#November jones

[transk0vsky]

Thinking about the idea of same as it never was Leon and breaking my heart :(

[kittarts]

Lanyard charms

Preorder here

[royalarchivist]

Slimecicle: Yeah dude, fckin'– Fck my arc I'm going on a cannibalism arc, I don't–

Cellbit: [Laughs then gets excited] OH YEAH– [Claps] Come with me, let's fcking go, bro! Let's fcking go!

Slimecicle: Let's fcking do it!

Baghera: I hope at the end we all just eat each other!

Cellbit: It's the most fun one.

Baghera: We lose a limb!

Slimecicle: [Nervous laugh] Um, Cellbit– Why do– why does it sound like you're talking from experience, bro?

Cellbit: Oh, uhhh...

Foolish: Yeah, he was super into that one.

Cellbit: Uh, I– what? No– what? No, nothing!

Foolish: He said "FINALLY!!!"

Cellbit: No– [Laughs] I hadn't said– no–

Slimecicle: Yeah, you were like: "Finally someone else gets it."

Cellbit: I haven't said– no! It was just a good idea!

Jaiden: "Finally" is crazy.

Cellbit: I thought I– yeah, that seems like a creative way of like, having fun and passing the time. Eating people.

[musickickztoo]

RIP Quincy Jones

March 14, 1933 – November 3, 2024

[gremlins-hotel]

Post headcanons abt Arthur and his first baby you coward, you fool. The audience arrived, we are here, yet you stay silent upon the stage.

(Just joking ofc, tho id give you a kidney if you gave us some hcs abt their early days <3)

I know it's not a headcanon, but I hope this will still be satisfactory. A moment between a new father and his first son, to whom Arthur wishes the world.

“You coddle him,�� came Rhys’ voice, blunt and teasing.

Arthur waved his brother’s words away. They were meaningless like wayward flecks of spume against the broad side of a ship in the face of the treasure held tight to his chest. Sleepless nights, tears, and the terror of the unknowing life. He had watched his son like a hawk for years, and the boy now grew blessedly stronger. Each time little Alfred grabbed his finger, the babe’s grip was vicelike, and Arthur knew the little chubby squish of pain was worth all his toils.

Alfred burbled up at Arthur, seeing his father’s watchful eyes glimmer, a mostly toothless smile scrunching his small face with joy.

Heart squeezing and eyes wide, Arthur knew he would endure it all again as long as that babe was laughing. Hugging the heavy bundle tighter to his chest, Arthur bounced the boy gently as he fiddled with a pocket of his coat. Life was difficult when one-handed, but he hated putting Alfred down. The troubles a baby could get into with any degree of autonomy he did not wish to imagine, not after famine and disease and blood. Alfred seemed determined to bind the world with his gums if his father allowed him, in any case, and to grab it without hesitation. There were dangers on the floor that the boy approached fearlessly. That determination. It was a good thing to have, Arthur knew, but woeful for life still so seemingly fragile.

A faint jingle answering his seeking fingers told the man he’d found his quarry. Arthur whisked the trinket from his pocket in a closed fist, the toy’s chain hanging from between two fingers. The near-sterling silver rings tinkled prettily against one another as he shook his fist above Alfred’s head. Curiosity lit the deep skies held in his son’s face like stars and Arthur couldn’t keep the soft smile from turning the corners of his mouth, shaking the chain again. Skies and stars indeed, for he had never observed someone to watch the heavens so closely at such a young age. Silently he praised the boy’s curiosity; one day it might have its questions answered if Arthur had anything to say about it. He would give that lad the sky and the seas.

Short, squishy fingers reached up for the chain, seeking the noisemaker with excitement. Arthur raised it away from his baby’s reach and took delight in seeing him try again. So he played the cat-and-mouse, jerking the prize just inches from Alfred’s grasp when he waved his hands skyward. Alfred laughed uproariously each time the toy made its metallic clinking and at seeing the smile on his father’s face. Arthur opened his fingers to reveal the rest of the shining silver toy and raised it to his mouth. One end was a sweet little whistle, which he blew quietly in the face of the babe. A high, windy note spiraled out into the air between them and Alfred laughed again, his entire face bright and bold. It made the boy redouble his efforts.

Arthur finally acquiesced, lowering his hand enough for those ferocious fingers to grip the tiny silver rings and tug. Once more Alfred’s burgeoning strength shot a bolt of pride through the man’s chest. With reluctant fingers he allowed the toy to drop into his son’s happy hands. Little curved talons, blunt by youth, curled around the moon-bright metal like a hunting bird content with its catch. The babe brought the whistle end to his soft mouth and immediately made to teethe on the silver. Tiny puffs of breath made the whistle sing and stutter, and Alfred’s eye glimmered happily, gazing up at Arthur as though he’d hung the heavens. Quickly he slobbered on the toy, but Arthur couldn’t help but feel enraptured by his son, drool or not.

Having forgotten the watching eyes beside him, it was Rhys’ voice that broke his reverie. “You ordered the coral, after all? No measure too small.”

Arthur blinked, looking up and away, then back to the toy in his son’s burbling mouth. The opposite end of the whistle had a stub of red, red coral from lands far away, polished to a beautiful shine. It was worth it to him. Anything to keep winding spirits and the fey away from his boy who had already suffered enough. No measure too small.

“Someday he will not need it, I hope.”

[theeunactive-fashionblog]

Coco Jones for her debut EP “What I Didn’t Tell You” by Exquisite-eye {2022}

stream the new project here!

[adam-trademark]

Don't eat

yellow snow.

(November 8, 2020)

[dewitty1]

Quincy Jones, the multi-talented music titan whose vast legacy ranged from producing Michael Jackson’s historic “Thriller” album to writing prize-winning film and television scores and collaborating with Frank Sinatra, Ray Charles and hundreds of other recording artists, has died at 91.

Jones’ publicist, Arnold Robinson, says he died Sunday night at his home in the Bel Air section of Los Angeles, surrounded by his family.

“Tonight, with full but broken hearts, we must share the news of our father and brother Quincy Jones’ passing,” the family said in a statement. “And although this is an incredible loss for our family, we celebrate the great life that he lived and know there will never be another like him.”

[theglitterdome]

Music legend Quincy Jones... Rest In Peace

March 14, 1933 - November 3, 2024

[nemmet]

a ghost pirate fred to mark the end of spooky month!! 👻⚓️

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

Books of 2024: October Wrap-Up.

Gr8 news: I am no longer very far behind on my NaNo prep reading!! I had to drop JUST LIKE HOME (reread) and HOUSE OF LEAVES, but I got through the rest of my Haunted House and/or Aliens and/or Parasite/Fungus TBR. Here they all are!

Photos and/or reviews linked:

SHRIEK - ★★★★ I think SHRIEK Is my favorite volume of the Ambergris trilogy, taken as a whole--the one-way conversation Duncan was having with Janice was a really neat narrative choice, and then the reveal in the Afterword's Afterword was, in true VanderMeer fashion, mind-blowing.

FINCH - ★★★★ I was actually surprised by how much I liked this one. It helped me figure out a LOT about what kinds of power dynamics I enjoy in borderline-dystopian fiction, and what intrigues me most about limited agency. It wrapped the story up almost too neatly, for a VanderMeer, but I did still have a good time and blitzed through it quickly. Given this one and SHRIEK, I'm counting the Whole Series as a Four-Star read--I'd like to reread it someday, now that I know what's going on.

LEECH - ★★★★★ (reread) STILL ONE OF MY ALL-TIME FAVES, OFFICIALLY!! It's very gothic and heavy and fucked up, but it does FASCINATING things with POV, and worldbuilding, and storytelling frameworks. PLEASE check the content warnings, but if none of those are hard no's for you, definitely pick this one up. I suspect anyone for whom Animorphs was a Formative Influence will adore this (but so far my sample size is really only 1)--please prove me right.

A HOUSE WITH GOOD BONES - ★★★½ This was fun! Not my favorite Kingfisher (that award still goes to HOLLOW PLACES), but I had a good time--I laughed, I squealed over vultures, I blasted through pages to get to the end.

STARLING HOUSE - ★★★★ Alix E. Harrow always manages to write exactly my catnip, somehow. Maybe it's the ADHD, but I'm constantly finding connections to my own writing projects in her work, and STARLING HOUSE was no exception! I liked that this one was more modern, and the sibling dynamic was precious, and I love weird sentient houses where space is more of a suggestion than a hard and fast rule. I'll probably reread this one for Driscoll purposes!

WOODWORM - ★★★½ So much rage in such a tiny volume, and I was Absolutely Here For It. I don't tend to read much lit fic, but I do try to read a lot in translation, and I thought this one did very cool stuff with Spanish--the prose felt natural in English, but I loved the linguistic details the translators left in Spanish and how much depth that added. I feel like this one might be a good fit for Carmen Maria Machado fans, too.

HOW TO SELL A HAUNTED HOUSE - ★★★ Call this a low 3, from me. It was Fine, I guess. I liked what he did with the act structure (labeling parts as stages of grief was very cool), and I liked the family dynamics and history, but a lot of the humor didn't land for me (I got a few sensible chuckles, but a bunch of it wasn't funny), and the "oh this author is A Man, huh" moments made me roll my eyes (seriously: Who thinks about their ~breasts~ when an angry taxidermied squirrel is clawing down your shirt?? No One With Breasts, Mr. Dude). This book did at least teach me that I'm not really interested in gore (it's just boring, unlike body horror, my beloved). I might still pick up HORRORSTOR, but I probably won't look into most of his other stuff, if this one is indicative of his general style. Meh.

THE ART OF EXCESS - No rating (didn't read the whole thing). At the end of ALWAYS COMING HOME, Richard Powers mentioned this book as the reason he finally committed to ALWAYS, so I was curious what this Tom Leclair dude had to say about it back in 1989. I had a heck of a time tracking down a copy (it's very out of print, and my local library had to source it from the Library of Congress for me), but I didn't want to buy it to read just the preface/intro/epilogue, because I haven't read any of the other texts he analyzes. Leclair's style was very readable, and I was intrigued by his framework, but I found some of his conclusions eye-rolly, given his sample size. I posted this one because I think Library of Congress books are fun, but I didn't add it to my Goodreads.

BLACK TIDE - ★★★½ This one had me rolling my eyes in the first couple chapters, and I was afraid I wasn't going to like it, but once Fucked Up Shit Started Happening, the momentum really picked up and didn't stop--I blitzed through it way past my bedtime on a school night. It was fucked up and weird and tense and bloody pull-no-punches horror, but it ALSO made me laugh, and I loved our two fuck-ups surviving the apocalypse together. NOTE: Dogs (and Gulls) Are Not Safe, and the cast is small enough that it matters a lot :( if you can't stomach animal harm/death, skip this.

A HALF-BUILT GARDEN - 81/338 pages read; will report back. Enjoying it so far! Glad I put it on my NaNo prep reading list, though not quite for the reasons I planned--the reflections on motherhood as well as parenting outside the binary have been interesting, so far (and that's relevant for my own haunted house endeavors!). A much gentler ride than BLACK TIDE, and the immersive tech reminds me of Murderbot's world, just Earthbound.

Overall! Fabulous month for reading! Anytime I think "wow I need A Break™ from writing or life," this is the type of reading I mean--where I can spend a couple weeks annihilating books within a day to Refill the Words Reservoir.

Under the Cut: A Note About ~*★Stars★*~

Historically, I have been Very Bad™ about assigning things Star Ratings, because it's so Vibes Heavy for me and therefore Contingent Upon my Whims. I am refining this as I figure out my wrap up posts (epiphany of last month: I don't like that stars are Odd, because that makes three the midpoint and things are rarely so truly mid for me)(I have hacked my way around this with a ½). Here is, generally, how I conceptualize stars:

★ - This was Bad. I would actively recommend that you do NOT read this one, no redeeming qualities whatsoever, not worth the slog. Save Yourself, It's Too Late For Me. Book goes in the garbage (donate bin).

★★ - This was Not Good. I would not recommend it, but it wasn't a total waste or wash--something in here held my interest/kept my attention/sparked some joy. I will not be rereading this ever. Save Yourself (Or Join Me In Suffering, That Seems Like A Cool Bonding Activity).

★★★ - This was Good/Fine/Okay/Meh. I don't care about this enough to recommend it one way or another. Perfectly serviceable book, held my interest, I probably enjoyed myself (or at least didn't actively loathe the reading). I don't have especially strong feelings. You probably don't need to save yourself from this one--if it sounds like your jam, give it a shot! Just didn't resonate with me particularly powerfully. I probably won't reread this unless I'm after something in particular.

★★★½ - I liked this! I'll probably recommend it if I know it matches someone's vibes or specific requests, but I didn't commit to a star rating on Goodreads. More likely to reread, but not guaranteed.

★★★★ - I really enjoyed this!! I would recommend it (sometimes with caveats about content warnings or such--I tend to like weird fucked up funny shit, and I don't have many hard readerly NO's). Not a perfect book for me by any means, but Very Good. This is something I would reread! Join me!!

★★★★★ - I LOVED THE SHIT OUT OF THIS, IT REWIRED MY BRAIN, WILL RECOMMEND TO ANYONE AND EVERYONE AT THE SLIGHTEST PROVOCATION (content warning caveats still apply--see 4-star disclaimer). Excellent book, I'll reread it regularly, I'll buy copies for all my friends, I'll try to convince all of Booklr to read it, PLEASE join me!!

[royalarchivist]

Slimecicle: Oh, hang on, that's actually so cool. Aw man, this is sick.

Ironmouse: A beautiful memorial.

Slimecicle: [Throws flowers in front of the ofrenda] It's actually really cool. I'm glad this is here.

Baghera: Yeah, that's really cool.

[Slimecicle leaves, then goes back to the ofrenda]

Slimecicle: JuanaFlippa, this is- this is Technoblade. You guys never got to meet, but... I only met him a couple of times, but every single time he kicked the sht out of me in Minecraft. You know, we would do mod videos where like, I was supposed to play like a big monster, like a Wither or something, and the whole thing, the whole premise of the video would get upended because he'd hide and destroy me so hard that I needed to be like, "Dude, you're actually popping off too much right now, like– Mods, give me more hearts!" [Laughs] 'cuz he was so fcking good. He was so funny too.

Slimecicle: ...Yeah, but he- he was- he was unbelievable. Still is.

[JuanaFlippa goes up to the ofrenda and throws a blue flower]

Slimecicle: This is cool, all these little things. [Slime looks through his inventory for something to give] Do I have any blood for the Blood God? [He throws some redstone dust in front of the ofrenda] I've got blood for the Blood God.

[dentarthurdent]

ghost type

[glimmerofawesome]

[gremlins-hotel]

I’ve seen a vision and need to expel it from my mind:

Alfred smooching the surface of Ivan’s space helmet because he thought it would be cute.

Ivan just watching Al squish his face against the glass and slobber all over it.

i am feeling nice today. haven't written anything in a while, nor drawn. i hope it's at least funny if not somewhat entertaining. now i go hang up my laundry,,,

“Dude, I can’t believe you still have that!” exclaimed Alfred, looking his buddy up and down. “And that they were actually willing to make a suit that fits you, Christ. Or let you keep it. How old is it now?”

Ignoring Alfred, Ivan twisted to observe the old spaceflight uniform he wore. It hugged a little too tightly in places but still, he had managed to squeeze the old suit on without it complaining too much. With a blink and a look up, he considered his response. “Trust you me, I am convinced I was only allowed to keep the suit because no one else could dream of wearing it comfortably, not even for training. It is an early Sokol, so the seventies. I, ah…do not remember the exact year.”

“Damn, a pity,” Alfred nodded, “no spacewalks for you then. Not in that at least.” Unafraid, he walked up to the giant and circled him, observing the hose-like sleeves and mission patches across the body. A red-and-blue Apollo-Soyuz patch stood out against Ivan’s stomach. It earned a laugh from Alfred; he remembered that joint mission well. He also remembered having to shake hands with Ivan. It wasn’t their first and wouldn’t be their last, and at least the two of them had always agreed on one thing: the stars were for the discovery of all mankind, though of course, neither of them was man.

The bear shook his head, following the other Nation’s stare, “No, it is like your Shuttle suits. For the spacecraft only, yes. We had others for spacewalks like the Orlan.”

“Oh yeah, I remember,” came the confident reply.

“And here I was under the insinuation that you didn’t. Not that I would be surprised, you’re like a dog in this regard.” Ivan gave a gruff snap of laughter and lifted a hand to ruffle jokingly at Alfred’s hair like a golden retriever. His hands were quickly smacked away with a roll of the smaller man’s eyes. Black gloves were taken into curious hands and turned over, the ridges of the knuckles poked and prodded. Snatching his hand away, Ivan observed the glove too, “This thing is starting to get hot. Anything else?”

Alfred’s eyes narrowed as he leaned back on his heels, crossing his arms. “Hmm…still got the helmet or no, big guy?”

“Podozhdite,” Ivan rumbled, making a quick face before shuffling to the old box he had dragged the suit from. Always the soft helmet had been his favorite part. When not in use, he could stuff the loose part against the visor and it’d be fine, as long as the visor itself wasn’t getting scratched. Squatting to rummage through the contents before him, he wondered at the helmet’s condition. The edges of blue anodized aluminum, dull with time, met his fingers and Ivan pulled with some relief, brushing the white canvas free of their stubborn fold.

Pulling the helmet over his head proved to be somewhat difficult, and Ivan remembered why he had shaved his beard when he had more regularly worn the equipment. At that the memory of Alfred trying to keep his face trained for their photographed handshake in 1975 was loud. Throughout the experiments, the other Nation hadn’t let him live down how “babyfaced” he appeared without it. Friends or enemies, it was true that they always knew how to dig deep and press each other’s buttons. Ivan had barely kept from slapping Alfred then, to tell him to be serious. But that would’ve been counterintuitive to the joint mission, as satisfying as it likely would’ve been.

Fumbling with the flange, it snapped into place with a satisfying sound. It was slightly uncomfortable without the soft under cap, but he’d be taking the suit off soon enough. Both hands were needed to shove the visor down on its aging hinges. From his crouch, Ivan turned his head and offered a half-assed salute, “Opa!”

Alfred’s form was dark through the visor and his snort muffled through the helmet’s canvas. “Don’t move.”

“What are you planning?” Ivan’s voice bounced back at him from the visor, but he hoped Alfred could still hear. The other Nation approached until only legs were in Ivan’s vision. He recoiled slightly to look up, “If you scratch this helmet I will make sure you regret it, Jones.”

“Don’t bellyache dumbass, I ain’t gonna hurt you. Not right now, at least. Now hold still,” said Alfred above him. Hands grabbed either side of Ivan’s head, pressing the PA6 nylon of the inside against his ears. Trying to jerk away from the contact, Ivan’s hands reached out to push at Alfred’s arms with a hiss. Sibilant air once more echoed back to his own senses. He could see Alfred leaning down toward his head. He frowned.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh come on, you’re like the only asshole I could do this with. It’ll be like a goddamn movie.” Alfred complained.

“No,” Ivan barked, “not unless you plan to die.”

“You’re fucking lame, Red,” Alfred sighed beyond Ivan’s visor. “Consider: I do this, and you can put me in a headlock after you get out of the Spandex.”

And Ivan did consider. “Bold words just to call me fat. It is your death warrant, not mine.”

“Yeah, yeah, so what do you say?”

“Fine.”

Through the dark visor, Ivan watched as Alfred continued to lean down. The hands holding his skull seemed to pull him up and the former cosmonaut jerked his chin higher to see better. Lips folded and approached the polycarbonate screen, pressing to it and crafting the same funny image as a hand plastered to glass. Actually, it was disgusting from inside the helmet.

Ivan could see the lines etched in the other man’s lips in too much detail, and he grimaced at realizing Alfred had purposefully made his kiss very wet. Tiny bubbles smashed against the hard material. It would leave a mark on the visor that Ivan immediately decided he would make the other astronaut clean. An awful kissy sound smacked his eardrums, muffled as it was, and the Nation thrashed his helmeted head away from his friend. Ivan made a retching sound in the back of his throat when his motion caused a slobbery smear across the visor.

Pulling away with that obnoxiously jovial laugh he had, Alfred’s face was cracked in mirth. He could see the giant’s contorted mouth, though his eyes were hidden beneath the polarized upper half of the visor. Still he firmly held his friend’s head, laughing the whole time. Ignoring the swearing behind the helm, Alfred threw his head back to snort and laugh harder when he heard a muffled ‘fucking dog’. He was dead the moment Ivan divested himself of the space suit, but half the fun would be kicking his ass.

[avithenaftali]

I recently reread Diana Wynne Jones' Deep Secret in which, among other things, Stan spends the first half of the book as a ghost who is compulsively relistening to the 500+ collected sonatas of Scarlatti

and then last night I went to a piano recital, and it was my first time hearing Scarlatti played live—probably my first time hearing Scarlatti since I was ten years old, honestly—and before the pianist put his hands on the keyboard I was just thinking of Stan the ghost with a mild amusement

but reader, I confess, I forgot about Deep Secret and Stan the ghost once the pianist began to play, I hadn't realized that Scarlatti played well is so very good