the less clear the signal becomes when something of value is caught up in the silk.

Mona can not see all of her web so she waits between spinnings and cleanings. She stays out of sight and waits for a signal.

Her web is filled with silk spun of different levels of water content. The more water in the silk, the more elastic. The most elastic silk is in the middle of her web. These are the waterworks. When prey falls into the web, they are confronted with mysterious elasticity far beyond rubber.

Caught in the center of the silk, the prey in its struggles puts very little tension on the web. Every attempt at escape only results in tighter wrapping.

Mona reads the level of tension. She has her escape routes well designed when the tension gets too high. Mona only feeds upon appropriate tension.

All the prey can do is pray.

Mona isn't looking for a fight.

Mona is looking for food.

Even on weekends, when things are so quiet elsewhere.

I know all about Mona but not yet enough.

I'm gonna use Lisa and Ray to find out what the spider is gonna do.

And Lisa will be a momma soon, if she survives the tension.

Moth tossing is a skill. I've had a lot of practice. I'm a professional. I wouldn't try this at home if I were you.

I kept the two moths that I had raised from caterpiilars and poisoned or not poisoned in two separate vials. I took the bigger of the two out first. I knew he was the male. I figured that with his strength, I would have to get him closer to the center of the web. I grabbed him by his wings and tossed him.

My hours of practice paid off. He landed right smack dab in the middle of the web.

I opened the second vial and removed the female. I wanted to get her off to the side of the web, closer to the spider. I grabbed her wings and tossed.

Perfecto.

The female landed off to the right, very close to where I knew the spider was hiding. The male flailed more then the female but the elasticity at the center was greater. He got all wrapped up in the web. His strength and struggle didn't cause much tension on the web. The elastic web was more water than fire.

The female landed on a portion of the web that was more adhesive than elastic. She would have generated more tension on the web if she weren't so tightly stuck to her spot.

I couldn't help but notice that they seemed to glance at one another intermittently as they tried to escape. Each of them had a clear look at the fate of the other. I wondered if they wondered what the spider was going to do.

I wondered if they even knew that spiders existed. I wondered if they were afraid. I wondered if they were sympathetic towards each other.The male got even more wrapped up when he realized the female was in a predicament. Was he trying to rescue her?

Of course the possibility existed that they thought this was play, perhaps even foreplay.

I know I wasn't playing.

I know there is such a thing as spiders.

I wondered what this spider was going to do.

Mona was middle aged.

She was six months old.

Every spider month is equivalent to seven years of human life. In human terms Mona was forty two. The last of her spiderlings had balooned away. Her mate died right after mating with Mona. Such is nature.

If you've seen Spiderman, you know what balooning is. The spiderling projects a single thread of silk which sticks to a nearby object. The spider then swings to that object and baloons again. Depending on how far they want to get away from their mother, the spiderling continues to baloon and baloon.

As a mother, Mona paid attention to the spider parental creed. Make sure the spiderlings get webs and wings. This creed meant that it was important for each spiderling to feel a sense of security so that they would be willing to leave the web and establish a home of their own. The stronger the sense of web the stronger the sense of wing. The more that a spiderling loved his mother's web, the further he would distance himself from it when he finally balooned. The further away he got, the less competition his web would be for the web of his momma.

Mona's spiderlings were far, far away. They had been well raised and they loved their mother.

Mona was an empty webber.

She was acutely aware of the double disturbance in her web as she sat in her den. Her experience had taught her that it was very unlikely for two disturbances to occurr so simultaneously. She figured the commotion could be traced back to one of two possibilities. The disturbances, soon to become prey, then to become liquid then to become food, must have been romantically involved. That's why they were fluttering so near to one another.

And flying blind.

Or else the Giant had delivered them.

The Giant had been feeding Mona since she was a girl, before the mating and the spiderlings and all that jazz. She had grown to trust the Giant.

Most urgent, however, was the hunger.

I should be more specific.

Mona wouldn't take a nibble. Mona would take a suck.

Before sucking, Mona would inject either Ray or Lisa or both with venom that would turn their insides into liquid.

She would go back to her den and wait for the innards of her prey to liquify. Then she would begin to suck. Sometimes, the sucking took place right out in the open. Other times, Mona would take her silk wrapped supper into her den where she could suck in private.

I've tried to imagine what it must be like to feel my insides turning into liquid. I had food poisoning once and that did some serious liquefying.

Maximum diarrhea mixed with technicolor yawning.

I have experienced emotional liquification more frequently than physical liquification over the course of my life. When I am injected with the contempt of another person, my convictions tend to liquify. Contempt is a powerful venom. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Resentment is the natural reaction to contempt.Here's the equation to avoid.

You have contempt for me, I have resentment for you. Or vice versa.

If turning someones insides into liquid can be viewed as a physical manifestation of contempt, then I suppose the prey being liquified must be pretty resentful.

Resentment resembles jealousy and jealousy is the green eyed monster that mocks the meat it feeds upon.

Contempt is an eight eyed, eight legged empty webbed widow who injects whatever she has trapped with a poison that turns their convictions into liquid so she can suck them dry and ignore their resentment.

Does contempt poison itself when it inadvertently sucks up poisoned convictions concealed within resentment?

I wondered if I would be able to pick up on any of these emotions or answer any essntial questions as I patiently sat and watched and wondered what the spider might do.

PALP FRICTION

I play the guitar a little bit.

I drink a little bit.

Sometimes I drink a little bit before I play the guitar.

Sometimes people tell me I sound better on the guitar after I've drank a little bit.

I'm pretty sure I don't sound any better but somehow when I play, I make the people who listening to me want to drink.

The more I play, the more they drink.

The more they drink, the better I sound.

So I drink even more so I can sound even better so they can drink more because I sound better which makes me want to drink more so I can sound better which will make them drink more which will make me drink more so that.......

Ya know, the usual.

I've often wished that I could drink while I was playing the guitar not just before or after. I've wondered if that would actually make my guitar playing sound even better to the folks who were listening because unlike me when I play, they are actually drinking whlle they are listening whereas I am playing under the disadvantage of not  drinking at the same instant that I am playing which puts me a little out of synch with the drunks who are listening.

I wish I had a couple of extra hands coming out of my mouth.

If I did, I could pour the beer down my throat while at the same time playing the guitar with my other two hands.

Spiders have two little hands coming out of their mouths.

Those two little hands are called palps. Spiders use those pulps to hold on to whatever they are going to sink their fangs into. Sometimes they use the palps to make changes in the thread of their webs. They grasp the thread with their palps and amend the web with thier mouths.

Spiders don't play the guitar unless of course, they happen to be Spiders from Mars.

The moths are in the web.

I've got a cold beer in my hands.

I'm sipping the beer and wondering what the spider's gonna do.

Let's remember, the moth nearest the spider was the moth who ate the poisoned peas.

I figured that the spider would go to the nearest meal. The spider would nibble on the pregnant moth with the poisoned peas. The spider would realize that something was wrong. The spider would choose one of her escape routes. She would return to her corner.

She would feel weak. She would ascertain from the vibes coming through the silk that the meal furthest away was too strong for her to overwhelm. She would wait until her queasiness subsided. Then she would return to the near meal and nibble a little bit more.

I knew something that she couldn't possibly know. The meal she was nibbling on was poisonous. Every nibble would make her weaker.

I didn't know who would die first, the poisoned spider or the moths struggling in the web.I wondered if it was the silk that killed the moth or was it the spider. If the spider died first, I would free the moths from the web.

I figured the whole deal might take a day after the first taste. This is what I thought the spider might do.

I waited to find out what the spider would actually do.

SIX YEAR DAY

Every day in the life of a moth is like six years in the life of a human.

Lisa was six days old in real time which means thirty six years old in human time.

Lisa had spent the first twenty four years of her life in heat. During those years she had rubbed plenty of abdomens while being embraced by many a clasper.

Twice she had felt threatened during a momentary mating session. Moths are pollinators not fighters. When the choice comes to fight or flight, the moth will choose flight. Lisa and her lover took off as one, the claspers coming off his abdomen holding her close even as they fluttered away, conjoined amorously, from the perceived danger.

Lisa remembered both of those occasions. They were thrilling and embarrasing at the same time. Even though they were memorable, the couplings were meaningless. Lisa and her mate were both distracted while flying away from danger and although they completed their intercourse, lack of purposeful, reproductive concentration assured that neither coupling would be fertile.

In human life, this is known as a flying fuck. Of course humans can not fly and will very often choose fight over flight when threatened. The human term "flying fuckk" refers to not paying proper attention to an endeavor due to a lack of committment in that project.

When Lisa finally met Ray, they both had a chance to concentrate. Ray was a big moth to begin with but he transferred ten percent of his body mass, in the form of spermatazoa, into Lisa.

This transfer proved to be fertile.

Lisa, in the web, was very pregnant.

And loaded with nutrients.

And poison.

Ray had struggled with liquidity and silk before. He didn't think it was such a bad thing. Ray held no resentment for that struggle. As a matter of fact, he saw his situation as another shot at renewal.

Remember, Ray had ben Yar.

Dejavu all over again.

When Yar, the poison free caterpillar, had reached his full size, he had already prepared to complete metamorphosis, the radical change in body form that turns a caterpillar into a moth.  Yar had pupated  himself to a twig.  To anchor himself to his twig, Yar had spun a button of silk from his mouthparts, then grasped the silk button with his cremaster, a clawlike structure at the end of the abdomen. Hanging from the twig, Yar had shed his skin to reveal the pupa underneath. Before becoming a pupa, Yar had spun a cocoon of silk around his body.  The silk of the past had protected Yar from predators and from drying out.

Silk was neither an enemy nor a stranger.

Within the pupa, Yar's tissues and organs had broken  down into a soupy liquid, and then reassembled into the tissues and organs of Ray. Groups of cells known as the imaginal discs remained complete, and Ray's mighty structure took shape as directed by these cells.

When Ray's development was complete, he had split the pupal shell and crawled out. Then he had unfolded his wings which pumped blood into his veins. Ray remembered spreading his wings until they dried and hardened. Ray flew away and eventually mated with Lisa.

And now he found himself in silk once again.

Ray was confident this was just another stage of maturity.

He would emerge from this silk and fly away again.

Ray thought he was turning into a bird.

He looked forward to spreading new wings.

Ray had no idea that spiders even existed so he didn't wonder at all what Mona would do.

Ray had changed a lot since the days of Yar.

Ya might say he matured. He was no longer thinking primarily about crawling and feeding, he was thinking now about flying and breeding. He suspected the web was another form of cocoon which meant it was another stage in development.

Another passage.

Another promotion.

Ray was happy that Lisa was involved in the same passage, the same struggle, the same silk at the same time in the same place.

Ray began to understand love.

He and Lisa would become birds together. They would build a nest on some distant chapparal and have babies. He would become Ayr. Lisa wpould become Sail. Together they would sail through the air until they found the acre or two of brushy teritory which would be their secret homeland.

They would be secure.

They would be mates for life. They would never wander from their nest. Their nest would be a compact cup of grass, fibers and bark bound with silk.

Each day, they would make the rounds of their territory, right up to the river. They would feed, bathe, take care of their young and fend off interlopers. Sail would be Ayr's constant companion. They would take delight in bouts of mutual preening as they took care to inspect and arrange each other's plumage. By night, they'd huddle together against the chill. They'd face in the same direction so near together that they would appear as a single ball of feathers from which tails, wings and feet protruded.

They would always be together.

They would stay out of sight.

They would be heard more than they would be seen but they wouldn't be heard very often.

They'd live in a tree fifteen feet off the ground when they weren't sailing through the air.

Ray was thinking about Ayr and Sail when Mona sank her fang into him.

Love hurts.

After the puncture, while his insides were turning to liquid and just before his final breath Ray, still expecting to become a bird, thought his final thought. This is what he thought:

It could have been worse.

Lisa, on the other hand, continued to be more mature than Ray. Lisa had moved beyond contemplations of breeding and feeding and had moved towards contemplations of death and deliverance but not in that order.

Lisa observed the death of Ray. She felt no sadness.Ray had done his job. She still needed to do hers. She needed to deliver the eggs that she and Ray had created.

She knew she was going to die.

Ray, in his immmaturity, had considered himself immortal with death merely another stage of metamorphasis.

Ray's immaturity prevented him from the fear of death.

Lisa was afraid to die.

Lisa knew that her life was incomplete.

Lisa had learned what a spider is and the part a spider can play in deathmaking.

Lisa knew she was next.

Her eggs would die with her.

It couldn't get any worse.

The spider returned and rappeled down the silk towards the moth that I had raised on poisoned peas.

Poison's a funny thing. Poison consists of chemicals. After we ingest poison, our liver uses enzymes to convert those chemicals into poisons. If we don't have the enzymes that convert the chemicals into poisons than the chemicals within the poison are of no threat to us.

The moth was missing the enzymes that would turn the chemicals from the peas into poison but the spider possessed those enzymes in spades.

If the spider ate the moth whose innards she had already liquified, there would be no problem.

If the spider ate he second moth, there would be a big problem.

Death by poison for Mona

Death by liquidity for Lisa.

Choices, decisions, consequences.

The spider was all fangs and palps.

The moth was all vulnerability except for the wild card of hidden toxicity.

The spider decided that she didn't want the moth. She backed off. She began cutting. She took the thread with her palps and put it in her mouth. She cut a perfect window in the web with her sharp fangs.

The moth fell free from the web.

The moth took flight.

The spider returned to her watch.

I found out what the spider would do.

Lisa delivered.

Spiders will do what Mona did.

They recognize poison when they sense it and hungry is better than dead, especially with delicious Ray a goner in the silk.

After the puncture, while his insides were turning to liquid and just before his final breath Ray, still expecting to become a bird, thought his final thought. This is what he thought:

It could have been worse.

Lisa, on the other hand, continued to be more mature than Ray. Lisa had moved beyond contemplations of breeding and feeding and had moved towards contemplations of death and deliverance but not in that order.

Lisa observed the death of Ray. She felt no sadness.Ray had done his job. She still needed to do hers. She needed to deliver the eggs that she and Ray had created.

She knew she was going to die.

Ray, in his immmaturity, had considered himself immortal with death merely another stage of metamorphasis.

Ray's immaturity prevented him from the fear of death.

Lisa was afraid to die.

Lisa knew that her life was incomplete.

Lisa had learned what a spider is and the part a spider can play in deathmaking.

Lisa knew she was next.

Her eggs would die with her.

It couldn't get any worse.

The spider returned and rappeled down the silk towards the moth that I had raised on poisoned peas.

Poison's a funny thing. Poison consists of chemicals. After we ingest poison, our liver uses enzymes to convert those chemicals into poisons. If we don't have the enzymes that convert the chemicals into poisons than the chemicals within the poison are of no threat to us.

The moth was missing the enzymes that would turn the chemicals from the peas into poison but the spider possessed those enzymes in spades.

If the spider ate the moth whose innards she had already liquified, there would be no problem.

If the spider ate he second moth, there would be a big problem.

Death by poison for Mona

Death by liquidity for Lisa.

Choices, decisions, consequences.

The spider was all fangs and palps.

The moth was all vulnerability except for the wild card of hidden toxicity.

The spider decided that she didn't want the moth. She backed off. She began cutting. She took the thread with her palps and put it in her mouth. She cut a perfect window in the web with her sharp fangs.

The moth fell free from the web.

The moth took flight.

The spider returned to her watch.

I found out what the spider would do.

Lisa delivered.

Spiders will do what Mona did.

They recognize poison when they sense it and hungry is better than dead, especially with delicious Ray a goner in the silk.

I felt pretty good after I found out what the spider did. I didn't know whether or not the spider would be smart enough to avoid the moth who had eaten the poisoned peas. The spider was smart enough to discern the presence of poison in her web. If we were all smart enough to know which moth is poisoned and which one ain't. If we resisted the urge to do what we can do and instead focused on doing what we should do, the world would be a much better place.

Speaking of better places, Lisa's delivery was a better begining. Her offspring, half poison and half not would never have to liquefy in silk and contempt.

As evening fell, I decided to smoke a cigar.

My work was done.

I know I shouldn't smoke but what the hell, I had just learned a great lesson.

The night was still. Fireflies were everywhere. I lit a candle. I stuck the end of my cigar into the flame of the candle. I took a couple of puffs.

I blew three perfect smoke rings.

Perfect smoke rings are possible on a windless night.

As the third smoke ring floated away, a moth flew right through the midddle of it and headed towards the candle flame.

As the moth neared the flame, I noticed threads of silk dangling from the wings of the moth.

The moth didn't get any nearer to the flame than moths always get to a flame but not too many moths are carrying a thread of silk.

It was the silk, not the moth, that kissed the candle. The flame shot right up the silk. The moth burst into fire and headed towards the smoke rings expanding in the distance.

The moth momentarily stood out amidst the fireflies.

The moth had become flying fire.

Then it disappeared from my view forever.

Peace, at last.

[adambstingus]

Frida Kahlo’s neighbourhood: exploring vibrant Coyoacán, Mexico City

Ahead of a major Frida Kahlo show at Londons V&A we visit the artists bohemian district from her house to the cantina where she drank, and from arts venues to fantastic markets and restaurants

Coyoacán was once a hard-to-pronounce place, little known outside of Mexico City. Now it is an almost-obligatory destination for most visitors. Blame it on Frida Kahlo-mania. The artist’s birthplace and final residence, now the Museo Casa Azul, is here on a quiet residential street between similar still-private homes built around the turn of the 20th century. The folk art-filled museum, open as such since 1957, now draws queues that snake around the tree-lined block (advance online purchase of tickets is advisable). But this was not always the case.

Self-portrait with necklace by Frida Kahlo, 1933. Photograph: Daniel Leal-Olivas/AFP/Getty Images

On my first visit to this vast capital in 1978 as a student of art history, I wanted to visit the then little-known artist’s house. My guidebook didn’t mention it and my hotel concierge didn’t know of it – nor did the several taxi drivers I queried to help me find it. On that occasion I didn’t get there. And when I finally did, several years later, it was dusty and forgotten; I was the only visitor that day.

A short walk from the Casa Azul is the home where Leon Trotsky lived – and was killed with an ice-pick. The house has been preserved in detail: Trotsky’s bathrobe still hangs on the hook where he left it. It’s the area’s other big draw.

Museo Casa Azul, the Frida Kahlo Museum in Coyoacán. Photograph: Alamy

But it’s worth exploring the neighbourhood beyond these famous homes as there is much more to discover. Coyoacán’s main plaza, cobblestoned and plant-filled, is divided in halves, called Jardín Centenario and Jardín Hidalgo. They form a typical colonial Mexican town square, complete with benches for people-watching, gazebos for music and vendors selling balloons, toys and traditional sweets.

At the eastern side sits the church of San Juan Bautista, a highly gilded baroque affair. Across the plaza to the left of the church is the Casa de Cortés, a large yellow edifice, which occupies the site of Spanish conquistador Hernán Cortés’s 16th-century country home. Corazón de Maguey is an informal restaurant offering Oaxacan and other regional dishes. In the evenings it becomes more of a bar, with a large selection of mezcals. Outside seating affords a good view of the plaza.

Corazón de Maguey, Mexico

Frida and her husband Diego Rivera liked to knock back a tequila or 10 at Cantina La Guadalupana, which opened its doors in 1932. But unlike the equivalent Hemingway hangouts around the world, La Guadalupana has not become an overpriced tourist trap: it retains its old-fashioned working-class charm, bullfighting decor and good service. Free snacks are offered with drinks and there is a serviceable menu of Mexican dishes. The Mercado de Antojitos down the block, is a well known garage-like space; it’s open late and locals stop here for a rich pozole, the hominy-filled stew or a deep-fried quesadilla of cheese, squash blossom or chorizo.

Cantina La Guadalupana. Photograph: Alamy

Coyoacán’s market, a few blocks north (Calle Malintzin between Aguayo and Allende) is where Frida shopped, although the current structure was built in the 1950s, after her death. It still offers a colourful, folksy experience perfumed by flowers, fruits and bubbling pots of spicy mole sauce. In the middle of the market is the renowned Tostadas Coyoacán, with an abundant display of tostada toppings such as prawns, chicken, crab, and spicy pork, piled high and ready to be heaped on a crispy corn tortilla. Order one of the exotic fresh fruit drinks at the adjacent booth for a perfect Mexican lunch.

Heading west from the main plaza, Avenida Francisco Sosa is lined with spectacular colonial-era homes, such as the Italian Cultural Institute and the Casa de Cultura Jesús Reyes Heroles. Across the street is the leafy Plaza Santa Catarina, one of the loveliest spots in the city.

La Casa de los Tacos, Mexico

For a knockout taco experience, head to La Casa de los Tacos. The owners, Hector Ramos, a photographer who runs an art gallery upstairs, and Alejandro Escalante, author of the renowned Tacopedia, have created a thoroughly bohemian vibe. The tacos prehispánicos feature edible insects and are surprisingly delicious. For the less adventurous, there are grilled chicken, beef and pork tacos.

Mercadaroma, meanwhile, is Coyoacán’s answer to the gourmet street market craze. Dozens of stands offer multi-regional Mexican and international foods – and fusions of both – in a smartly designed three-storey building. Try the seafood tacos from the Pacific state of Sonora at Tetakawi or a torta (Mexico’s version of the sandwich), at La Barraca Valenciana.

Mercadoroma

Plaza de la Conchita, a few blocks east of the main plaza (walking down Higuera), is another peaceful park, whose church is one of the oldest in Mexico, dating to the mid-16th century. This architectural gem is a rare example of tequitqui style, which shows the influence of indigenous Indian craftsmen on Spanish baroque architectural ornament.

In addition to architecture-viewing and great eating, Coyoacán offers several other important cultural institutions. The Cineteca Nacional is Mexico’s central film institute, housed in a soaring modern complex where as many as 30 movies are shown on any given day. The Centro Cultural y Social Veracruzano is home to a theatre, shop and El Tajin one of the area’s best restaurants. Down the same road, at no. 134 is the largest branch of Gandhi, Mexico’s major bookseller.

A stroll around Coyoacán makes for a peaceful – and delicious – day out. And a snapshot of Frida’s Mexico.

More Frida-related attractions in Mexico City, and beyond

Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo House-Studio Museum, San Angel, Mexico City

Photograph: Alamy

Designed by the couple’s friend, the architect and artist Juan O’Gorman, this was Kahlo and Rivera’s first proper marital home. It’s actually two houses joined by a bridge. They lived here from 1934 to 1939 and divorced in that year. Kahlo moved back to the Blue House and when she and Rivera remarried the following year, he moved to join her there, though he kept the San Angel house as his studio. Most interesting for visitors today is the bathroom in Frida’s quarters, which inspired one of her most famous works: What the Water Gave Me – it’s a meditation on her life and her history, as she lay in the tub. • Admission £1.30, under 13s free, estudiodiegorivera.inba.gob.mx

Xochimilco and Museo Dolores Olmedo, Mexico City

Colourful boats at the Floating Gardens in Xochimilco. Photograph: Alamy

The floating gardens of Xochimilco have been Mexico City’s favourite way to spend a Sunday for many decades, as shown by the photographs of Kahlo trailing her hand into the water from her boat. It’s still the best place to soak up the vibrant, colourful and musical culture of the Mexico Kahlo loved. Rent a boat and be ferried through canals awash with mariachi bands, tortilla- and taco-makers, beer and tequila sellers. Afterwards head for the tranquillity of the Museo Dolores Olmedo Patino, a 17th-century mansion once owned by a friend and patron of Rivera’s. As well as many works by him it contains important paintings by Kahlo, although they’re on loan to an exhibition in Milan until the summer. • Admission £3.75, free entry on Tuesdays, museodoloresolmedo.org.mx

Museo de Arte Moderno, Mexico City

Photograph: Francesca Yorke/Getty Images

Kahlo’s painting The Two Fridas features in the museum’s collection of 20th-century Mexican art. The museum is currently showing more than more than 200 works by British artist Leonora Carrington (until 23 September). Carrington arrived in Mexico City in 1942, and was based there until her death in 2011. She knew Kahlo and was friends with English millionaire Edward James, a patron of surrealist artists and creator of Las Pozas sculpture garden in the jungles of San Luis Potosí. The exhibition includes discoveries such as a colourful 22-piece set of tarot cards, intricate paintings and tapestries never shown before as well as her best-known works including her self-portrait borrowed from the Met, and her 1947 painting The Giantess. • Admission £2.40, free on Sundays, museoartemoderno.com

Cuernavaca

Interior of the Robert Brady Museum. Photograph: Alamy

Soon after their first marriage (in 1929), Kahlo and Rivera went to live in Cuernavaca, around 90km south of Mexico City, borrowing the home of the US ambassador to Mexico where they lived while Rivera was painting murals in the town’s Palacio de Cortés. They depict the atrocities committed against the indigenous people, and the Mexican Revolution, and are a macro take on the world, in contrast to Kahlo’s micro take. The Robert Brady Museum is one of the best artistic highlights of the city and contains work by Kahlo and Rivera. • Admission £1.80, museorobertbrady.com Joanna Moorhead

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/frida-kahlos-neighbourhood-exploring-vibrant-coyoacan-mexico-city/ from All of Beer https://allofbeercom.tumblr.com/post/184238359442

[crystallineglacian]

An age ago…

When the world flourished and people were numerous, yet blessed with the constant presence of the gods. When the gods loved the race of man lifetime after lifetime, with many villas dedicated to the best loved. Where the most advanced technology, such as electricity (with Ramuh’s power utilized in a way that awed even him), sewers, and indoor plumbing was widespread. Where escaping silk and perfumes wafted out into the roads. There, basking in wealth, was the Kingdom of Solheim. Towers of granite and streets of smooth stones bustled with activity, then. Fresh water flowed through the towns and watered the crops. The burly ancestors of the chocobo pulled carts spilling over with spices, the best in bright golden urns. These were preserved for Shiva and her kin, who lived in the heart of the city beside the human king. His palace was not as large as the citadel of present Lucis, and had none of the heights of Altissia’s or Tenebrae’s monuments. But it was not meant to be. Though Ifrit filled the halls with fire to warm the nights, the most beautiful aspect of this land was the imperial gardens. Fragrant with sweet smelling flowers, and trickling with engineered streams and fountains, this was the common place to look for the royals when not in their beds. The crystalline beauty spent much of her time here. While her brothers, the royals, and even the servants took lovers into their homes for weeks on end… Her “lovers” were only called so for their companionship. The people looked after these individuals, dubbed “offerings” with high praise. Treating like kings themselves… And Shiva could not deny that to the few who shared her peculiar desire for acquaintance. The human companions differed for her as it differed for her brothers. Male and female, though not as striking as the pleasurable choices of her kin, flocked to Shiva for a chance at sharing her home. Few were distanced by her condition of sharing all but a bed, and she often had as many in her rooms as her brothers boasted. Her little sister, the only exception, was a quieter type who hid from the constant noise of the companions. During the loudest nights, where confidantes found they enjoyed sharing each other’s’ beds, the Glacian would endure the occasional teasing and sleep in her sister’s room. Years passed quickly, and time appeared to stand still in that utopia. There, the rain fell quietly to the joy of noble onlookers, while musicians played singing bowls. It was euphoric, and the birds melodies added to the ambiance. Shiva and Aphra, one of her most gifted companions, had taken a leisurely walk around the centered attraction, and the Messenger’s eyes watched the translucent fish swim under aqua ripples. The woman wanted to be a writer, and she related her recent conquest: the king was having her poetry archived in the common library where everyone she knew could read it. She insisted Shiva herself should sing a few of the stanzas at the dinner that night, since all were spellbound by the voice of an Astral. The messenger, after a few minutes of clever coaxing, agreed. One of her other companions, a man who had taken to courting Aphra, then took her away for the afternoon and left her in peace. Sitting on the pool’s edge, Gentiana allowed time to slip by her. The musicians went indoors with the royal family and their court, her siblings retreating to their villas. One, however, went in with the court. Her littlest brother, Ifrit. Time slipped by. And then, peeling through the air like a caught rabbit, a scream. Many others followed, and within a moment Shiva was in their midst. Chaos had been unleashed, as flames danced along the skin of the queen while the king tried in vain to put it out. It licked down her dress and into the carpet and straw, snuffing out the members of the court who had hesitated. All else dashed out the doors, shattering glass and tearing fabric as they stampeded around the inferno. Her brother looked back at her, and she expected to see mania. Or at the very least passion, as he was common to show. But his face displayed only that he knew what he’d done, as he called her sister. There were walls that came down in that fight, and both suffered burns from ice and fire, and water appeared as her sister attempted to drown him. However, as an astral, her brother vanished from their sight when The Judge appeared.

The snapping of the Inferno and the heat of the fight had drowned out the sounds from beyond their reach… But with Ifrit gone… They heard silence. A steadily, enveloping silence.

The roar of their people’s cries were shut in as oxygen vanished from their lungs, lifted by a shadow that washed over the city like a slow tide. Some gave up their homes, dropping their children by the wayside as they raced the beast to the city’s edge. As it made its way to the palace, Shiva saw a woman throw open the embellished garden gate and sobbing, she instantly leapt into her arms. Shiva’s arms. The girl lost feeling immediately, but she still cried into Shiva’s touch. Before she’d even touched her, the goddess recognized her as Aphra, the poet who had left with… Shamira. Shell-shocked, his eyes met the image of his paralyzed mistress in the embrace of the Glacian from the entrance to the garden. He’d seen her leap into such a state, and his eyes grew distant. The athlete bolted from sight, running towards the hills ahead of the oncoming, silent race. Gentiana lifted Aphra into her arms, stomaching the way her arms hung at her sides, and carried her up. Up above the black shade that oozed into the earth, and snapped the granite of the palace into shards. Gold decayed beneath its touch, and diamond turned to sand. Through a star’s gaze, she could see it all… And could do nothing to stop the blazing heat that accompanied it as if the monster were his shield. She simply cradled Aphra in her arms until the poor girl herself grew quiet. The air was much too thin. Shamira had made it out of the boundaries, well out-pacing the other runners. The only winner. The ooze gained ember eyes and watched him. Ever so patiently. And slowly fire pulsed in his veins. Shadow was inhaled into his lungs. His build increased, and became the image of a great dog. He gazed at the sky until his brown eyes became glowing orbs. … His beloved was safe.

Gentiana’s eyes met the landscape once the manifested Scourge cleared. Ash, dust, grime. No remnants of the living of any kind. Shards of blackened granite, hot sands. From there she evacuated Aphra. Shiva mourned the only monument of the Solheim Empire for hundreds of years. A limestone statue of the talented last survivor, in the floating hills of Tenebrae.

[rosevalntne-blog]

all of the questions!

thank you so much my love

bubble bath: do you have any routines before bedtime? like skin care, etc.? what are they? i’m trying to establish a solid skincare schedule but i’ve been so ill in the last year that i’ve been literally incapable of figuring out how bedtime works?? so it’s pretty much just clean the litterbox (wash my hands) and brush my teeth most nights

champagne: what topic could you talk about for hours? shakespeare and also food network

crushed velvet: have you ever used your charm to get something you want? i have no charm lol

diamonds: how do you feel about excessively spending money? fun but don’t probably

faux fur: describe your wardrobe lots of dark colors, flannels, lots of dresses and striped stockings, lots of dark leggings

glitter: describe someone special to you fnfnfndskjs i can’t pick just one and leave ppl out!!! so: gina has been my friend since we were in, like, sixth grade. we hit a rough patch once but other than that she’s seen me through everything. i try to be a good friend to her bc i love her so much and i really want to help her feel happy whenever i can.river is my platonic soulmate. i’ve never met anybody more relatable & they’re so supportive of me when i’m not well. they never ever ever call me terms i don’t like applied to me (e.g. “psychotic”) because they know that whatever i’m experiencing is real to me and that’s enough. they show me so much affection & i show it back and they make me feel so loved. cassie (you) is someone i wish i’d spoken to earlier. you followed me for a while before we became friends and i noticed you in my notifications but was always a little shy to reach out to you. i’m really, really glad you came off anon one day because you mean a lot to me. rae has helped me so much, especially as i learn which of my traits are bpd related and how to cope with them. i try to be supportive because i love them and even though i know sometimes i’m not the best friend i could be, i hope they know how much i love them because they really mean the world to me. i wish all the best for them and even if i’m scared to reach out because i easily think people don’t want to talk to me, i’m sending them good vibes every single day. spence is somebody i’ve really only become closer with recently but i want to be closer to him. not a day goes by that i don’t think of him and send him good vibes. i luv him and he’s really fun to bake with and i hope he’s having a good day. (if we’re pals and i didn’t mention you, it’s not bc you don’t mean a lot to me! i’m just rambling a lot so i need to cut it off here.) 

gold: describe what you would call the most perfect meal. hmmm i really like breakfast food and especially oatmeal but i like it kind of watered down? so i would say slightly watery oatmeal with raspberries, peanut butter & co. chocolate peanut butter, slivered almonds, and a little honey, and also a croissant and green tea! or also i make the fucking best vegan peanut butter cookies so like a whole batch of those probably.

jazz: name a song that resonates with you and your emotions: explain the reason why. there are so many but most of all, in this moment right now, i’m going to go with “the high road” by broken bells. i listened to it a lot in eighth grade when my depression first really set in (i.e. to a clinical level episode instead of a more slightly-below-cyclothymia situation that i had going on from ages eight to twelve), and i’ve been thinking a lot about then because i had the chance to get help then and i passed it up, and that makes me really sad because maybe my illness wouldn’t have progressed as much as it did if i had gotten help earlier. lyrics like “come on and get your overdose / collect it at the borderline” make me think of the “borderline” between reality/psychosis even though that probably wasn’t the original intention, and even though i’m not quite there yet, i feel like it might be coming, which is why i’m being so aggressive with med changes right now. and it just sounds echoey and surreal, which is how i feel. 

lace: what is something in your life completely different from last year? my manic depression has gotten significantly worse. i have full blown mania now, which changed my diagnosis from bipolar ii to bipolar i. i know diagnoses are only ways for clinicians to know how to treat you, but that feels like a big deal to me. unfortunately, i’ve definitely gotten worse. 

lingerie: do you consider yourself to be a promiscuous person? not at all. i am severely sex-repulsed. i slept with a girl once and had such a severe breakdown i almost killed myself, & still have flashbacks to this day. 

lipstick: do you enjoy talking to strangers? not in the least. 

pearls: what’s something about your personality that surprises others? i think most people are surprised to find how desperate i am for validation until they get to know me. i’m told i come off as rather mature and pulled-together, so i think people who don’t know me well don’t realize how dependent i am on the opinions and validation of others. 

penthouse: what do you consider your dream home? describe it. a little cottage in the woods just on the outskirts of a little town! it would be made of uneven stones with ivy crawling up the sides and a garden out front. there would be a river nearby with willow trees. inside, it would be quaint and often a little dusty, with mismatched furniture found at tag sales and filled bookshelves everywhere. the kitchen would be the biggest room because i spend so much time baking in there. 

perfume: if you could make your own signature fragrance, what would it smell like? roses, honey, and vanilla. 

robe: how do you prepare for an evening alone with a loved one/date? clean up my room, pop hamlet into my dvd player, and bake something? idk i’ve never dated anyone,,

roses: if it had to be winter, spring, summer, or autumn for the rest of your life, which would you choose? autumn! when the air smells like cinnamon and cloves, it’s the perfect time for chai tea and pumpkin spice lattes, the leaves are beautiful, and it’s neither too hot nor too cold. 

satin: what is your most favorite article of clothing? black and white striped stockings :^)

sheet mask: what is your favorite lazy activity? drinking lattes and watching food network!

silk: do you have more inner beauty or outer beauty? neither i’m a bad person and a goblin

silver: do you have any obscure hobbies? what are they? i used to collect the tags on tea bags but i lost them all lol

sparkling water: what are your top three songs for the summer? for an ideal summer? (1) “my girl,” the temptations; (2) “rosalita (come out tonight),” bruce springsteen; (3) “on my way,” phil collins. 

wine: what kind of drunk are you? i’ve only been drunk during severe episodes but when i’m in a mixed episode and drunk i get very poetic and write a lot and i’m very self-reflective and stuck in the void and when i’m manic i’m just very giggly and i shout a lot. 

[beautymanianowlove-blog]

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[kino-rogers]

Some of my favourite words (updated regularly)

Euphoria (juːˈfɔːrɪə)(n): A feeling or state of intense excitement and happiness.

Example: “In his euphoria, he had become convinced he could defeat them.”

Dysphoria (dɪsˈfɔːrɪə)(n): A state of unease or generalised dissatisfaction with life. In other words: the opposite of euphoria.

Example: “Adolescents with depression, dysphoria, mania and anxiety disorders.”

Dirge (dəːdʒ)(n): A lament for the dead, especially one forming part of a funeral rite.

Shrike (ʃrʌɪk)(n): A songbird with a strong sharply hooked bill, often impaling its prey of small birds, lizards, and insects on thorns.

Ethereal (ɪˈθɪərɪəl)(adj.): Extremely delicate and light in a way that seems not to be of this world.

Example: “Her ethereal beauty.”

Sillage (siːˈjɑːʒ)(n): The degree to which a perfume’s fragrance lingers in the air when worn.

Example: “Neither scent has a very long sillage.”

Silk (sɪlk)(n): A fine, strong, soft lustrous fibre produced by silkworms in making cocoons and collected to make thread and fabric.

Liminal (ˈlɪmɪn(ə)l)(adj.): occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold.

Epiphany (ɪˈpɪf(ə)ni,ɛˈpɪf(ə)ni)(n): A moment of sudden and great revelation or realization.

Elegance (ˈɛlɪɡ(ə)ns)(n): The quality of being graceful and stylish in appearance or manner.

Example: "A slender woman with grace and elegance."

Celestial (sɪˈlɛstɪəl)(adj.): Positioned in or relating to the sky, or outer space as observed in astronomy.

Example: "A celestial body."

Perfection (pəˈfɛkʃ(ə)n)(n): The state or quality of being perfect.

Example: "A satiny perfection of her skin."

Miraculous (mɪˈrakjʊləs)(adj.): Remarkable and bringing very welcome consequences.

[libramoon2]

[evening dionysian]

working title: [evening dionysian]

Dancers dance musicians play Enchanting sylph narrates stories while seductively moving to sinuous back beat, tick of chimes. Occasionally emphasizes subtle percussions with intense expressions, leaps, cunning stumbles, falling to crawl into spellbound speech. Scheherazade myths, archetypal passion escapades, poignant weeps, salient shouts to power. Exquisite meditations on mystic climes, spirit and form. Merry masks, sparkly costumes, paint and glitter as embellishment to the tellings. Theater as intimate ritual. Anything could manifest.

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Pisces murky androgeny Libra emits graceful beauty Scorpio at home in passion Deeply attractive Complicated self-hatred urging service and demeaning. At core strong self-belief expressed intuitively. Stories from the collective well, mystic ether, imbued in earth, exhaled by flames. Centering, sense memory trances exhibits as sinuous performance.

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This world is ending …

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Even happy families share dissonance, complex histories, emotional triggers. Happy families learn to thrive, profound mutual respect as guide, resort to good humor for smoother passage. Why fight, divide strength from where it is better spent? Folk who pull together by choice rejoice in shared communion.

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Outside self-circumscribed worlds Diverse perception of views Sight with wide spectra of hues

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She heard him crying, a lost child in the night. In her prophetic heart she knew only she could comfort him. But she was only a child who was never allowed to be lost. How could she comfort this lost boy when she had no freedom to reach out? Late in quiet dark, after her people, asleep, would not be checking on her, she opened her window and made daring escape. Wandering in the outside dark, she listened for his cries. At first she discerned wind among leaves and branches, small creature forays, clash of metal against pavement, perfumed strains from afar. Then, yes, whimpers, ragged rhythm past exhausted weeping. He was huddled, hidden, on the alley side of a cold brick building. Seeing him, frightened, lost, she did not know what to say. He smelled of rancid sweat and fear. She did not know how to speak. She cried. She emptied herself of every caustic tear, every regret held for guilty ransom, every sadness kept inside so no one would fuss. He looked up at her watery face and asked with amazed concern: “Are you lost, too? Because if we are lost together, really we have found each other. We don’t have to stay scared and alone.” She looked around, realized that in al her blind wandering she had lost her way. She had no idea where they were. She knelt beside him. They smiled and hugged. For that precious while they became beloved kin. Perhaps some special night they’ll meet again.

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Mythy visions to transcribe; thought fragments to form. Myths we live, and how to rewrite them.

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She knows she has awakened. Every effort of her body pinches, aches, demands refuge in self-talk, reason, mental override of pain. Carefully, she measures out tools of destruction, what she must carry in her pack into the city, to her place of destiny. Doing what one can to make sense, have meaning. Life is short, ugly, pointless, unless you get that call. Trying to act cool with familiar friends, laying low, hiding from everything that doesn’t allow relevant existence for dregs like us. Recognition? Commendation? A scrap of real notice? To sacrifice this humorless joke to Godly cause, that’s got to be imbued with meaning, to be holy. How not find zealous courage, so dishonor numbing a drug, one point of focus. All my sins, my impoverishments, inadequacies, forgiven in ultimate atonement. God can love me. I am made pure in His sight. A tool, a weapon, no matter how lowly, bestowed sacred purpose in this great fight. My parents, my kin, vindicated, their suffering denied nobility avenged. Cleansed in adventure’s icy plunge, only ever young in throes of romance, a chance for breathless rush of brief immortality.

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. question everything accept or reject with clear awareness and flexibility

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. purity of essence is to will one thing

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. She didn’t like her skin. So hard to blend in. She didn’t like her body, jutting awkwardly, too bulky, not compliant to conscious control. She ached to let her spirit free from matter’s burden, to ooze out onto open air. Her envisioned wish took her to aerial glee, and no more. “What would I see, outside of eyes, no biological boundaries?” Her attention, turned to this yearn for omniscient sight, was caught, held strong and seduced. Ever present, ever expanding through every crevice of her consciousness, she became inured to matter’s inadequacies. She desired entirely. No one could reach her, though no one tried. She trance-walked through her duties and habits with none to notice any lack of aliveness, lack of any impish spark within her eyes. Self-consumed, obsessed, absorbed in apotheosis, physical possibilities no longer matter. Her spirit no longer held to this room, this body. Blind to her unseeing world, enraptured in unfiltered light, colors far beyond our rainbow.

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. A brave and learned man hired out to guide a motley assortment through a narrow, rocky passage to a settlement in need of laborers. At this time, he was a stranger to settlers and these prospective immigrants. He had an idea of joining their project, but felt nag of doubt enough to only commit as far as hiring out for specified work and pay. This Job – this man who gave his name as Job – was curious, clever, aloof because caught up in thoughts complex, calculating, critical, cynical, contemplative, entertaining. He spoke as necessary for terse communication. He listened as if a subtle etching of rain on sand. He sucked in sounds and all their meaning to nourish his chattering brain. Though his behavior, demeanor, presentment appeared distancing, others tended to respect his leadership, his abilities. Even those who mocked or boisterously complained in private camaraderie in which he did not join agreed that he bested them at coming through. After their passaging, safely gathered at the settlement, words and gestures of gratitude lauded upon him were spontaneous and sincere. As settlers and new arrivals met together to discuss their common project, ask questions, give opinions, figure out teams and chores, Job continued his passage. Busy in their plans and adaptations, no one noticed him disappear.

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. Capture my imagination Take me for a ride self-discipline, acknowledge without judging

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Philip, he so tired, exhausted, can’t bear the nattering. Silly people, spew of soft-heart advice. Stupidly happy people, smug in their hugs and white smiles. Philip recedes into deep, dark hate – so mired and convoluted spirals down his mind. Lethargic impulses, held back, kicked down, pounded to weakness as he grew in twists and turns. “Don’t look at me.” He hears his silence scream. Horrid beast snarls, whimpers. Philip aches to hide from his own mind, beastly child whining, cringing around cutting steel for comfort. Snappy, happy babblers burst like saliva balloons, insult, annoy. “Don’t speak to me. Don’t daintily pretend you understand; oh so precious extended hands, limpid eyes question, judge, sentence to demented status. “I am fine, or will be when you all leave me alone. Ignore my retreat into secure solitary recrimination, whip lash of vengeful sin. You know you don’t really want to be let in, to feel the wrath I am. Scatter, you flesh-covered delusions who choose to disturb my sleep, my darling nightmares’ stomping victory. You clearly don’t need my input to be complete. Complete fools – go do your better things. Enjoy your day. I’ve no more to say, to share.” Aloud? Allowed? He allows himself to voice complaint aloud. And the folk crowd ebbs out beyond his self-fixed point. “Express your truth,” he silently affirms. People may listen.

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Imbibe trance Fall into story Record intimately

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Become one story Imbibe trance intimately Record while falling

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face shifter. story spinner. dervish zeitgeist possessed. defined by shades, by shadows, by negation.

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Sammy scary loco crazy. They say he got the paranoid schizophrenia. What he got is commandos tracking his thoughts, grinning. Party of demons who been with him, telling him what to do, clever talk when he needs to answer some fool. He’s got my nightmares, but can’t shake them awake. No one wants to listen to me or him when we say what’s real. They want us to be kids, whatever that is. They want us to make them feel alive in their self-comforting fantasies about responsibilities. What is Sammy responsible for or to? Because he suffers disability, because he can’t break through Hell’s circles, flames of purity. I walked from Hell. My mind still burns. I am strong, a born survivor. He survives as he can. Is that weakness, or alternative dimensions habitated? I am amazing, mobile, continuing, sensibly explaining, harmoniously relating, conversing like a pro. I struggle. I hurt, it feels unbearably. I work until I want to scream, become explosive screaming. I stifle, call up mania to work on. Efforts only I applaud – amazing me! Nothing spectacular to entice the jaded they. Sammy is spectacular. I am seriously amazing. I won’t let them blind me.

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. They walk in and out of patterns, broad swath of night. No designated home; no one has to accept them. They walk. Dust, dirt, soot, effluvia collect, protect in the sense of repel. In safe dark none encounter to harass. Those alive by day buried in bed. They walk without notice or plan. This is their closest approach to sleep, hypnotic glide through distance. Landscape undifferentiated by visible presentation. Footsteps feel clearly what comes under, it seems by instinct — or possibly familiarity. They walk on perhaps forever with no where to stop. Pit stops. Beg for food or find leavings. Play merry fool, eyes gleaming, lips voice hands form expressive grand soliloquies, hoped fee implied (implored). Sustenance they afford varies by mood of kindness, unswayed by desperation. Exhaustion only dulls, removes any attractive shine. As air blows colder, nights freeze over, they seem to dissolve into neverwere. Empty shadow, haunted tingle bereft of cause. “They were never us, nothing like us.” Unspoken song bears rhythms of walking unseen.

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She awoke in a body, young, womanly, driving consciousness on hold somewhere like dreamless sleep. It was her occasional brief invasion to feel in touch with mortal concerns. She is to be a bride, again. Foolish, innocent yet of so many regrets and betrayals to come. She is ready to exult in the veil and it symbolic lift. Happy to perform, darling of her audience of familiars. Happy day, swept clean of trepidations, of all yesterdays and their burdensome effluvia. Today is always hers. These ceremonies, traditional duties and pleasures, bind her to cults, cultures, accumulated lore and intuition. Not creature, but weaver – still she is inseparable from the story. Today she again assumes bridehood. Tonight, awash in festivities, again she removes her spell of possession. This new bride returns to a familiar world, changed. No longer civil child nor spiritual supplicant, she has ascended. People see her differently, treat her with more deference, more distance even as they proclaim her their precious chosen intimate, ply her with cherished secrets as if her allegiance would add value. Her bearing carries an air, an enhanced spirit, a subtle awareness, unspoken by any inner voicing. Language is a human art.

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Gathered on picnic table benches behind the home, hot in sunshine. Karen explains, fact by fact, how Gus became her inseparable soul. They beam together. He gives consoling hand to shoulder as she grieves children left with their father, her ex’s condemnation, stern paternal assertion of power. Saving his kin from this unrepentant whore. Karen cries, again – unrehearsed habit. She carries sadness; leaks occur. Gus hardly speaks. His troubled eyes, weary stance, gentle pull and pass of their pint bottle as he glances with deep countenance to each face around is eloquent conversation. Sweat smells, condensed alcohol, burnt tobacco, drying shit from local dogs, passing fumes from the road out front, all permeate, help set the mood. They treat the stranger in their midst as a friend of long acquaintance, just another straggly member of a morphing crew. “Ain’t we all strangers of long acquaintance – everybody a wrapping of layers, appearing in colored bits along our drowsy companionship. Strange friends, welcome distractions, smoky mirrors that let us see as we discern.” Bonnie and Denise giggle at Big Dan’s pedantic speech. They solicit contributions for their liquor store expedition. Enough gets thrown in to make it a go. Go, girls. We’ll be waiting, celebrating what we can because here we are.