#Elegiac Tone

[cinephilesadeqi]

Movie Analysis and Review: "Detachment" (2011)

Synopsis:“Detachment,” directed by Tony Kaye, delves into the life of Henry Barthes (Adrien Brody), a substitute teacher who avoids emotional connections, constantly moving from one district to another. Placed in a public school filled with apathy among students and disinterested parents, Henry inadvertently becomes a role model to his disaffected students and forms a unique bond with a teenage…

[sweetbeck]

T_T nick tried 2 be straight after he met gatsby T_T

[jifanjiang0710]

platonic yandere! father x fem! reader Warnings: incest (not between yandere and reader)

Fùqīn: Father

“Fùqīn.”

Though his eyes remained shut, legs crossed lazily off the veranda (ruffling his kù), an imperceptible upward quirk of the lips spoke of his acknowledgement. One sleeve hastened to conceal the bowl beside him, but you caught it just before it disappeared behind the garment.

“Intoxicating yourself?” Your tone turned icier, if possible, and your father scrambled to redeem himself.

“Of course not, [Name]-er, just indulging lightly in the morning-” You interrupt him with a whack upside on the head, with a fan someone had gifted you, unsympathetic to his pitiful wail. He had developed a rather bothersome drinking habit as of late, though by all means far from dangerous for your father was an elegiac drunk, often accompanying a teary sort of clinginess. It was evident even for the rare visitor to surmise that he was particularly attached to you, his only daughter and child. Since your birth, after overcoming his initial reluctance to hold you, you were rarely let out of his sight, often seen trailing behind the first prince or wrapped up in his arms, a little bundle of childhood. When he had left the palace you were carried close to his chest, none the wiser.

Even then you found yourself somehow coaxed onto his lap, tugged forward by the arm until your head could rest atop his chest. He raised the wine to your lips, to which you halt him.

“Fùqīn.”

“Alright, alright,” he sighed and set it aside. “Won’t you call me ā-diē like other children do? Am I not enough of a beloved father to you?” The complaint came across as more puerile than heart-wrenching. After failing to garner a response, he tousled your hair, raking long fingers through the strands that would take you two kè to put up. He had insisted before that he could braid your hair just as well as any servant, into a style befitting of the noblest of ladies (he cannot) (he has tried).

“You… must relearn royal etiquette,” you said, shifting out of his grasp to maintain a preferred detachment. “You cannot be sitting so crassly, or running your mouth when we return to the Imperial Palace. Fùqīn, we must demonstrate impeccable manners and grace show that our time here has not diminished our values as royals.”

“My brother deserves none of my effort.” He only pulled you back into the embrace, with the excuse of keeping you warm amidst the third snow of the season. “Was he not the one who saw my exile?”

“It is not just the Emperor. What of the Queen Mother, the princess, the concubines and their children? They will seize any opportunity or weakness to scorn us for lack of refinery. We would never shake of the brand of criminals.” For the first time this morning a draft made you shiver despite not feeling any effect from the cold just now, allowing him to lean in to monopolise more of your body heat. He was sensitive to low temperatures, but would still dwell outdoors frequently in winter months, dressed in scant layers of clothing. As much as he laughed it off as an odd quirk and impulse, you recognised it as a form of punishment, self-imposed suffering he inflicted upon his skin. You dare think that it is due to the guilt he carries for being the reason both you and he were here now, abandoned in an old residence someplace near the northern border.

He had remained silent this while, as if contemplative. An unusual occurrence. The wind tore through the house with greater ardour, brushing across frosted branch and soil to deposit a perilous chill within the stone walls. Finally, he placed a palm over your cheek, a gentle warmth soft as snowflakes adorning his smile, and spoke. “You wish to become a royal again?”

The lump of saliva in your throat felt much harder to swallow. “Yes.”

“Then I shall see it through.”

“…”

“…what’s wrong, [Name]-er?”

You dismissed it as a wandering mind, but you would never admit to him that for perhaps the second time in your whole life, he had frightened you. Though his arms were gentle and eyes soft, you could not find reprieve from the sudden chill you experienced earlier.

While your father the first prince savoured the tranquillity of an early grey noon, you begin to muse on the letter that had arrived so unceremoniously the month before. A horseman handed it to you, you unfurled the scroll, he left.

It carried the official stamp and seal of the Imperial Palace, a message direct from the emperor. The Emperor! Casting his gaze on disgraced royals such as you? The contents merely spoke of a potential reinstatement of both your titles by the next Lunar New Year, in time to celebrate the spring festival. The next announcement would be of the emperor’s visit to your humble residence. What could prompt him to make an in-person trip, much less to a land so far from the capital?

You had relayed this enthusiastically to your father, who nearly gave you heart palpitations when he downright refused to accommodate his brother the emperor.

“Fùqīn! You cannot reject a decree!”

“[Name]-er.” The autumn leaves had littered the courtyard, the task of clearing them he conveniently ignored. “I know you are eager for our period of exile to end-”

“I am! I don’t want to have you live like this anymore, not when you were supposed to be the Crown Prince, not when they slammed you with baseless accusations of treason!”

“Guāi, don’t be angry. Come here…”

But you snatch your hand out of his grip, seething at the injustice of your circumstances. “Even if we have to be civil to him, it doesn’t matter. As long as we can…”

‘As long as my father won’t have to bear the burden of his punishment anymore. As long as I can have a chance to provide for him better in the future, find a proper job in the capital… for both our sakes.’ You left that unsaid.

He laughed. He laughed and it was so incongruous that you were frozen in place. “My sweet daughter. Are you worried about me?”

“No. It’s so I can have a better life. You can rot here for all I care.”

“I know you would never do that.” He tugged you down effortlessly into his arms, wooden tea table shoved aside, and like a snake constricted you so tight you had to hit him twice on the head for him to loosen up. “My daughter… tell me this. Have I ever seemed displeased with my life here?” You can feel the weight of his chin on your head.

“[Name]-er, I am content here. As long as we are together, and I have you.”

Come to think about it, that’s when his excessive drinking problem worsened. ______________________________________________________________ Meeting the Emperor

The emperor’s arrival mirrored opposite of that of the letter. A silken-draped carriage, held aloft by muscled workers from further up north, the procession led by finely-maned horses and their carts. Only the wine vessels caught your father’s interest. You clutched your fan close, the same one that had arrived enclosed within the letter. That item, you did not disclose its origins to your father. As far as he is aware you had picked it up while visiting the town market.

The emperor, with all his grandeur, still did not hesitate stepping into the estate with only two accompanying soldiers, his retainers instructed to linger just outside the courtyard, and conveniently out of earshot.

“Ye Heqing.” He addressed your father, a courteous smile gracing his attractive features. “It has been a while, gē.” Upon receiving no response, his smile only widened, and he directed the next greeting to you. “[Name]-er.”

“Who gave you the right to call her that?” You had to placate your father, and kneel in his place. The emperor’s eyes lay on the fan he gifted you with, fixed securely to your side with a wooden chain.

“Huángshàng, please forgive him, he has not been feeling very well-” Blind panic swims in your vision, from the corner of your field of view you could witness your father scoff dismissively, obviously enraged at the familiarity in which his brother addressed you.

“I was fine until you came. Leave my family alone.” Ye Heqing takes a step closer to the emperor, his younger brother, the plain thin hanfu a distinguishing contrast to the latter’s dark red robes and golden-rimmed cap, while their faces parallel an eerie similarity.

“I assure you, gē, I wish no harm. I have but one request, that is the chance to speak with your daughter, my niece, in private.”

“LIKE HELL I WOULD LET-”

Your father was dragged away by the soldiers out of his own house, thrashing and yelling profanities so blasphemous it would have a commoner executed should they attempt the same.  “[NAME]!” he howls out as a final desperate parting, or perhaps for help.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Now that that has been settled, shall we converse?” The emperor signals for you to stand, and you lead him to the tearoom, suddenly conscious of the sole shaky desk that had served you loyally for fifteen years. With trembling fingers and a chipped pot, you poured him a tea of the finest variant of leaves you owned, freshly ground.

“Thank you.” If he did not enjoy it, your uncle did not make it obvious. On the contrary his attention seemed to be fixated on something else. If not the fan you kept by your waist, then your eyes, forehead, hands, as if scrutinising.

He lifts the chains that attach the fan to the fabric. “I shall have to replace these with jade beads instead.” You still. Since when had he come so close?

“Have you considered my offer?” Another hand brushes past your hip, subtly at first, then snaking around it to grip.

In truth there was another part to the letter you had hidden from your father. A separate note handwritten by the emperor, to convey a personal request.

“So?” He inquired, savouring the hitch of your breath when his chest presses into your spine. “I have waited long for your correspondence, leaving me no choice but to advance my visitation earlier.”

“No.” Pulling away, you recall your father’s words.

‘I am content here. As long as we are together…’

“No,” you repeated. “Please forgive this niece, Huángshàng, for I am unable to accept that condition. I cannot, and will not, marry you.”

For a minute, it seemed as though the emperor were about to protest. The sharpness in his eyes began to brandish its piercing tip. He would have appealed somehow, with the title of Empress, or the solid security of your status and lifestyle, reverence of the kingdom, maybe even temptations of the flesh from a man as desirable as he (for who else would liaise with a banished royal?).

He chose to express none of those. Instead, he listened intently for another sound from outside. Surely enough, if you strained your ears, Ye Heqing could be heard through muffled shrieks. The emperor shook his head.

“I have desired you for a number of months now. Your resilience in the face of tribulation and commendable feats to keep yourself and my brother alive for this long have reached my ears. Consider me impressed. Though banished and left to die, you have established good rapport with the local townsfolk, enough to secure yourself a source of income.

“It hardly ends there. Utilising your father’s royal education and knowing he could not apply for the imperial scholar examinations; you advertised him as a tutor instead. Though lazy and idle my brother may be, he has the heart to spend his days teaching and nights studying. Two silver taels… a bargain of a price, for such a reputable teacher.” He flashes that signature charming smile, but nothing like the warmth of your father’s grin. “But,” the teacup is set down, “is that the fate you wish to burden him with forever? An unstable income with barely enough to wear additional layers of clothes in winter?”

He is referring to your father’s self-inflicted pain. You are about to raise your voice, defend him and explain the reason for such, but you understand what he is getting at. Do you want Ye Heqing to continue making himself suffer?

Sensing your hesitance, your uncle continues, taking your right hand in his. “He is not getting any younger, nor am I. I wish to settle down, with a wife competent enough to rule beside me for the maintenance and expansion of the kingdom. A wife who is, simply speaking, as gorgeous and spirited as you.” He placed a kiss on the top of each knuckle, gaze lidded and implicit.

“My father… is happy here. And he would never agree to be with the family that scorned, framed him for-”

“Framed?” The emperor’s eyebrows knitted in a perplexed scowl, though anyone could tell that it was insincere. The twitch of his eyes and repressed grin told that he had been anticipating the opportunity to bring up the topic of your father’s crimes. “Whatever do you mean, my dear?”

“He… he was innocent. He had never betrayed the former Emperor, or the kingdom! You had no evidence and only sought to exile him for the throne! Yes, he is greedy, indolent, obstinate, eats too much, drinks too much, deceptive, blur, foul-mouthed and everything in between, but he would never…”

“Never what, [Name]-er?”

“Never…” You don’t know why you faltered. “Never steal from the Emperor.”

Your uncle laughed. He laughed and it sounded just like your father, so incongruous that you have an odd sense of deja-vu. “Is that what he told you? Hahahahahaa… I,” he manages between fits of giggles, “Ye Moyao, Emperor of the XX kingdom, have never heard such a blatant falsehood in my life.”

“Wh- But he said that you accused him of stealing fifty-thousand taels, from palace reserves, to…”

He rubbed his chin. “True, we never did find out where the half a wàn silver taels had went, but he was convicted for a very different reason. Poor thing, did he not tell you?” He leaned in closer, lips to your ear. “Has he lied about it all these years?”

Seeing how dumbstruck you are, he resumes, voice somber. “Ye Heqing was found guilty of the attempted murder of the former Emperor, our father. He had kept a vial of poison in his sleeve pocket, to serve to him when he had the chance. Fortunately, it merely made him severely ill, and my father recovered within the year, by which time we had already identified Ye Heqing as the culprit and had both of you exiled.”

“You’re lying.” You would never have dared address the emperor rudely, but the news was absurd. Your father- No, that was impossible. “It’s not true-”

“I could have him executed; you know.”

The threat silences you. He chuckles. “Marry me. You --- nor he --- would have to suffer here any longer.”

You think long and hard, and nod.

______________________________________________________________

Days in the Palace

You saw the emperor’s entourage off as far as the edge of the town. Following your acceptance he had tried to lay a hand on you but was refused.

“Didn’t you notice, [Name]-er? The way he looked at you?! I’ll pluck out his eyes and scatter his remains! I’ll kill him! How dare he lay such a repulsive gaze on MY daughter? I’ll murder him, I really will-!”

“Fùqīn, you are not sober. Take the herbal tea.”

This tirade had gone on for the better half of the evening after the emperor’s departure. While you held the wine bowl high out of reach from his kneeling form, you began to consider the implications of a marriage with Ye Moyao. Surely it would be scorned and opposed, seeing as he was your uncle, but public opinion had never stopped him for acquiring what he wanted. The punishment of beatings for marrying within family or clan was a threat null and void in the face of the Emperor. You doubted he would have selected a very auspicious date for the ceremony, given how eager he seemed for the marriage to commence early.

Of course, your father was not informed of this decision.

“[Name]-errrr…”

“Tch. Do not display such disgraceful behaviour once we return to the palace.”

A sniffle from him.

Then, about eight nights before the Spring Festival, you two had ridden a modest carriage to the capital after collectively refusing the transport arranged by the Imperial Palace. Nearly immediately upon entrance you and your father had been separated much to his obvious chagrin. A band of handmaidens had ushered you off to an ornate room of dark wood and stone, and tutors were assigned to subject you to a strict series of lessons, educating you on national matters, the Lunyu, royal customs etc. Your diet had been no stranger to close scrutiny, and however majestic and grand the palace and its surrounding gardens may be, you were often confined to the spaces between the classroom and your chambers. Not that you minded that much, you still managed to interact with a great host of persons, and some childhood friends you could hardly recall.

You had not seen your father since. Word from the servants were that he had been called to meet the Emperor, by which time he would have learnt of his only child’s engagement with his own brother. Much to your astonishment there had been no news of a large fuss somewhere in the grounds; Ye Heqing was reputed for his rashness when it involved his daughter in particular. Speaking of your father, he became the favourite topic for gossip amongst the royal family and their associates. That much you could glean even with your limited interactions outside. About his attempted murder, his time in exile. It made you seethe. How could they assume so much of his character, his person when barely understood him?

In the days that followed it would be amiss to neglect the mention of the various gifts your soon-to-be husband was delivering to your quarters each morning. Whether it be your favourite mooncake flavours (how did he know??), vibrant and colourful jewellery, or intricate gadgets from the West, Ye Moyao seemed to acutely pinpoint your tastes, only selecting items that would catch your intrigue or fancy. It was mildly unsettling, as if he could pry you open and browse through your soul at will. It was lucky that your father was forbidden to meet with you for now, or else you think he would have eaten all the gifted snacks in your stead.

Until now it seemed that the emperor had no interest in meeting you until the wedding date. Your wedding was set conveniently on Lunar New Year’s Eve (appalling choice of date), and you only got to see your father on the day itself.

Your hair was done up by no other than the Queen Mother herself, who had wordlessly visited your abode and with elegant wrinkled fingers finished the job with an elaborate golden hair stick, another present from Ye Moyao. When you finally locked eyes with him at the ceremony banquet, there was an unidentifiable gleam within his gaze. The crimson red of your dress under the dark vest matched the colour of the sash over his flowing garments. From the second you were led down the red carpet you could feel the scrutiny of others creeping up your spine, nestling between the ossicles of your ears and piercing like clouds through your ribs. The traitor’s child. The emperor’s new obsession.

Strangely enough, your father was not here. Though your eyes ran many a lap over the whole courtyard you could not catch the familiar mop of brown hair floating in the crowd. Maybe it was not such a bad thing. He would have wasted no time in objecting to the marriage disrupting the progression of the wedding. You had no time to be disappointed, for the kowtowing ritual and tea-serving ceremony had begun. Even as you ate at the table, responding quite mechanically to the inquiries of the former emperor and the Queen Mother you had little rest, for Ye Moyao was gripping tightly to your hand for the most part, occasionally sliding up your knee and thigh. Expression still unreadable, you decided it tedious to do anything but entertain his whims.

Even as he carried you to the bridal chambers, you had not protested much.

______________________________________________________________

Ye Heqing's Appearance

“Dear wife, would you come here?”

After the whole ordeal of the ceremony you were spent, having little time to relish in the reinstatement of your official title alongside your new title as empress. Regardless you still made your way to sit beside him on the lavish bed.

Your uncle hums in satisfaction, pulling you close by the waist to bury his nose into your neck and inhale deeply. “It has been a while since I cared so much to indulge in a woman, much less choose to marry her.”

“Where is my father?”

He shook his head. “You needn’t concern yourself with the whereabouts of a traitor. I am all that you need t-”

“He is not.”

“…what makes you so sure? He had hidden the truth behind his banishment for a little less than two decades. Why are you so adamant on his innocence?”

It was as though the blood flow to your heart had halted. Every nerve and capillary burned with an overwhelming distaste, wanting to tear our flakes of skin where he had touched you, yet you remain pliant and silent. His hand moves to the knots on your vest, undoing them slowly, sensually. When he had reached for the hem of your dress your eyes were tightly shut, fists clenched at the side.

Expecting to feel cool air against your skin, you did not anticipate the warmth of a palm over your eyelids, and hot splatters of oozing liquid onto your skin. A gurgling and choke from Ye Moyao.

Once you cared enough to open them, you are instantly wrapped in the embrace of a familiar set of arms, carrying with them a homely, earthly scent. When you tried to pry him away to see just what he had done, Ye Heqing’s grip on you only became firmer, sword grasped in the other hand, intent on shielding you from the grotesque sight of his brother’s slit neck.

“Sweet girl, are you alright?” Your father uttered over the gasps and ruffling from his brother’s writhing. “Fùqīn is here.” He examines the ‘man’ that was the emperor, perhaps hoping to have prolonged his torment a little longer, but you came first. Once his beloved daughter was safe and secure he would go for the rest of the royal family, and then he could have his fun.

You think your father had entered through the window, or had hidden here for a while already. It did not matter; you would ask him of it later. “Your Royal Highness,” you addressed the emperor, back still turned to his although Ye Heqing had let you out of his arms to approach the dying man, “my father had not attempted to murder you and the former emperor.”

You could imagine his gaze, pupils blown wide and fixed manically on you. You only exhale and retreat. “If that was truly the case, he would have succeeded.”

A final slash of the bloodied blade, and Ye Moyao was no more.

[kkurami]

( LOVE LETTER 2 U ! ) 💌 ² ˚ ༘ fluff

୨୧ ‧ megumi didn’t think he was anything special, not until he received a carefully written love letter just for him <3

like petals unfurling at dawn, my love for you blossoms as each waking day arises.

there’s something so enchanting about being in love, don’t you agree?

i like to believe it gives people a deeper understanding of themselves and their emotions. most people i have seen turn poetic and elegiac when talking about the one they love, which i never quite understood until i fell in love myself. after all, how much can one change just because of another person? the thought had always seemed silly to me.

but if someone were to ask me to describe my feelings for you, i guess i would be a victim of just that.

loving you is a rather unpredictable experience. at times, you make me feel like the happiest person on earth. i get so giddy and whimsical just being around your presence, because you’re the most ethereal person. however, there are times when i’m worried you won’t burn for me the way i do for you. do you feel a fire light up in your soul whenever you see me?

my dearest, your presence is the melody that dances through the corridors of my heart. in the realm of moonlit whispers and star-kissed dreams, your love blooms in the garden of my soul, a symphony of sounds that show we coexist under the same sky. in every heartbeat, i find the rhythm of our connection, a serenade that weaves its way throughout our world. together, we compose a timeless sonnet of boundless affection.

i need to confess… i’ve loved you from the start ♡

a faint blush overtook her features and sat mockingly on her cheeks, as if it waited to expose her inner feelings. she could barely feel the heat that radiated off it, everything in sync with the fast beating of her heart. the inconsistent rise and fall of her chest was synonymous the turmoil she felt deep inside.

her widened eyes held nothing less than affection for the boy who stood in front of her, as his eyes scanned the ivory paper in his hands.

fushiguro megumi, the one who had captured her heart with such grace.

it almost seemed silly, how much the boy had managed to enrapture ever fiber of her soul. after all— they hardly knew each other. she was astonished to find out that he had even known her name.

“this is a love letter?” megumi inquired, an inquisitive eyebrow raised almost as if to think it was silly. “for me?”

y/n’s head bobbed up and down in nervousness. she couldn’t wrap her head around the fact that she was speaking to megumi. “yes! i know we don’t know each other well and you probably don’t like me like that, but i just-!”

“why… me?” y/n put a hold on her rambling to scan her eyes over to megumi, who had his eyeline focused on the letter in his hands.

y/n quirked her head to the side. “why not you?” the question was silly to her. “you probably think people don’t notice you, but they do. i do. i've always admired you, megumi.”

like delicate petals falling from a sakura painted sky, y/n was a blessing that had graced the earth- at least, in megumi’s eyes. he never considered he was anything special, and opted to just live his life as it passed him by. however with just one letter, y/n seemed to reweave the tapestry of his existence. the page, filled with words of love and heartfelt serenades, seemed to hold megumi’s heart within its grasp- and y/n was at the forefront of it all.

“but,” y/n began to speak again when she noticed megumi deep in thought. “you don’t need to like me back. i just wanted to let you know how i feel!”

a sad smile graced her face, and megumi hated being the cause of it.

“let’s get lunch.” megumi roughy stated without thinking, before correcting himself. “i meant, um, let’s get lunch together.” he couldn’t stop the blush the threatened its way up to his face, nor the fast pace of his heart.

with hushed tones and soft smiles, y/n and megumi began their way towards the lunch room. the air was adorned with the subtle symphony of love as their hearts synchronized. amidst the delicate cadence, the world melted into the background, leaving only the warmth of companionship and the promise of countless conversations yet to unfold.

it was the beginning of a perfect love.

[officiallordvetinari]

Below are 10 featured Wikipedia articles. Links and descriptions are below the cut.

On February 17, 1974, U.S. Army Private First Class Robert Kenneth Preston (1953–2009) took off in a stolen Bell UH-1B Iroquois "Huey" helicopter from Tipton Field, Maryland, and landed it on the South Lawn of the White House in a significant breach of security. Preston had enlisted in the Army to become a helicopter pilot. However, he did not graduate from the helicopter training course and lost his opportunity to attain the rank of warrant officer pilot. His enlistment bound him to serve four years in the Army, and he was sent to Fort Meade as a helicopter mechanic. Preston believed this situation was unfair and later said he stole the helicopter to show his skill as a pilot.

J. R. R. Tolkien, a fantasy author and professional philologist, drew on the Old English poem Beowulf for multiple aspects of his Middle-earth legendarium, alongside other influences. He used elements such as names, monsters, and the structure of society in a heroic age. He emulated its style, creating an impression of depth and adopting an elegiac tone. Tolkien admired the way that Beowulf, written by a Christian looking back at a pagan past, just as he was, embodied a "large symbolism" without ever becoming allegorical. He worked to echo the symbolism of life's road and individual heroism in The Lord of the Rings.

The construction of the first World Trade Center complex in New York City was conceived as an urban renewal project to help revitalize Lower Manhattan spearheaded by David Rockefeller. The project was developed by the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey. The idea for the World Trade Center arose after World War II as a way to supplement existing avenues of international commerce in the United States.

The Coterel gang (also Cotterill, fl. c. 1328 – 1333) was a 14th-century armed group that flourished in the North Midlands of England. It was led by James Coterel—after whom the gang is named—supported by his brothers Nicholas and John. It was one of several such groups that roamed across the English countryside in the late 1320s and early 1330s, a period of political upheaval with an associated increase in lawlessness in the provinces. Coterel and his immediate supporters were members of the gentry, and according to the tenets of the day were expected to assist the crown in the maintenance of law and order, rather than encourage its collapse.

Eunice Newton Foote (July 17, 1819 – September 30, 1888) was an American scientist, inventor, and women's rights campaigner. She was the first scientist to confirm that certain gases warm when exposed to sunlight, and that therefore rising carbon dioxide (CO2) levels could increase atmospheric temperature and affect climate, a phenomenon now referred to as the Greenhouse effect. Born in Connecticut, Foote was raised in New York at the center of social and political movements of her day, such as the abolition of slavery, anti-alcohol activism, and women's rights. She attended the Troy Female Seminary and the Rensselaer School from age 17–19, gaining a broad education in scientific theory and practice.

Simonie Michael (Inuktitut: ᓴᐃᒨᓂ ᒪᐃᑯᓪ;  first name also spelled Simonee, alternative surnames Michel  or E7-551; March 2, 1933 – November 15, 2008) was a Canadian politician from the eastern Northwest Territories (now Nunavut) who was the first Inuk elected to a legislature in Canada. Before becoming involved in politics, Michael worked as a carpenter and business owner, and was one of very few translators between Inuktitut and English. He became a prominent member of the Inuit co-operative housing movement and a community activist in Iqaluit, and was appointed to a series of governing bodies, including the precursor to the Iqaluit City Council.

The St. Johns River (Spanish: Río San Juan) is the longest river in the U.S. state of Florida and it is the most significant one for commercial and recreational use. At 310 miles (500 km) long, it flows north and winds through or borders twelve counties. The drop in elevation from headwaters to mouth is less than 30 feet (9 m); like most Florida waterways, the St. Johns has a very slow flow speed of 0.3 mph (0.13 m/s), and is often described as "lazy".

Warlugulong is a 1977 acrylic on canvas painting by Indigenous Australian artist Clifford Possum Tjapaltjarri. Owned for many years by the Commonwealth Bank of Australia, the work was sold by art dealer Hank Ebes on 24 July 2007, setting a record price for a contemporary Indigenous Australian art work bought at auction when it was purchased by the National Gallery of Australia for A$2.4 million. The painting illustrates the story of an ancestral being called Lungkata, together with eight other dreamings associated with localities about which Clifford Possum had traditional knowledge. It exemplifies a distinctive painting style developed by Papunya Tula artists in the 1970s, and blends representation of landscape with ceremonial iconography. Art critic Benjamin Genocchio describes it as "a work of real national significance [and] one of the most important 20th-century Australian paintings".

William Samuel Sadler (June 24, 1875 – April 26, 1969) was an American surgeon, self-trained psychiatrist, and author who helped publish The Urantia Book. The book is said to have resulted from Sadler's relationship with a man through whom he believed celestial beings spoke at night. It drew a following of people who studied its teachings.

Zebras (US: /ˈziːbrəz/, UK: /ˈzɛbrəz, ˈziː-/) (subgenus Hippotigris) are African equines with distinctive black-and-white striped coats. There are three living species: Grévy's zebra (Equus grevyi), the plains zebra (E. quagga), and the mountain zebra (E. zebra). Zebras share the genus Equus with horses and asses, the three groups being the only living members of the family Equidae. Zebra stripes come in different patterns, unique to each individual. Several theories have been proposed for the function of these patterns, with most evidence supporting them as a deterrent for biting flies. Zebras inhabit eastern and southern Africa and can be found in a variety of habitats such as savannahs, grasslands, woodlands, shrublands, and mountainous areas.

[no-where-new-hero]

@gogandmagog gifted me with this incredible essay by Mary Rubio and I haven't quite finished it yet but I need to screech about this very provocative passage:

When Emily finally accepts the jilted Teddy, no idyllic atmosphere is restored. In fact, the tone is almost elegiac against the backdrop of a dark hill and a sunset, as Teddy and Emily prepare to move into their grey house which, significantly, has always been called "The Disappointed House." Montgomery tells the reader that the "grey house will be disappointed no longer," but the reader knows that Emily's creativity will sink into grey domesticity within. The vivacious outspoken Emily-heroine with the accomplished and witty pen is dead, and the trilogy can end: she is no longer interesting or full of promise as a writer. She is ready to be a supportive wife whose husband's profession comes first. (30)

I once read a blog post (or perhaps a more scholarly article, it was a long time ago) that stated similarly that Emily would likely not continue writing after marrying Teddy. This insulted me greatly at the time because writing seemed so linked to Emily's nature that it seemed impossible that she should ever give it up. And it contradicted what I found to be the fundamental reason for Teddy being the better match: he would have loved and encouraged her own artistry (we assume) where Dean belittled and gaslit. Yet if the outcome would have been the same--then the difference between them grows narrower.

I can't believe Rubio the Montgomery Scholar could have fundamentally interpreted the end of the series so differently from how I've always thought LMM suggested it: that Teddy, and Emily's love for him, will be always kind of eternal wellspring of inspiration for her, made even stronger by their marriage. But there ARE suggestions that perhaps Emily wouldn't be able to write--one, which I noticed only recently, was that her writing life is so intensely linked to New Moon and PEI that going off to live in Montreal might fundamentally change her own relationship to her creativity. And LMM also makes sure she shows Emily's literary success before Teddy returns with his declaration, as though to assure us that Emily *did* make a decent career of it before her "retirement."

So I'm very curious to know other people's thoughts about this. Also, the article might interest the blue castle book club too, since Rubio analyzes The Blue Castle's subversiveness in addition to that in the Emily series!

[polutrope]

I just love this bit of Christopher Tolkien's commentary on Tolkien's last version of the Quenta Silmarillion. It summarises beautifully exactly what makes it, and the published text that draws from it, so very enthralling:

... in the Quenta Silmarillion, [my father] perfected that characteristic tone, melodious, grave, elegiac, burdened with a sense of loss and distance in time, which resides partly, as I believe, in the literary fact that he was drawing down into a brief compendious history what he could also see in far more detailed, immediate, and dramatic form.

History of Middle-earth Vol. XI: The War of the Jewels, p. 245

[innumerable-stars]

Pearl Promo Post

(written by @naryaflame)

Summary:  Like Sir Orfeo and Sir Gawain, this is a late Middle English poem (written in a North-West Midlands dialect of Middle English).  A grieving father experiences a dream-vision of a beautiful maiden.  She tries to explain the glories of heaven to him, but he cannot comprehend them, and on trying to join her, he wakes up.  He is left consoled and reflecting on his faith.

Tolkien encountered the poem as a student, and both taught and translated it as a scholar.  Its elegiac tone will feel familiar to fans of Tolkien’s work, and while the text itself is dense, it’s well worth reading, re-reading and unpacking.

Why should I check out this canon:  If you’re interested in the texts Tolkien read and absorbed, and how they shaped the tone and content of his mythology, this is definitely one for your list. It’s is a smaller, more reflective Tolkien text: there's no cast of thousands, no epic adventures, but still plenty to explore. Who sent the Dream Vision? Who is the Pearl Poet – are they also the Gawain poet, or are they someone else? Is the poem an elegy, an allegory, both? Something completely different? Where is the Pearl-maiden, what is her name, and what are the circumstances where the boundaries between life and death might thin to allow for communication?

I think this text lends itself beautifully to unusual fanwork formats, so if that’s your thing, definitely get hold of a copy!  You could potentially go for some in-universe meta here (people much brighter than me have pointed out that part of the poem reads like a lapidary). For art, you could try out something like a medieval illumination, or an illustration in the style of a stained glass window - or calligraphy of a passage you particularly like.  If you’re into the idea of Middle-earth crossovers, there’s plenty of pearl imagery in the legendarium to provide you with links, from Alqualondë to the Sleeper in the Tower of Pearl (some online scholars have even found connections between the narrator and Gollum!)

Where can I get this?Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, together with Pearl and Sir Orfeo was first published in 1975, so there are several editions available – try your preferred bookshop, online retailer, or public library.  The 1975 edition is available as a PDF on the Internet Archive.  There is also a free copy of Tolkien's translation on Allpoetry.com.

What fanworks already exist?  None that I could find!  You could be first!

[solitaire-sol]

13: Pupil

For: @prongsfoot-microfic

Month: March 2023

AO3: Link

Notes: Sequel to 10: Hope, in which we see how Sirius and Walburga are handling the whole ‘James and Sirius are soulmates’ thing.

“Mother,” Sirius began, looking up from the music he’d long since memorized. “May I--”

“Sirius,” Walburga rebuked, with a distinct lack of patience in her tone. “We know better than to ask when the answer is known.”

Sirius subsided, as he inevitably did when faced with his mother's censure, and returned his gaze to the piano. Orion Black was head of House, but little inclined to the raising of children; Walburga refused to trust the upbringing of their eldest son, their heir, to anyone but herself, so Sirius had grown up under his mother's exacting eye. It would have been a trial for any child - young Regulus had already been relegated to the care of nurses and house-elves - but Sirius was as bright as his namesake and Walburga was determined to polish him until he shown. Such light would only reflect well on the vaunted House of Black.

Until recently, Walburga would have considered Sirius the perfect child, for Sirius was more hers than his father's: He had the beginnings of Orion's sharp features and seemed inclined towards a similar stature, but Sirius' luminous eyes and porcelain skin presaged his mother's famous beauty, and the sharp mind and sharper tongue that inhabited his childish body was an immature mirror of Walburga's. It made him a handful, her Sirius, already so willful, but he had learned decorum well and he respected his mother, so she had little cause to be displeased with his conduct.

That is, at least, how things had been until that dreadful party, until those soft-hearted blood-traitors and their ill-mannered offspring. Walburga had scoured every book in the Black family library for some way to rid her son of that... that wretched excuse for a “bond,” which already had a negative effect on Sirius: For the first time, Sirius had not accepted Walburga's decision as fait accompli. He hadn't thrown a tantrum, but the fact that he kept asking to see the Potter boy was rebellion enough, and there was a look about him each time that said he was well aware of it.

It was a thorn in Walburga's side, the idea that some stranger's child could hold more sway over Sirius than his own mother. No, Walburga thought, as Sirius returned to his piano lessons, this would not do. Walburga had planned Sirius' future long before his birth: He would be brilliant, the chief diamond in her coronet, prestigious in title and fortuitous in wife, carrying the name and blood of Black into the future.

All she had to do was keep them apart. The bond, without reinforcement, would wither; Sirius would think of him less often, his so-called soulmate, and the remnants of that connection would fall away, leaving Sirius free to be Walburga’s prized protégé and favored son.

Walburga smiled to herself, satisfied, and allowed herself to enjoy the elegiac notes Sirius coaxed from the piano. Sirius didn’t ask about James again, but his thoughts still lingered on a warm hand and hazel eyes.

[adultjazz]

We're excited to begin again.

Here's Dusk Song, our first new music in a long time.

There’s this grand, heaving slowness of say 1.5* increase in 10 years, which can feel like treacle on a human scale, but which, in data terms, is rapid, and brings with it the threat of tipping points, with trajectories becoming chaotic and fast. Or governmental slowness, and feelings of terror in individuals. A sedate march towards urgent states like being thirsty, or infected. There’s something confusing about the pace/scale of what is at stake that makes responding in any way seem vexed, and inappropriate. Like having heavy limbs in a bad dream, or Alice In Wonderland syndrome.

We were thinking about the end of days / regret / slow emergency / doom / stoicism- using brass to explore that sombre, elegiac feel. Brass like that is austere and poised and it sounds historically zoomed out: like the brave understatement of the Last Post and not the frothing mouths in the trenches; or the Disintegration Loops vs raining glass in downtown Manhattan. I find that tone very affecting and powerful, but wanted to have the vocals to agitate a bit alongside that. I think it was from absorbing these grand statements about extinction and crisis in the news which are spoken about with stolid clarity - a kind of forgone historical tone that maybe invites inevitability, like a chapter heading. I’m like - where’s the yelping?!”

There is a video too.

We are also playing at the Institute of Contemporary Art in London - tickets here: https://www.ica.art/live/adult-jazz-4399

[dustedmagazine]

Liberski/Yoshida —Troubled Water (Totalism)

It’s not always easy to connect instrumental music to the concepts it is theoretically linked to.  Beyond track titles and liner notes, with no lyrics to ponder, is this simply a case of burdening the music with unwarranted significance? On Troubled Water Belgian pianist Casimir Liberski and Japanese drummer Tatsuya Yoshida address this by producing a tempest that mirrors the turbulent effects of climate change on ocean currents and marine ecosystems.

Although centered in jazz, the duo draws on elements of classical, electronic and experimental rock during this set of six improvisations recorded live at Tokyo club Jazz Spot Thelonious in early 2023. Liberski’s interest in erasing genre boundaries complements the work of Yoshida, a central figure in the Japanese avant-garde and free-form rock with his long running project Ruins. As a duo they develop a clairvoyant link as their music moves through tumultuous rhythmic patterns and pacific lulls which illustrate rather than explain. Both play with a physicality which demonstrates an elemental connection to their instruments and an awareness of the lengths to which they can push themselves and each other.

Liberski opens “Shark Attack” with his synth producing granular white noise with barely audible sonar like beeps as Yoshida works his cymbals. Liberski shifts to the piano in a danse macabre with Yoshida’s drums. The agitation builds towards frenzy, Yoshida stomps double and triple time on his kick drum and pummels the kit, Liberski races to and fro across the keyboard and interjects thick blurts from the synth. It sounds chaotic but the inevitability of the outcome is clear. The music, like the shark and its prey, has a purpose and will not be denied. “Plastic Island” begins with Liberski’s pensive, almost romantic piano figure behind which Yoshida issues operatic ululations from behind the drums. As they progress, the piano becomes knottier and the drums cluttered and abstract. The pair share percussive and melodic duties, intersecting and diverging, emphasizing the organic, primal nature of rhythm and the intuitive intelligence of their improvisations. The Kuroshio Current is vital to the north Asian climate and the aquatic ecosystem of the region. On the track named for it, the duo is at their most pacific. Liberski’s right hand to the fore, beginning with a slow ascent through the octaves before rolling out delicate glissandos which Yoshida complements on his cymbals. The mood is  elegiac and when Yoshida’s ululations reappear it feels like both a lament and a ritual summoning to life. The outro passage of silence punctuated by a distorted synth tones — an alarm, a whale song, sonar — as eloquent as the preceding music.

Andrew Forell

[not-available-for-comment]

So I work in a large institutional building with the sort of basement that Will have roaches, no matter how careful you are or how much you exterminate. Because the building is also very old, these roaches are the size of Buicks and utterly fearless as well. This circumstance has led to a phenomenon I call Winter Bathroom vs Summer Bathroom.

I work on the second floor (first floor for you Europeans), and it gets very cold in the winter. So roaches typically don’t make it to my floor in the winter months because it’s just not worth it compared to the relatively stable warmth of the basement/presumably they don’t survive if they attempt it. Once it starts getting consistently cold, I feel safe using the Winter Bathroom, which is conveniently located only three doors down the hall from me.

However. Ever since the summer when a THREE INCH roach took up residence IN THE TOILET BOWL of my favorite stall (my favorite stall!) and survived repeated dousing with toilet bowl cleaner (!!!) by the janitorial staff and was only evicted when I complained and someone hired an exterminator, I have not felt. Entirely at ease. In the Winter Bathroom during the summer months. I now continue using it until I see an inevitable roach in or near it once properly warm weather arrives, and then it is dead to me until autumn.

Once Roach Watch has posted an alert, I transfer my attentions to the Summer Bathroom. The Summer Bathroom has enough faults to keep it from being my preferred pit stop. It’s about 3x further away, down a different hall, and passes close to an office of people who may try to engage me in awkward conversations that I usually don’t have all my faculties available for if I’m nipping out for a quick piss mid-task. It’s also busier than the Winter Bathroom. However, crucially, the Summer Bathroom is in a slightly newer and much more recently renovated wing of the building, and I have never seen a single roach in or near it.

Anyway, my first roach sighting of the year was last week, so I’ve been working on remembering to use the Summer Bathroom since, and every time I think about the little ways we mark the changing seasons and how absolutely no one is ever going to understand the slightly elegiac tone of my first several pilgrimages to Summer Bathroom.

[dollarbin]

Sandy Saturdays #18:

Fairport Convention's Farewell, Farewell

I know it, my beleaguered wife knows it, and now you know it too: when I choke on my last taco and keel over for good there are two required tracks to play damn loud at my funeral, and they are both by Fairport Convention.

The opening procession, which should feature just a few thousand lucky-to-be-included mourners, each of whom will bear their favorite Dollar Bin record in their arms as emblem of their grief, will feature the band's elegiac Battle of the Somme.

There's no better track to walk in contemplation to. Dave Swarbrick's more patient than usual but still uniquely textured fiddle overlays Richard, Simon and the other two Dave's perfect playing. (Yeah, that's right: the band had three Daves; but that's nothing: my family features not three, but four Daves, and sixteen Buckminsters; sadly all of them are imaginary. Wait; that's not true! One is real: I've got an uncle named Dave. Sorry I forgot about you for a moment Uncle David!)

But back to my funeral...

All you attendees will be tear streaked and spent when The Battle of the Somme draws to a close. But my great-great-grandchildren will then lighten the mood by taking the lectern and recalling just how ridiculous grandpa was in his later days, always dropping the needle on Neil Young's Trans during pancakes at breakfast and showing off his futuristic dance moves long before he took the time to strap on either of his wooden legs.

Next, Stephen Stills will speak. He'll be 186 years old and floating in a vat of formaldehyde, preserved against death by global consensus so as to balance out the cosmic balance between the musically good (as represented by Neil Young, who will also be alive and well at that point without any scientific interventions; Shakey simply cannot quit) and the musically terrible. Stephen will share his profuse thanks to me for having resuscitated his career way back in the mid-2020's: I currently mention him in writing more than any other human being on the planet and all publicity, as they say, is good publicity. You're welcome Stills!

But once Stephen is done bubbling out his gratitude from a basin of preservative goo it'll be time for the ceremony's centerpiece, the song I'd select as my only possession for life on a desert island, Fairport's Farewell, Farewell, which features the loveliest guitar tone, melody and vocals of any song on the planet.

Seriously. Just listen.

Wow. For me there will never be two more beautiful minutes of art. Listen to Sandy dig up and then cradle the root of all human woe and potential during the song's final line.

The winding road does indeed call. And I'm so excited to see where it will take me in the coming decades.

Cheers Everyone.

[chickflickswithgabbyandamy]

Season 2, Episode 9 | The Way We Were (1973) & The Virgin Suicides (1999)

Chick Flicks with Gabby & Amy brings you A Very Special Super '70s Double Feature of The Way We Were and The Virgin Suicides. While seemingly different, the films share an elegiac tone, a dreamy nostalgia, and origins as 1970s artifacts (plus appearances by James Woods, randomly). Come along as we delve into the idiosyncrasies and profundities of these two period pieces. 

CONTENT WARNING: This episode discusses suicide. If you are in crisis, please call or text 988 to reach the National Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. 

https://chickflicks.libsyn.com/the-way-we-werethe-virgin-suicides

[saltatio-crudelitatis]

"...a possibility of a personality, wrapped up in such a web of arbitrary moods and moving through an elegiac duo-decimal scale [i.e., a chromatic scale including sharps and flats, associated more with lament or elegy than an ordinary scale] of almost echoless, dying tones just as easily roused as subdued, who, in order to become a personality, needs a strong life-development."

[stewblog]

The Banshees of Inisherin

As quietly devastating a movie as I've seen in a long time as Martin McDonagh delivers a thoughtful and heartbreaking examination on aging and friendship.

The core conflict is an existential conundrum that I've long contemplated in the age of social media's dominance: How long are friendships meant to last? As platforms like Facebook or Twitter become one of the key ways we (re)connect and communicate with people, it can sometimes be challenging to simply move on. It used to be, you'd meet someone, develop a friendship, and then time and age and even distance would mean that those relationships would simply run their course as you become different people with different goals and priorities. Drifting apart is a natural part of our evolution as humans. Sometimes it's sudden, sometimes it's natural, sometimes it happens over the course of years. But now that anyone from any point in your life can ostensibly hop back into it, how does that affect our natural inclination to let some relationships remain and others fade? Obviously individuals have the ability to block or mute or otherwise ignore people on social media, but (from my experience, at least) there is some modicum of expectation that you be courteous or welcoming to people who are reaching out in a friendly, good faith manner.

It feels harder than ever to simply move on and be a person different from what others want or expect of the person they know. That is the burden shared by both Colm (Brendan Gleeson) and Padraic (Colin Farrel). Colm is weary of his, apparently longstanding, friendship with Padraic. Colm, bogged by the existential angst that he'll be forgotten in the decades to come, wants to write and teach music and leave behind his "boring" friendship with Padraic.

Padraic, however, cannot fathom why his best friend would turn on a dime. The resulting feud is at times hilarious, at times frightening, but always heartbreaking. Gleeson and Farrell are a tremendous pair here, Farrell in particular delivering what may be the most heart-wrenching performance of his career thus far.

McDonagh understands the difficulty in wanting to move on. He groks the necessity of it for some people. But even he feels unable to answer the question of how to navigate this conundrum in a way that leaves all involved without lasting scars. We as humans are meant to connect, to give our laughter and friendship and love to others. What is the point of our existence without these things, but at what cost? What is the cost of that need and how long must we remain in debt to it before society says we're allowed to move on? There is a balance to be found, but that balance is illusive at best, McDonagh says.

My wife expressed relief at having not watched this with me due to its elegiac tone and conclusion. In a way I can't blame her. And yet this movie is a perfect example of the strange sort of comfort I can find in a story of this sort. You ache for these two men whose lives are in varying ways torn asunder, both through their own actions and the reactions of the other. And yet it is an odd comfort to know that others struggle in the same way with relationships, with identity, with unmet desire and the inherent sadness that can often sweep its way through a life. That is what McDonagh expresses so well in this film and for that alone I am grateful for it.