#Opus cactus

[pier-carlo-universe]

BACK TO MOMIX, l’atteso ritorno a Pescara dopo un’assenza lunga tredici anni

Dopo essere stata in tournée nazionali ed internazionali, la celebre compagnia conosciuta in tutto il mondo per l’eccezionale originalità e bellezza degli spettacoli, tornerà sul palco di Pescara, dal quale mancava da tredici anni. ,

Dopo essere stata in tournée nazionali ed internazionali, la celebre compagnia conosciuta in tutto il mondo per l’eccezionale originalità e bellezza degli spettacoli, tornerà sul palco di Pescara, dal quale mancava da tredici anni. La Patagonia Pictures è lieta di annunciare BACK TO MOMIX. In scena, presso il Teatro Circus, martedì 15 e mercoledì 16 aprile 2025 alle ore 21.00 e giovedì 17 aprile…

[xx-riffraff-xx]

~ the care and keeping of plants ~

premise; The N109 Zone has no plants. Except for the ones you brought for Sylus.

warnings; might be OOC, but other than that none this is tooth-rotting fluff.

a/n; been watching a lot of sylus' memories online lately and the part in captivating moment where he talks about the plants in the N109 Zone got to me. have this. promise i will make more not-sylus things eventually, he has me in a fucking chokehold rn and I WANT OUT.

It’s a well-known fact that there are no plants in the N109 Zone. The lack of sunlight makes it impossible for any growth whatsoever. Rain is rare and dirt settles in a thin film over all the fake plants. Most people in the N109 Zone don’t care, the fake plants are enough for them, but not for Sylus.

He has grown used to it, or he pretends he has. The flowers in his sconces wilt in the hallway and a lone dead cactus sits on his desk. Every time he visits you in Linkon, you make sure the two of you walk through the park together. Whether you’re looking at the spring blossoms or resting under a shady maple tree during the summer, pressing fallen leaves into books in the fall or making snow angels in the winter, Sylus always looks happier after he sees you.

It starts small, like most things do. You decide it would be nice if you kept more plants around your apartment for when he comes over. So you buy a couple hanging plants for your porch, then some ivy that creeps up your wall. He spends a few minutes admiring them every time. Once, you “forget” to water them and then you’re watching Sylus, leader of Onychinus and most feared resident of the N109 Zone, tenderly watering the plants in your apartment.

Naturally, you go further. You spend time researching grow lights and plants. Next time you’re at his base, you replace the cactus with a potted pothos plant. You leave a little grow light on a timer next to it. When the pothos doesn’t die, you take it a step further.

While Sylus is sleeping, you enlist the Trouble Twins to help you replace all the dying, wilted flowers in the hallway sconces with cherry caramel phlox. You plant the flowers, the twins position grow lights above the sconces.

Sylus knows, of course, that it’s you doing this for him. He pretends to be none the wiser because it makes you happy. He has scheduled an hour for the care and keeping of his plants. His base has become the most vegetated area in the N109 Zone.

Your magnum opus comes in the form of a commandeered corner of his base for an artificial sunroom. The twins help you set it up. The room is crowded with plants, a small pathway through the jungle snaking into the back corner. It’s brightly lit from all the grow lights hanging from the ceiling. Gentle trickling from the waterfall in the fish tank blankets the space. It’s comfortably warm. A desk sits pushed against the wall under a small potted mango tree, the potted pothos that started it all resting on top. You wanted a sanctuary for him. And you. But mostly him.

(Coincidentally, he gave you a credit card when you first started planning the project. He directed you to use it for “any big purchases.” You think he knows, but you’ve decided not to think about it too hard.)

When you finally show it to him, he’s extremely pleased. He doesn’t say this, but you can tell from the way he moves around the space. The stressed lines of his shoulders seem to soften into smooth curves. His typical threatening aura melts into something more gentle. He takes your hand and pulls you under the mango tree, laying in the dappled artificial sunlight with you on his chest.

“Thank you, sweetheart. It’s perfect.”

[joethetoonfanandoutcast]

This is the complete list of characters I would have cameo at a Universal Animation assemblage similar to Once Upon a Studio.

Felix the Cat: Felix the Cat

Woody Woodpecker: Woody Woodpecker, Winnie Woodpecker

An American Tail: Fievel Mousekewitz, Tanya Mousekewitz, Papa Mousekewitz, Mama Mousekewitz, Yasha Mousekewitz, Tiger, Henri le pigeon, female pigeons, Tony Toponi, Bridget, Honest John, Gussie Mausheimer, Warren T. Cat, Digit, Maus Street Maulers, Cat R. Waul, TR Chula, the Cactus Cat Gang, Miss Kitty, Wylie Burp

Land Before Time: Littlefoot, Cera, Petrie, Ducky, Spike, Littlefoot's grandparents, Chomper

Opus 'n Bill: Opus, Bill the Cat, the ducks

We're Back!: A Dinosaur's Story: Rex, Elsa, Woog, Dweeb, Louie, Cecilia, Vorb, Stubbs, Captain Neweyes, Dr. Bleeb

Casper: Casper the Friendly Ghost, Stretch, Fatso, Stinky

Babe: Babe, Fly, Rex, Ferdinand, the mice

Balto: Balto, Jenna, Boris, Steele, Muk, Luk, Nikki, Kaltag, Star, Dixie, Sylvie, Rosy

Rocky & Bullwinkle: Rocket J. Squirrel, Bullwinkle J. Moose (in their 2D/CG 2000 looks), Fearless Leader, Boris Badenov, Natasha Femme-Fatale (in their 2D 2000 looks)

Curious George: Curious George, Ted the Man in the Yellow Hat, Maggie Dunlop

The Tale of Desperaux: Desperaux, his parents, Chiaroscuro "Roscuro", Chef Andre, Boldo

Despicable Me: Felonious Gru, Lucy Wilde, the Minions, Dr. Nefario, Margo, Agnes, Edith, Kyle, Vector, Mr. Perkins, Silas Ramsbottom, Eduardo Perez/El Macho, Antonio Perez, Scarlett Overkill, Herb Overkill, the Nelsons, Balthazar Bratt, Dru Gru, Marlena Gru, Fritz, Clive the Robot, the Vicious Six, Master Chow, Wild Knuckles' henchmen

Hop: EB, Easter Bunny, the Pink Berets, Carlos, Phil, bunnies, chicks

The Lorax: the Lorax, the Once-ler, Ted, Audrey, Mrs. Wiggins, Granny Norma, Aloysius O'Hare, O'Hare's bodyguards, Sy the Delivery Guy, the Hummingfish, the Swommee-Swans, the Barbaloots

The Secret Life of Pets: Max, Katie, Duke, Gidget, Snowball, Mel, Buddy, Pops, Tiberius, Rooster, Chuck, Liam, Daisy, Hu, Sergei, wolves

Sing: Buster Moon, Miss Crawley, Herman, Rosita, Norman, their piglets, Gunther, Johnny, Marcus, Stan, Barry, Ash, Lance, Becky, Eddie Noodleman, Nana Noodleman, Mr. and Mrs. Noodleman, Hobbes, Meena, her mother and grandparents, Mike, Nancy, Suki Lane, Porsha Crystal, Jimmy Crystal, Jerry, Nooshy, Darius, Klaus Kickenklober, Clay Calloway, the Q-Teez

The Grinch: the Grinch, Max, Fred, his mate and calf, Donna Who, Cindy-Lou Who, Bean, Buster, Bricklebaum, Mabel, Groopert, Axl, Izzy, Ozzy

Super Mario Bros.: Mario, Luigi, Princess Peach, Toad, Bowser Koopa, Donkey Kong, Cranky Kong, Kamek, penguins, Giuseppe

Migration: the duck family, Delroy, Pigeon, Erin

Characters I'm unsure would make the assemblage:

The Veggies of VeggieTales

The Jetsons, Mr. Spacely and anyone involved in Jetsons the Movie

And for real-life people:

Steven Spielberg, David Kirschner, George Miller, and Chris Meledandri as themselves.

What do you think?

[mattdeford]

Befoam- to cover with foam FOR SALE! $45 ($100 framed) free shipping US and Canada. Comment or message if interested. Rohrer & Klingner Sketch Ink Black Lamy Al-Star 1.5 nib TWSBI Eco 1.1 nib Opus 88 Endless Trail EF nib - - - #cactus #shaving #art #artist #artistsoninstagram #illustrationartists #comicstrip #doodle #doodling #drawing #watercolor #ink #comics #penandinkchallenge #fountainpen #cartoon #word #wordofthedaybymatt #wordoftheday #instaart #buyart #collectart #dailyart #inktober … https://www.instagram.com/p/CpfU09yuGfp/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[cooltivarte]

Momix se presenta en el Auditorio Nacional del Sodre con su espectáculo Viva MOMIX , que creó y estrenó para celebrar los 35 años de la compañía, reuniendo un conjunto de dos actos que combina las mejores piezas de las obras más reconocidas de Pendleton: Alice (2019), Botánica (2009), Alchemia (2014), Remix (2011), Opus Cactus (2001) y Lunar Sea (2005).

[bramblepatchart]

...and after years of Opus being the only magical thing in this desert, the jackalopes have started to come back. Real ones, not the sad fungus-ridden rabbits. He's found a whole nest of kits with their antlers just coming in, in the shade of the cactus at the south end of town.

Opus Palmer is my character of the month for May! He's a good sweet solarpunk cactus boy. You can find more of his story on my Patreon - and for a few dollars a month, you can see exclusive bonus art and vote on future characters of the month.

If you'd like to support my art but long-term commitment isn't your thing, you can always leave something in my tip jar on Ko-Fi. I'm still saving to replace my laptop so I can get back to doing digital art as well as traditional media!

[edupunkn00b]

Play Us A Song: Memories

Chapter 1: Memories - Next Chapter - Master Post - [ AO3 ]

Inspired by a prompt on Tumblr by sidespromptsblog Roman falls in love with Logan the moment that the other man knocks on his door asking if he wants a free piano, because he just moved in across the street and he no longer plays. Logan who used to be a music teacher, but quit for one reason or another. And Roman who is a volunteer for the schools drama club, making costumes and props. Or just about anything that they need. And they just so happen to need... A piano player.

Somehow I turned that mostly fluffy prompt into a spiky cactus: a ten chapter treatise on grief, loss, and that time the Universe gave Logan the chance to find the love of his life not once, but twice. Enjoy. The playlist for this story is on Spotify.

CW: past major character death, referenced/implied suicide, some swearing - WC: 1871

---

They were young and independent And they thought they had it planned Should've known right from the start You can't predict the end - Memories, Panic! at the Disco ---

“He was my first—and my only—adult student. Ordinarily, I taught gifted children and teenagers. Or, at least, the children of parents who wanted them to be gifted. I specialized in classical piano education. Twelve of my students auditioned for the Julliard musical conservatory in New York City. All twelve were accepted. One was recruited just out of high school to perform with the Berlin Philharmonic, another two for the Boston Pops.

“I don’t know what possessed me to take on an adult student. There was just... something about him. He was already an accomplished jazz pianist. He’d never had any formal training, never taken even a single music class. He taught himself to play, well, the same way he lived. When he was ten years old, he walked up to a piano in a mall food court and just started banging on the keys until it made the sounds he wanted to hear.

“That’s how he did everything. Run up to it and start trying things until it would work the way he wanted it to.”

Logan looked down at his tie, rubbing his thumbs over the tiny rainbow-colored flowers embroidered over its surface.

“After a year and a half of twice-weekly lessons, he fired me as his teacher. And then asked me out on a date.

“Back when I taught, I would... lie to my students, telling them that Liszt’s Liebestramue No. 3 or Chopin’s Opus 64 was the impetus that drove me to master the piano.” Logan stared at the tie in his hands. “On our second date, I confessed that when I was nine years old, I had heard a pop song on the radio, Piano Man. And I told him the truth. I told him how that was the song that actually inspired me to learn how to play the piano and to stick with it.” Logan took a deep breath and pressed his lips together. He swallowed back a lump in his throat and continued. “On our next date, he handed me a small, wrapped CD case.”

“He bought you the song?”

“No.”

A sound escaped Logan’s throat, halfway between a laugh and a sob. He held the wide end of his tie against his lips and breathed in. The seams were still damp from yesterday’s rain. “No. After our second date ended, he stayed up for the next eleven days . First he searched for and found a sufficiently clear recording of Piano Man by Ghostland Observatory so that he could properly discern the melody. He then composed, recorded, and edited a multi-track recording of himself playing all the parts on the piano he bought after starting lessons with me. First the core melody, then layering in his own new harmonies and compositions until he had created an entirely new piece, all intertwined through the melody of that song.”

“Wow,” Picani whispered out before biting his lips. It was so easy to get caught up in this patient’s stories. He cleared his throat and looked down at his notes, making a small correction. “You know, when you said that Piano Man inspired you to learn to play, I’d assumed you meant the old one by Billy Joel.”

“I had.”

Dr. Picani tilted his head, gesturing gently with his hand, trying to encourage Logan to explain.

“He misunderstood, or perhaps he just overestimated… me. He listened to every version of every song called ‘Piano Man’, and decided that, given the lyrics and the melody of the Ghostland Observatory version, that was the only song I could have possibly meant.”

Dr. Picani watched as Logan sat back, again tracing the little flowers on his tie. Picani knew from their first remote video session that the tie had been a gift from his late husband, the last of many ties he’d been gifted over their eleven years of marriage. Logan wiped away a few tears, but didn’t speak.

“Did you ever tell him the truth?”

“No.” Logan looked up and met Dr. Picani’s eyes for the first time that session. “I wanted to be the version of me that Remus thought I was.

“So I learned how to play his song.”

---

Logan stood in front of his new house in the pouring rain, one hand pressing his phone against his ear, the other gripping his forehead. He was getting a migraine and the pushy moving company rep yammering away over the staticky line was not helping.

"Yes, I understand you do not need a piano and you cannot start your next moving job until after all items from my move are delivered, however I did not request nor did I authorize you to move this piano. It was marked to be left behind with the rest of the large furniture to be donated."

Logan grit his teeth, listening to the rep's inane justification, staring at the biggest guy he'd ever seen, huddled under a too-small umbrella, giving him a death glare and trying to push a sopping wet clipboard and pen into his hands.

He nearly growled into the phone. "I’m not your ‘babe’ and I don't care what you do with it, I don't want the damn piano in my house!" Logan shivered, his barely contained rage doing little to warm his body as the rain soaked through his jacket, shirt, and pants. "I didn't move 2,405.2 miles across this god forsaken country just to bring it all with me!"

Logan listened to the rep on the phone for one more minute before finally snapping, "Fine, I'll sign the damn form. Then will you release my deposit and get this truck out of here?"

Logan clenched his jaw, yanking the clipboard and pen away from the mover and scrawling his signature. Control rapidly slipping through his weakened grasp, Logan had the choice between anger and anguish and he chose the former.

Later, tonight, in the privacy of his home, he could indulge in the latter.

"Where should we put it?" The burly mover was joined by the second biggest guy Logan had ever seen. Logan scowled at them, a hair's breadth away from completely letting loose and telling them exactly where he'd like them to put that piano.

Instead, he took a deep breath, water dripping down his face, coating his glasses and obscuring his vision. "In the garage, please."

He stomped back through the puddles and onto the uncovered porch, ringing out his jacket and shaking the rain from his hair. He stood there, shaking from the cold, refusing to give them the satisfaction of hiding away in his house. He shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling the rain just sopping right through the linen weave. He quickly opened his front door, took out his phone and car keys and left them just inside the door, closing it behind him.

It was his first night in a new town and the last thing Logan needed was to be forced to find a place to fix a waterlogged phone or shorted-out car key fob.

The rain poured down as he stood on the uncovered porch, arms crossed in front of his chest, glaring at the movers as they moved his old piano into the garage. If there was more than just rain wetting Logan's cheeks as he watched, no-one would ever be the wiser.

---

An hour later, the moving truck was peeling back out of the driveway. Logan waited until the truck cleared the large Magnolia near the edge of the lawn, scowling as he watched the driver execute a multi-point turn in order to back around the corner without nicking the fifty-year old tree. Logan scowled, wondering if the driver would have been as careful had he not watched his departure.

Shaking his head, Logan turned and reached for the front door, anxious to finally get out of the rain and find some dry clothes in one of his boxes. He shivered, pressing down on the ornate brass handle.

It wouldn’t budge.

Blowing out a quick breath and driving both hands through his hair, raking it back and away from his face in an attempt to stop at least some of the rain dripping down over his glasses and obscuring his vision, he tried again. The handle wouldn’t move. He tried the other side. No luck.

Crouching down, he peered into the space between the double front doors and could see that the lock was engaged. He leaned his forehead against the cold, wet door.

Fuck.

Logan stood up, patting his pockets in the unlikely chance that he had only thought about leaving his keys inside with his phone to protect them from the driving rain. No. His memory was correct. He had left both his keys and his phone sitting on the hardwood floor, just behind the door.

Just behind the locked door.

Logan squeezed his eyes tightly together, hands in fists at his sides. He blew out, and sustained for as long as he could, counting up to thirty-seven before finally gasping in a lungful of air. Try the garage.

He ran down the steps toward the garage, careful to use the stepping stones between the sidewalk leading to the front door and the pavement of the driveway. He knelt down, pulling up hard on the garage handle. It, too, wouldn’t budge. Both the front door and the garage appeared to auto-lock when closed. Logan shook his head. It was a safety feature that on any other day, he would appreciate.

But not today.

Logan stood shivering in the rain for a few minutes. He let the rain fall down over his glasses, his hair falling forward, plastered to his forehead and falling over the top edge of the eyeglass frames. His jacket, shirt, and pants were sopping wet, clinging to his body. He felt his toes squish in the rain that had seeped down through his socks, gradually filling his leather shoes with water. He stood there until his fingers started to grow numb in the early November downpour. Finally, he walked all around his new house, checking each window, trying the backdoor, even the storm cellar. Everything was locked and secure.

He tried not to think about the kettle, mug, and tea that he’d packed in his “first night” kitchen box when he saw the weather forecast for the day of the move. He tried not to think about the “first night” bedroom box with a fresh set of sheets to cover the mattress left by the movers and the soft pajama bottoms and thermal top. He tried not to think about how overwhelmingly stupid he had been to leave his keys inside the house.

Logan walked the entire perimeter of his house. After trying the front door and windows one last time, he sat in the puddle on the top step of the porch. How much more wet could he get? His eyes trailed over the front yard and he noticed a large stone near the roots of the magnolia. Walking over, he hefted it, eyeing the small pane of glass next to the front door. The rock would handily break through the glass. He’d be sure to trigger the security alarm, but he had the pass code scrawled out—and encrypted, he wasn’t a complete idiot—on a slip of paper in his wallet.

Nodding to himself, Logan marched back toward the door and up the steps, raising the rock in his arm, ready to bash the win—

“Hey, what are you doing? I’ll—I’ll the cops.” --- @tsshipmonth2020 @demon9980 @sidespromptblog

[theliterateape]

History is a Puzzle Box of Rashomon

by Don Hall

I’ve often said that the scariest thing to ever come out of my mother’s mouth was the declaration “Let’s go on an adventure!”

For my mother an adventure must include a lack of preparation, potential for danger, and a sense of I can’t believe we just survived that! She once decided she wanted to do a charcoal sketching of a gravestone from the grave of one of our Appalachian Baptist fire-and-brimstone preacher ancestors. My dad drove her up into the mountains and they started seeing patches of purple paint on trees and rocks.

Turned out that was the locals’ way of telling outsiders they'd get shot if they trespassed. My dad clutched his pistol the rest of the way.

Mom got her charcoal sketch. I can’t believe we just survived that!

When I was a kid and we lived in Arizona, mom decided we were going on adventure. My little sister, mom, and I loaded up in her brown Gremlin, a bag of sandwiches, some sodas, and all of our swimming gear and headed out for an afternoon at Lake Pleasant.

All was copacetic until she thought she saw a shortcut to he lake. It was not a shortcut. It was simply desert. It started out as a bit of a dirt path that sort of petered out about an hour into the drive. We were driving in the open desert in the vehicle equivalent to a Pinto.

Of course we blew a tire. Of course we didn't have a spare.

Being a melodramatic kid, I went into a full-blown faux-survivalist panic. After a few minutes of wailing about our imminent demise I set out to figure how to get water out of cactus, the thorny testaments to the heartiness of desert foliage fending off my un-callused hands and delivering exactly no water.

This being decades before smartphones, we were stuck. We had no clue where we were in terms of the comforts of civilization and while mom put on a brave face (and occasionally got the giggles at my histrionics) our fate was sealed. Unless someone miraculously drove into the middle of the desert to save us, we were doomed.

And then the miracle occurred. A beat-up red Ford pickup truck coming from the other direction popped up on the horizon. I shrieked in relief; mom flagged the truck down.

We were about a mile from a highway but we couldn't know that. The driver of the pickup was taking a shortcut from the highway.

Here's where the story gets odd. To this day, my mother's version of this adventure and mine are identical. Word for word the same until we get to the driver of the Ford. On my life, I swear it was an older Native American man who stopped, hitched up the Gremlin to his vehicle, and towed us the mile to the highway and on to a gas station. 

My mother will go to her grave insisting it was a family of four Mormons.

What?!

We’ve had family arguments about this story. Both my mother and I are intractable in our insistence of our specific endings of either Native American man or family of Mormons. We both were there. We both can see ourselves in the tale. The endings are as different as could be.

There is conclusive scientific research that demonstrates how the memory of an event subtly changes the actual memory as it is retold. The more you tell the story, the more it transforms into something similar but wholly different in the margins.

If my mother and I can have such divergent differences within a memory of an event we both shared, how many splinters are there in a collective re-telling of a larger event encompassing many more tellers? How many completely incompatible versions of the attacks on New York on September 11, 2001 are there? How many versions that don’t quite line up with one another are there of the attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941?

Moving forward and backward in history, if we are to accept (and I do) that our memories are more Silly Putty than Lego Bricks, how much does film, television, books, and social media come into play in the constant morphing of objective truth to the collection of subjective memories and finally commonly accepted reality?

There is conclusive scientific research that demonstrates how the memory of an event subtly changes the actual memory as it is retold.

Back in the olden days when one could watch something horribly incorrect in the political sense without it becoming a ringing endorsement of your personal "brand" or a scathing indictment on who you are as a fellow human, I went to a screening of Griffith's The Birth of a Nation. It was at an esoteric video shop/screening theater on Fullerton Avenue in Chicago called Facets Multimedia and there were six or seven others in attendance. I was the only white person in the room.

Historically, Griffith's opus is significant in several ways. 

First, it was among the earliest epic uses of film. Released in 1915, it was the first blockbuster Hollywood hit. It was the longest and most-profitable film then produced and the most artistically advanced film of its day. It secured both the future of feature-length films and the reception of film as a serious medium.

Second, it was the first modern popular culture example of an artistic achievement attempting to force a certain perspective on the larger culture (the idea that the KKK were the heroes of the Civil War) it was initially released with the title "The Clansmen" and reframed the war, Reconstruction, and white hooded sheets in tandem with lynchings as the preferred story of American history.

Third, while propaganda has been around since men could talk and write, it was the most pervasive use of a medium that communicated on a newfound mass level to promote a horrifying ideology and was embraced by President Woodrow Wilson as a personal favorite.

Following the three-hour screening, there was a sense of discomfort as the lights came back up. My guess at the time it was the other viewers in the room wondering if I, the sole white person in the room, was as offended by the revised perspective the film espoused as the rest in the small cadre. I suppose I wasn't as offended because I wasn't black and I knew what I was getting into when buying my ticket. I can imagine seeing the film without some context would be like a slap in the face.

One of the things I learned doing stage combat around the same time was that a slap in the face never hurt as much as you'd think. It wasn't the pain of the blow but the surprise of it that gave it impact. Going in cold to see the KKK presented as the true patriots wouldn't hurt but the surprise might be a shock.

In a very different way but in the same vein, I remember being the only white face in a crowded theater in Fayetteville, Arkansas at the opening night of Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing. The looks of inquisition for my reaction to the film from the predominantly black faces followed me out into the lobby and into the parking lot.

I read recently that one of the reasons the scars of that Civil War in America have never fully healed is that we’ve never, as a nation, agreed on a single narrative of why we fought the goddamned thing. The subjectivity of truth in the re-telling of that dark period is confounding and subsequent attempts to force one perspective or the other or multiple angles on the causes of the War of the States has only confused the issue. Thus the recent beheadings of statues glorifying Southern generals and the re-naming parties of public schools to eliminate anyone associated with slavery.

I understand and empathize with this impulse to reverse the whitewash of history from our streets and schools. So much of our literature and symbols in real life have been created with, maybe not a D. W. Griffith subjectivity, a revisionist historical perspective that paints over the ugliest parts of our history to re-tell the narrative and erase those most subjugated by it. I expect over-correction (like the New York Times 1619 Project which casts our history as steeped in nothing but racism and slavery without acknowledging the contributions set apart from those stains) and, after reading that San Francisco schools are eliminating Abraham Lincoln's name, I decided to re-watch Spielberg's Lincoln.

I don't know if it was actually Lincoln or screenwriter Tony Kushner who came up with the following analogy but I found it instructive in the push to reframe the story today.

A compass, I learnt when I was surveying, it'll... it'll point you True North from where you're standing, but it's got no advice about the swamps and deserts and chasms that you'll encounter along the way.

If in pursuit of your destination, you plunge ahead, heedless of obstacles, and achieve nothing more than to sink in a swamp... What's the use of knowing True North?

The film paints the fight for the 13th Amendment as a dark political game, cajoling and persuading the legislators of the day to codify in the Constitution a formal revocation and rebuke to the forced enslavement of other human beings. It also portrays Lincoln as a deeply pragmatic leader. The speech is one he gives to Thaddeus Stevens, a zealous abolitionist, who rightly sees true north but, up to that point, would rather be righteous than successful in abolishing slavery.

Both men are long dead so the question of whether both men would tell the same story, in their re-telling of those pivotal moments leading up to the vote, or if their stories would radically diverge, is wholly academic. That’s where the trappings of art collide with authenticity. This is the version Spielberg and Kushner decided upon and it will be the version millions who watch the film and decide to simply accept it as the one true version.

This is not to say there is no objective truth. It is to suggest that our inability to separate fact from our subjective fictions makes us pretty fucking lousy arbiters of that fact.

On the other hand, we have celebrated author Mark Manson, whose book Everything is F•cked: A Book About Hope is being banned in Russia by Putin because it speaks directly to atrocities committed by Stalin. Putin is looking to re-write Stalin's history. 

There is a big difference between revising a history shown to diminish the effects of overt racists in one country and purging a country’s history of established monstrosities but the mechanism remains the same: reframe the story and tell it enough times that the meaning changes over time. Keep pushing the new narrative (right or wrong) until the soft memory of an entire nation bends to the will of the teller.

That’s all history is, after all. A slew of stories we tell over and over to indoctrinate a sense of national pride. It grows more perilous when those revising the stories weren’t present. The source of the tales becomes less reliable and the reframe more suspect. When the source is a film or video of an event, we feel as though we’ve experienced it but our perspective is entirely subverted by what the camera shows us and the narrative promoted when we watch it.

One of the techniques that Griffith practically invented was the camera’s use to tell the story from his view. Frame things in a certain way, in a certain order, and our very eyes are deceived, our minds accept the deception, and we believe.

In 1950, Akira Kurosawa gave the world the reigning example of individualized subjective point of view. Rashomon shows us three different perspectives on one specific event. The film makes the point so clearly that the term used popularly to label the he said/she said/they said dilemma is a rashomon.

This is not to say there is no objective truth. It is to suggest that our inability to separate fact from our subjective fictions makes us pretty fucking lousy arbiters of that fact. Show me someone absolutely 100% certain of the sort of events they've only seen on an iPhone video moderated by Faceborg and spun by both the media and some random stranger and I'll show you someone deluded and quite probably dead wrong.

Even when we're there to witness events in person we get it wrong so the concept of getting it right through the mediation and manipulation of amateur videographers and activist pushing a narrative is nothing short of lunatic fringe.

Bizarrely, we all know this to be true.

We know that social media is almost entirely unreliable. We know that film is a highly manipulative art form. We know that Robert Downey, Jr. never flew in a suit of armor, that Keanu Reeves is not Neo, that as much as he embodies who I hope Abraham Lincoln was like, Daniel Day Lewis is an actor and couldn't possibly know what the man was actually like in person.

We know this to be true but we need to be right. We need to believe and so we take that leap of faith, that gut level adherence to what makes some sort of sense in the story and run with it. More so, if the fiction supports things we already have chosen to believe in, we are adding it to the arsenal of defenses against any other sort of view of our story.

We know there's more to the story of the Antifa takeover of Seattle. We know there's more to the January 6th breach of the Capitol. We know there are more sides to the story of Michael Brown. We know that with everyone filmed in a Walmart screaming about her right to forego a mask there is something else before and after that moment that may demonize her just a bit less.

We know but we don't care. Context and considering the framing takes too much work. Too much time. In an existence flooded with too much information, too many stories, too much video, too many opinions, it's just fucking easier to settle on the story that suits you and roll with that.

That's why—no matter what my mother says—it was definitely not a family of Mormons and I'll go to my grave with that.

[larryland]

Mahaiwe Announces July Events - MOMIX, Buddy Guy, Free Fun Friday, and Two Classic Films

Mahaiwe Announces July Events – MOMIX, Buddy Guy, Free Fun Friday, and Two Classic Films

Great Barrington, Mass.—The Mahaiwe Performing Arts Center will present dance performances by MOMIX, a concert by Buddy Guy, and Free Fun Friday in July, as well as screenings of the films Woodstock and Star Wars: Episode IV A New Hope.

“July represents a quintessential example of the Mahaiwe Mix—breathtaking movement by MOMIX, blues legend Buddy Guy, a Free Fun Friday for families with…

[strazcenter]

Soul Soil: A-List Choreographer Moses Pendleton and the Alchemy of Turning Human Bodies into Saguaro Cacti and Other Odd Things

Choreographer Moses Pendleton & the Alchemy of Turning Human Bodies into Cacti & Other Things

MOMIX Opus Cactus. (Photo: Charles Azzopardi) When Moses Pendleton, the superstar co-founder of Pilobolus and dance maker extraordinaire, was a wee lad, one of his jobs on the family dairy farm was to feed the veal calves a nutritious milk supplement. The name of the supplement? Momix. Pendleton returned to this physical memory later when he choreographed a solo for the 1980 Moscow Olympics…

[lioninsunheart]

Insomnia-Opus XXIII

Have you ever taken a walk in the desert at sunrise? Only the fearless and aware hiker knows to keep their distance from the “Jumping Cholla Cactus”...if you are unfortunate enough to have one impale you--my best course of action is to find two large rocks --press them on the cactus--and pull them out quickly..you will notice a silent moaning escape your lips as you do..and you learn not to tease them...LSH  (P.S. you will find small little barbs left in your skin for about 3-4 days later--and you will have to take tweezers to pull them out--I swear--I learned to walk through them and never be attacked-the beauty that was beyond and around them inspired my bravery and courage)

Facts: 

This plant can be found in the Mexican Sonoran desert and southwestern parts of the USA. 

The spines of the Jumping Cholla are covered with a thin, paper-like sheath that can be tan, gold, silver or white colored. This layer reflects light and produces a beautiful, colorful effect after illumination of jumping cholla with light.

Easily detachable spines are responsible for an unusual name of this plant.

 Spines are able to jump and attack humans and animals that are brave enough to approach this plant, hence the name - jumping cholla.

Jumping cholla has barbed spines. Barbs are microscopically small but they easily penetrate the skin and additionally complicate and impede removal of the spines from the body.

[bobbylongnews]

2019 'SULTANS' TOUR

NEW ALBUM AND TOUR COMING MARCH 1, 2019 I’m excited to announce the March 1, 2019 release of my fourth album called SULTANS from Compass Records and a tour to support it. The initial tour dates are as follows: March 1—City Winery Loft, New York City https://citywinery.com/theloft/bobby-long-at-the-loft-3-1.html March 2—World Café Live, Philadelphia, PA https://www.worldcafelive.com/event/1797690 March 6—Café Nine, New Haven, CT https://www.ticketfly.com/purchase/event/1796886 March 7—Portland Empire, Portland, ME https://www.eventbrite.com/e/bobby-long-empire-live-music-events-tickets-53540127964 March 8—Club Passim, Cambridge, MA https://passim.secure.force.com/ticket/#details_a0S6A000003N6PoUAK March 16—Jammin Java, Vienna, VA https://www.jamminjava.com/event/1782231 March 22—Fat Tire Friday, New Belgium Brewery, Asheville, NC https://www.newbelgium.com/brewery/asheville/events/ March 24—Eddie’s Attic, Decatur, GA https://www.ticketfly.com/purchase/event/1797599 March 26–Terrapin Tuesday at The Foundry, Athens, GA https://bit.ly/2Dnd38x April 5—Fat Tire Friday, New Belgium Brewery, Fort Collins, CO https://www.newbelgium.com/events/event/2019/04/05/live-music-bobby-long/ April 11—Cactus Café, Austin, TX http://cactuscafe.org/events/bobby-long/ April 12—Poor David’s Pub, Dallas, TX https://www.prekindle.com/event/87161-bobby-long-dallas April 13—Blue Door, Oklahoma City, OK https://www.ticketstorm.com/event/bobbylong/bluedoor/oklahomacity/22269/ Monday, April 15—SamJam Festival fund-raiser, Anchor Inn Tavern, Carlinville, IL https://samjambobbylongconcert.brownpapertickets.com April 16—Duck Room at Blueberry Hill, St. Louis, MO http://blueberryhill.com/event/bobby-long-041619/ April 17—Gaslamp, Des Moines, IA https://app.tikly.co/events/3246?fbclid=IwAR2WX5X9hoTPh25yDddI5xsX-HFLuVtFZ7AtPwSGHFQdOUId3HNOZx-kKuo April 18—Raccoon Motel, Davenport, IA https://www.songkick.com/concerts/37723874-bobby-long-at-triple-crown-whiskey-bar-and-raccoon-motel https://www.moellernights.com/ April 19—Café Carpe, Fort Atkinson, WI http://cafecarpe.com/event/bobby-long-3/ (call venue for reservations at 920-563-9391) April 20—House Concert, Jackson, MI https://www.facebook.com/events/2162402987357332/ April 23–Club Cafe, Pittsburgh, PA https://www.ticketweb.com/event/bobby-long-club-cafe-tickets/9040125?pl=opus April 24–Rumba Cafe, Columbus, OH https://www.ticketweb.com/event/bobby-long-rumba-cafe-tickets/9094685?pl=celebrity April 25–Lo-Fi Lounge, Indianapolis, IN https://bobbylongatlofilounge.eventbrite.com/?aff=BobbyLong Tickets are now on sale.

[lucidlucy]

Any tips for accepting beta critiques? I find myself getting defensive and blocked up when someone gives me a good criticism.

Take a deep breath and remember that critiques are meant to help you, not hinder you, and that in the end you as the creator can pick and choose which critiques apply to what you’re doing. All constructive criticism is good, but not all of it will be relevant to your vision. If you specifically went out of your way to ask for criticism, I’ll tell you the very same thing my professors told me: shut up and listen.

No, really. It’s painful to shut up and listen, but that’s the fastest way to learn from whatever CC you’re being given. So shut your brain up, listen to what’s being said, take notes, and then think on what you’ve been told and how you can use it to improve.

If it’s unwelcome CC and somebody just came out of the woodworks, it’s a lot easier to get defensive because you weren’t expecting to just sort of run face first into it, but that’s okay. Just remember to be kind and courteous in how you address it, because ultimately nobody gives a true critique unless they’re trying to be helpful, and those who are not it’s pretty easy to tell them apart. In which case, if they’re being rude, they can go sit on a cactus :) but unless somebody’s being rude, just remind yourself that any and all feedback is useful, and 99% of the time it’s not aimed at your skill but at the product. Put some distance between yourself and your art and remember that somebody’s feedback is not a reflection on you as a person, and it becomes a lot easier to handle. 

EDIT: I should mention, if they’re your actual beta... trust me, they want to help. They’re probably a friend of yours and are just as invested in this thing being the best thing it can be, and anything they say will be said with the betterment of your fic/art in mind, so pay close attention and check the ego at the door. it’s easy to get defensive because you have this mindblowing idea in your head that’s probably your magnum opus and it’s brilliant, but 9.9 times out of 10, what we have in our head will never translate perfectly onto the page, and so it’s easy to feel down when you get critique. but your beta’s job is to be there to get it as close to that magnum opus level as possible, so take the time to listen. think of it as a collab, and go.

[mattdeford]

Tack- a touch; a feeling; a flavor; a taste FOR SALE! $45 ($100 framed) free shipping US and Canada. Comment or message if interested. - Rohrer & Klingner Sketch Ink Black Lamy Al-Star 1.5 nib TWSBI Eco 1.1 nib Opus 88 Endless Trail EF nib Opus 88 Cinco de Mayo EF nib Akkerman Hofvijver Gris ink - - - - #cactus #love #lovelanguage #touch #art #artist #artistsoninstagram #illustrationartists #penandinkchallenge #comicstrip #drawing #watercolor #ink #comics #fountainpen #cartoon #word #wordofthedaybymatt #wordoftheday #instaart #buyart #collectart #dailyart #inktober … https://www.instagram.com/p/Cn7lCe8Paii/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[cooltivarte]

Momix se presenta en el Auditorio Nacional del Sodre con su espectáculo Viva MOMIX , que creó y estrenó para celebrar los 35 años de la compañía, reuniendo un conjunto de dos actos que combina las mejores piezas de las obras más reconocidas de Pendleton: Alice (2019), Botánica (2009), Alchemia (2014), Remix (2011), Opus Cactus (2001) y Lunar Sea (2005).

[bramblepatchart]

Opus won this month's poll on my patreon, so stay tuned for more good sweet solarpunk cactus boy content!