#Pure Cotton ‎colorful Laggings

[littleeggrock]

some songs that remind me of the qsmp, it's gonna be a long one haha

Malmo - Mook

Imagery of a train station throughout , "the kind of place you mean to pass through, before you know it it's home" - pretty obv but they cant leave the island,

"it's a Saturday night in june and im waiting by the tracks to get out of this place" - the smp started in March, but the lore really started to pick up in June, things only snowballing from there. Also the imagery of train tracks, could connect that to the outcome of the puzzles after the timer event leading up to the nether

"there's something about the language, something about these people who look an awful lot like me" - there's the very obvious language barriers, and the fact that while all of the streamers on the island are very different, many of them agree on the same principles like that the eggs come before anything else, elquack bad, federation mostly bad, etc

"you laugh and I agree, that this thing has got the best of me" - many of the streamers have become so emotionally invested in their eggs that they care for them like actual children, and All of them realize this about themselves

The kids don't stand a chance - vampire weekend

do I really need to elaborate lmao.

"The pin striped men of morning, are coming forward to dance, with pure Egyptian cotton, the kids don't stand a chance" - the federation, a seemingly untouchable, perfect group, commonly depicted wearing suits, gave us the eggs, but also threw them and the characters into an incredibly difficult situation, two lives per egg, an insanely dangerous island, with the ever present threat of human error, the streamers cant keep this up forever.

"You criticize the practice, by murdering their plants, ignoring all the history, denying them romance" - the feds have little regard for what the streamers do on the island, so long as they comply with their rules and standards, but when a streamer does do something "illegal" the consequences can be extreme, pac and mike being arrested, Cellbit in general, multiple people have been shot, the list goes on. They don't care if someone or something is important to you, if it gets in the way they Will deal with it accordingly

"I didn't like the business, but that was at first glance, your pillow feels so soft now, but still you must advance" - many people have and are actively working with the feds right now, (cough jaidens gone cough cough), they may not like it now, if they ever did, but for many its too late to back out without consequences so still they press onwards

"the kids don't stand a chance" - repeated many times throughout the song, many of the eggs never stood a chance at all, trump was abandoned, tilin and flippa died to people they loved and trusted, and bobby got in over his head and the lag took him, there's almost no way for Any of the eggs to defend against the code(s) on their own, and even with streamers they were still put in almost an impossible situation, it's very difficult to log on every day and take care of an egg, poor philza lmao

Comfort eagle - cake

"we are building a religion, we are building it bigger, we are widening the corridors, we are adding more lanes" - the feds like to make structures, this reminds me specifically of the main base, where quackity walked through before he was kidnapped and where jaiden "toured" briefly before disappearing. They also are recruiting people to work with them, it's not quite a religion but they are awfully focused on making things perfect, and really like the color white which is often made out to represent holiness or godliness

"To resist it is futile, it is useless to resist it" - the feds get what they want no matter what, you may refuse them once and they leave, but they will not stop until they get what they "need". They also aren't afraid to play dirty, manipulating Cellbit and bad and leaving them absolutely miserable

"And the fluffy white lines that the airplane leaves behind, are drifting right in front of the waning of the moon" - french plane crash. Do I need to say more

"We are building a religion, we are making a brand, we're the only ones to turn to when your castles turn to sand" - the feds like to recruit people while they are desperate, (Jaiden, foolish, quackity, etc) trying to appear reliable so they can manipulate you further

"There's no need to ask directions if you ever lose your mind, we're behind you, we're behind you and let us please remind you, we can send a car to find you if you ever lose your way" - again, the feds strike when the streamers are vulnerable, physically and emotionally

There's a lot more little details I could connect to individual characters but I am very tired rn so we will stick to general stuff

This was probably mostly rambling but I needed to get these thoughts outta my head somehow before school starts again, I need space to think about an education and not just my various hyperfixtations lmao

Sorta unrelated but I have a Spotify playlist that's half stolen from other people's qsmp themed playlists and recommendations and tailored to my personal tastes, I've also added stuff I've found that i think belongs there too, feel free to check it out if you are interested

[gaiuswrites]

Ashore

Part one | Open Waters

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader

Summary: You and Frankie leave the beach with only one thing on your minds.

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 3.6k~

Warnings/tags: smut, ✨butt stuff✨, oral (f receiving), some lovey-dovey shit

Notes: Here we are friends. You don’t necessarily have to read Open Waters to understand the contents of this chapter (considering it’s mostly just booty bumpin’). You can thank heathens @javierpcna and @whataperfectwasteoftime for the debauchery to follow. It’s been a while since I’ve written and I’m genuinely nervous to post this lol but alas. We have arrived. Is it shit? Is it pure filth? Who’s to say hehehe. Cheers bebes x

Masterlist | read it on ao3!

The worst part was, you had to get gas.

Frankie drives. You sit beside him.

The return trip is hushed with anticipation—with sullied stain-glass imagery occupying the void. You've said next to nothing since you packed into the car; the only noise comes from the radio—the preset station phasing in and out as you wind along the backroads leading away from the shore—Journey, Jimi, Led Zep and the like all crackling dry through the speakers.

Everything, each micro-movement, feels stifling— like burning ants under a magnifying glass— each gesture riddled with intention, Frankie’s words echoing clear in the caverns of your mind.

He glances left right at an intersection.

‘Anything?’

He flips on the turn signal, blinking one two one two one two.

‘You gonna let me have your tight little ass?’

He steers the wheel with the heel of his palm.

‘When I cum, it’s gonna be here—filling you up.’

The engine rumbles as you idle at a red light—stalling. Dawdling. The sun spills lazily from the horizon, draining the last of the afternoon’s light with it, bleeding the sky scarlet—emboldening the horizon— and you watch as the setting glow catches the hair on his arm—there, resting on the console between you. His hand fists over the gear, knuckles creasing as they tense around the worn, leathered head. You’re playing a game—a silent, ruleless game. You know he can sense you observing him, can feel the heat of your gaze weigh on the flex of his fingers—the same fingers that had ripped an orgasm out of you not two hours before.

You almost unbuckle your damn seatbelt and fly out of your chair. You nearly break with it, with the unspoken tension filling the car like gas and fuck, how you crave him; how you yearn to put those fingers in your mouth and suck—lave the summer clean off his digits and bob around the long width and—

The light turns green.

Frankie resumes his hand to the wheel, your lewd fantasy dissipating along with it.

It’s minuscule. You would have missed it save the fact that you’re so acutely aware of every fucking breath you two share in the aluminum confines of your old Jeep. It’s a subtle thing: Frankie adjusts his hips— innocent enough— but your eyes flicker over to find the groin of his drying swim trunks tented.

You’re not ashamed to say it— your mouth fucking waters, you salivate— and as if on cue, he squirms again, seeking relief from both the blood rushing south and the blister of your stare. His lips part— the rasp of an inhale as he prepares to speak—before his focus is torn down to the dashboard, an orange symbol popping up in the gauge stealing his attention.

“Shit,” Frankie mumbles under his breath. Looking around, he scans for a nearby station and groans at the realization that he’s just passed one, spotting it in the rearview mirror. “Shit.”

You swivel towards the passenger side window, attempting to hide the I told you so expression pulling wry at your mouth. Not that you’ll hang it over him, but you did inform Frankie that the tank was empty on the way to the beach. You hear another muffled curse come from the man beside you, and the world goes topsy-turvy and reverses itself— the act of Frankie making a grumbled U-turn.

He puts the gear into park with a huff, Van Halen’s solo abruptly cut short mid chord.

The car door opens with a rusty squeal and Frankie clambers out, fishing his wallet from his back pocket and swiping his card through the reader at the pump—but not before he squeezes a palm into the plush of your thigh, thumb searing like a brand into your skin. I’ll be quick.

Fuck, you could have cum right then.

Your gaze follows his movements, dogging after him as he waits on the gas to fill— arms folded across his chest, strong build leaning on the frame of your car.

It’s not a novel concept to you, but God is that man broad. The ratty t-shirt he wears clings to him, pulled taut between the plane of his shoulders, the cut of his tricep apparent even from your vantage point; the corded muscle running up his neck flashing as he watches the digital numbers on the screen tick higher.

Shit, you’re aching for him— you can feel yourself throb into the crotch of your swimsuit. You’d have him right here—in the backseat, steaming up the glass— if it weren’t for the overencumbered bags and rickety beach chairs crowding the space.

With herculean effort, you wrench your eyes off him in search of a distraction, letting them drift to the dark flooring of the car. It’s been dirtied—white flecks speckling the interior—and you won’t be able to get the sand out of the matted carpets for weeks. It’s a nuisance, to be sure, but you have to admit that you’re sort of fond of it; little memories, vestiges in the grains, lingering long after the season ends.

Hello, remember me? each granule chirped, remember when we laughed giddy for hours, maddened by the grace of the sun? Remember when we burned red that time we forgot sunscreen? Remember when we bought soft serve from the surf shack and it globbed sticky down our wrists? Remember when we when we when when when…

Frankie, ever practical, hates it. It’s a pain in the ass, he’s told you, regaling you with the woes only a mechanic would care to know. It ruins the upholstery.

You’ve had your exchanges about the topic—your faux-squabbled back and forths—and yet despite himself, he can’t help but like that you like it. Conceptually, he gets it—it annoys him to kingdom fucking come and he’ll almost certainly take the vacuum to the mats first thing tomorrow, but he understands. He understands it.

He understands you.

You’re like that, you and him. You’re different. You are made of different things, a compository of fractures and fragments. Mosaic tiles. You don’t quite fit—not all of you—but you never force the pieces into any sort of place. You admire each other’s mismatched bits, those sweetly quilted jigsaws, and you hold each one up to the light and point at the unique curves, the notches and swoops there, and say I love you, I love this, I love this too.

When Frankie keys up the ignition and puts the car in drive, he keeps his hand on your lap. Arm resting over the median dividing you, calloused palm sealing over your quad, his fingertips knead a pulse into the meat of your leg with each bump in the poorly paved road— a reminder. A vow. Almost home.

You think he does it just to torture you.

It fucking works.

/

The sound of laughter parts the front door as you enter— Frankie had made some colorful comment about your absolute favorite neighbors, the ones who always leave their damn garbage bins in front of your driveway— and your key ring clatters as it hits the bowl on the side table.

You discard the bags, plopping the sandy things down in the entryway, and kick off your sandals— bare soles padding along lacquered wood paneling as you head to the kitchen for some much needed water.

The sound of the tap running camouflages Frankie’s movement, you don’t hear him behind you. He’s got stealth in him, harbored there from before. He’s light on his feet when he chooses to be—nimble-like, bordering on feline—and you startle with a bubbly chuckle when you spin around to discover him far closer than you anticipated.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping us hydrated,” you grin, as if it were obvious. You’re welcome.

He hums, the note rumbling against the cage of his ribs, and lessens the distance between you with a single stride. “That can wait.”

He rids you of the glasses, hurriedly placing them on the counter, and meets you in a kiss—and fuck can that man kiss. Frankie, like with all things, is responsive—attentive. His lips are fever-laced and wanton, and he roves against yours like they’re designed to— fated for no one else’s but your own— nipping and tonguing at your honeyed whines, orphaned there in the well of your mouth.

His hands vine up your body, so deprived of the luxury of your form - of touch - and he grabs at anything he can— your hips, your waist, your breasts through the cotton of your shirt— their half moon curves sitting ripe in his palms.

After ushering you up to the countertop, he strips you of your jean shorts, your bikini bottom sloughing down your calves along with them, and hoists your feet onto the fake granite, prying your legs wide for him.

When he gets an eyeful of your gleaming pussy, pearled with arousal, the wind gets punched straight out of him.

“Jesus honey,” he groans, “you been like this the whole ride home?”

Your brain is numb, lagging with lust. You don’t trust your voice to speak—all you can do is nod.

“Poor thing,” he simpers. “Poor pretty thing, all wound up for me—all wet.”

You whimper at his tone—graveled, just shy of condescending—and your knees weaken shut before he snatches them apart.

“Sit still.”

It’s a command, there’s no room for disobedience; he orders it with a soldier's voice—that dead thing he wears like dog tags around his neck. Vice grip widening your legs, Frankie sinks down onto his shins, head leveled with your core, engrossed with the sight of your damp sex quivering.

Blotchy warmth creeps up your neck, like ivy crawling over brick.

He’s staring at you— hungry and possessed and simply staring at your open cunt and you begin to fidget once more—riling under his umbered appraisal.

“Sit still baby girl,” he murmurs, softer now and desperate too—intoxicated with the heady perfume of your heat. “Lemme just— fuck, I gotta taste you…”

When he swipes the deft muscle of his tongue through your slit, your head careens back onto the cabinets, plates and bowls rattling behind the wood.

Oh god, Frankie.

He’s got a talent for this— an excruciating, body wracking talent. He thirsts for you something dangerous, something unquenchable; he tugs at your labia, forming his lips around your clit, lapping at your essence— the ocean musk, that sea foam wet.

You fumble through his hair, mussing the saline woven strands with urgent fingers as you grind grind grind, rolling your hips to meet him in a covetous show of want and he purrs into your pussy as you fuck his face, the scratch of his stubble chafing at your legs.

It doesn’t take long, not with the fervor of how he’s claiming your cunt with his mouth. You soak Frankie’s chin— you nearly fucking drown him with it—and he’s glistening with you when he finally emerges for air, pulling you to him to slant his lips against yours, letting you savor your own taste on his hot tongue.

“Bedroom. Now,” he husks, breath hitching as his nose grazes along your ear, and with two hands under your armpits, he gathers you off the countertop. Frankie lands a swat at the plump of your backside, sending you scurrying through the living room with a shriek—completely bypassing the abandoned pile of laundry left lying on the couch.

He smirks—delirious and ramrod stiff—sauntering behind you, enamored with the pendulum sway of your hips as you lead him to the bed.

/

You’ve never been here. You’ve never gone this far. You both have tiptoed this narrow line for months; he’s fingered your ass plenty—you have even gone so far as to don a butt plug. You’ve discussed anal—toyed with the idea, flirted in circles around it like tittering birds.

But you’ve never taken Frankie’s cock. Not yet.

He’s been working you loose and limber for the better part of fifteen minutes, delving himself knuckle deep into your slicked hole until you’re sputtering for more— until you’re downright sopping and fucking shaking— and not with trepidation but with desire. Frankie’s made you gluttonous. Frankie’s made you voracious.

You’re starving for him.

“You gonna let me have this now?” He presses a digit over your ass, kissing his thumb into the knot there.

You tremble, nodding frantic.

“Think this pretty little ass can take me, baby?”

He serves you a slap, plush skin jiggling and pricking pink under his palm. You keen into him, in search of the promise he’s been baiting you with and you arch your hips, gyrating back onto fucking nothing.

“Yes. Yes—” You twist, chin corkscrewed around to see him. You want to watch. You want to watch as he disappears inside you— as you swallow him.

“A-Are you sure?” he asks, suddenly gone gentle around the lines fraying from his eyes—those wrinkles he’s hard-earned and won, like badges, like medals—from all his years spent under an unforgiving sun, all of that which he has seen and endured. Survived. Your Frankie, always thoughtful, always checking. A goddamn gentleman, even now—even as his dick brays hard and angry against the soft of his tawny stomach. “Because really, we don’t have to—”

You cut him off with a whimper, splaying your pelvis up to him—spreading yourself, letting him see the filth dripping from your seam, dappling your inner thighs. “Fuck me,” you whine, both holes puckering for him. “Fill me up, like you said you would— please.”

Something shifts across his features like a shadow and his expression morphs until it steels— his pupils dilating to a predatorial onyx— and he spits into his palm, coating his shaft, jerking himself with it.

He hisses as he guides himself into you, as you accommodate around him, as you envelop him entirely— inch by veritable inch. He has to station a hand to the base of your lumbar, struggling to maintain his composure—air rattling in and out his lungs as he attempts to breathe.

“Shit,” he gasps, “t-this okay?”

You fist the comforter, coiling the fabric into a ball. It’s a stretch— it’s a real goddamn stretch— and briefly you consider that he might, in fact, snap you in two...

Francisco Morales is going to split you clean in half—and God, if you don’t you love it.

“Yes - yes baby - keep going. D-Don’t stop.”

He pitches into you, setting a legato tempo— transfixed by the lurid juncture where you converge into one. “You- you’re so tight. Shit, you’re—”

He silences himself with a delicious moan, biting at his lower lip until the vessels there burst and it purples, and deals a particularly aggressive thrust— one you respond to with an ugly wail of your own, eyes somersaulting in their sockets.

You’re both impatient, verging on rabid, and it doesn’t take long for him to set a rougher pace and fuck you faster - harder - hammering into your ass until you see stars, popping and fizzing in front of your retinas, a symphony of guttural grunts and carnal praise fogging up the bedroom.

Your pussy feels so empty you could cry—weeping and gaping and fluttering for him as he takes your tight ring of muscle, fucking himself to the hilt. It’s like he’s behind your brain—like he’s carved his way up your spine and nudging at the nape of your neck with how deep he’s driving into you—restless. Ceaseless. His balls slap slap slap against your puffy cunt and you pant— girlish and buoyant with the dulled smacks to your sore clit.

“Please,” you sob, “Please, I need—”

You can barely push the words out—your mind is of no help and your tongue lolls useless, languid in your mouth. Your motor functions have all but puttered to a halt, every scrap of you fighting to stay above the sensation that’s threatening to drag you under its current. The rip tide of it all, of Frankie’s cock, coursing through your ass, tempting to hurdle you out into the dark, wet blue.

“Tell me,” Frankie rasps, scraping through his throat. “Tell me, pretty baby.”

Your response is pathetic—you can hardly dignify it as a response at all. Your temple is pressed into the mattress, hair knotted with brine and sand, and all you can do is coo.

Frankie folds over you, angling himself to graze his teeth over your shoulder—savoring the salt and sex tang bathing your skin, all those pheromones and velveteen chemicals anointing you—baptizing you anew for him. He’s gruff when he murmurs, his beard grating your freshly tanned skin.

“C’mon sweetheart - hng, fuck - what do you need?”

“My clit,” you rush out, needy. “My clit. Please, oh my god Frankie I-I need you to, I need – oh fuck—” And your pleas are mummed by a rapturous moan as he trails his hand from the hollow of your hip to the apex of your cleft and flicks.

Fuck. Fuck, oh Christ—

There’s a ringing in your ears, buzzing you deaf, making you dumb—or maybe it’s just your heart, beating loud and errant against your skull—you can’t say. You don’t feel human. Frankie’s pounding into that cinched channel and playing with your clit—swiveling eddies into your swollen nub—and you feel like an animal. You feel debased. You feel disgusting and perfect and you’re fucking drooling; cheek squished and mouth agape, saliva pools from your wagging maw, darkening the white linen you’re being driven into.

“You need me in your pussy, too?”

He doesn’t wait for you to answer him— he already knows what you need, how you need to have every part of you gorged on him— and Frankie dips his fingertips into your entrance, hooking them up and up and in, fucking in time to the cant of his hips.

He’s in you. Everywhere, everywhere—every possible neuron and synapse consumed with him.

“You need me like this—fucking you this deep? Fucking both your pretty holes?” he growls, weaving his hand lower to grab a fistful of your hair, rucking your head up. Throat stretched bare for him, your mewls muddle to cock-drunk cries as he spears you on himself again and again and again.

Yes yes yes fuck harder please please Frankie

You're pleading with him—you’ve been reduced to meager begging— and a chorus of slurs sings your release as you contract around him and cum, the cradle of your hips bucking reflexively.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he seethes, “you’re so good for me baby, Jesus fuck—”

He’s close now—his blissed finish drawing nearer and nearer with each sharp snap of his hips. Frankly, he’s shocked he’s managed to last as long as he has; it’s a small miracle he hadn’t cum the instant he slotted himself inside you with that very first stroke.

“Baby,” he warns, losing his rhythm. You saddle your spine, hollowing out the valley of your back and arch pretty and supple for him— preening under his weight. He moans at that, and through your fucked out haze you have the wherewithal to smirk at him, devious and prideful, a wild look owning your eye.

Frankie has to brace himself on your hips, untangling from your locks to bruise into the pillow of your skin— gripping on for dear fucking life as he plows you. You’re strangling him. You’re strangling the thick of his cock until he’s dizzy with it—until he’s feral and blind and he can’t hold on, can’t keep fighting this fucking monsoon that’s raging in his core.

“Baby, I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna—fuck me, oh shit—” He shouts, spurting inside you thrust for thrust, painting your virgin walls with his seed. It’s too much— after all that, and you’re still too tight— and he’s overstimulated to the point of delirium. Frankie roots himself still, cum dribbling out your stuffed hole while he rides out the high of his orgasm—his vision, his senses, his goddamn soul, slowly oozing back into him. When he slides free from you, he does so with a pained heave, leaving you yawning with his absence.

You feel shredded. Vacant. You’ve been sent to another fucking dimension all together.

Without wasting another second, Frankie claws you up. You’re easy and malleable, bones and muscles too strung out to protest, and he whirls you around to bar you to his chest—crushing your sweaty body to his with bullet marred arms— the same arms that have taken lives, that have spared them, too. The same arms that link around you, delicate and daisy-chained, like you’re the most precious thing he has.

And you are.

You are.

Frankie kisses you breathless, drinking rich from your cup— tongue greedy and reverent as he kneels there at your altar, praying his sins into your mouth.

So gorgeous, he croons, peppering your face—your flushed cheeks, your perspired brow—with his lips as he tells you over and over and over again.

So good for me, pretty baby

Was that okay?

Fuck, you’re a dream

You’re my best girl—you’re my only girl

Was that okay?

God, you’re my whole fucking world

Was that okay? Was I okay?

Are you okay?

You swoon, helpless to the contented sigh that seeps out from you like mist. You’ve gone limp against the breadth of him. He has reduced you to rubber, left wobbling in his grasp, and you’re so damn full—your heart and your body—all of it. You feel unequivocally complete. You feel safe, you feel home.

You are home. Francisco is home.

He’s flattening out the nest of your hair, taming the damage he previously delivered to it, earning from you a sleepy grin into the muggy crook of his neck. And with the last of your waning strength you hold his pieces up to the light—the light you left on in the hall as the night grew dark around you, the one who’s yellow glow your naked bodies bask in now, and you say

I love you

I love this

I love this too

tags:

@krissology @heartsofbeskar @madhattervanessa @andiesturgss @sharkbait77 @tenderwhat @javier-pena @pedros-mustache @frannyzooey @chasingdreamer @djarinsbeskar @thosewickedlovelies @juletheghoul @not-the-droids @filthybookworm @pilothusband @letterfromvienna @keeper0fthestars @greatcircle79 @day-off-inkyoto @mermaidxatxheart @lawfulgranola @heatherbel @quica-quica-quica @stuckonthefiction @janesbrontes

[futurearthandicraft]

Medieval Armor Renaissance Gambeson | Armor Padding Asian Type Long Gambeson

For order click Here

This is made of pure cotton ,less on hands and in armpit. This is Very good thing and soft wearing to the Armour.

Gambeson is perfect to wearing below your armor.

This is made of padding and airflow so that you wear comfortable below your armor. It is use to wear below chainmail as well as a full suit of armor, or individual pieces of armor, The Gambeson is made of fine quality cotton fabric. When worn by itself it is comfortable to wear. The gambeson is produced with a sewing technique called quilting. Aketon lagging Armor. When worn by itself it is comfortable to wear. Lagging Chausses Lower Under Gambeson Hauberk Medieval Armor. Description Available Chest Sizes Inches in Centimeters Small - Chest-37" Length From Shoulder- 36" Sleeve-12" Medium # Chest-41" Length From Shoulder- 36" Sleeve-12" Large # Chest-44" Length From Shoulder- 36" Sleeve-12" X-Large # Chest-47" Length From Shoulder- 36" Sleeve-12" 2X-Large # Chest-50" Length From Shoulder- 36" Sleeve-14" 3X-Large # Chest-54" Length From Shoulder- 38" Sleeve-14" Other sizes also available 4X-Large # Chest-56" Length From Shoulder- .38" Sleeve-14" 5X-Large # Chest-58" Length From Shoulder- 38" Sleeve-16" 6X-Large # Chest-60" Length From Shoulder- 40" Sleeve-16" 7X-Large # Chest-62" Length From Shoulder- 40" Sleeve- 16" The original color will be different from product photos that on listing

[golocal]

Shopping in Kerala? We Have a List Ready For You.

Banana Chips Kasavu Mundu and Dresses

When I was on a solo trip a month ago, I met a group of people who invited me to Kerala within five minutes of meeting me. They have no idea what kind of trouble they’re inviting to their home! 

But me being me, I considered their invitation and guess who’s going to Kerala y’all!

Toh baat kuch aisi hai na, meri vacation shopping ke bina adhuri hai. Ab pehla pyaar hai na, toh adhoora toh nahi rehne denge… 

Now that I am planning a vacation to Kerala, I am browsing the internet like a maniac to find the biggest local markets in Kerala for myself. 

While I was doing that, I thought, let’s use this opportunity and help my readers gain a perspective about shopping in Kerala. 

I have eaten my friends’ minds and found out that shopping in Kerala is exciting and fun with its graceful dresses, work of art, aromatic spices, oil, and beverages. You will not have to think a lot about what things to buy in Kerala (or you might) because there are several options to fill all your shopping bags while shopping in Kerala. 

I hope by now you all know that Kerala is not all about its scenic beauty, but it is an amazing shopping destination as well. 

Things to Buy in Kerala

Tea and Coffee 

Kerala Kapi and Monsooned Malabar Coffee are extremely rich in taste, aroma, and color. You can get these easily from local shops or certified counters of the coffee and tea estates. 

Banana Chips

Kerala aaye or Banana Chips nahi liye toh kya khaak Kerala aaye!

Banana chips are available in abundance at several local stalls, especially around Fort Kochi. If you are planning to buy in bulk, make sure that you taste and bargain (a lot). 

Kasavu Mundu and Dresses Kasavu Mundu is the traditional textile of Kerala. This is a pure handmade cotton cloth with a typical zari border. Prices may vary with the difference in handwork, but it is a real deal. You can buy this from local stores and branded outlets. 

Apart from this, you can shop for jewelry, aroma oils, spices, souvenirs, handicrafts, amongst several other options. Ab sab bataane lag gayi toh khana kaun banayega is ke baad?

Bas jaate jaate ye puchna tha ki itna hardwork karoge local shops dhundne ka? Nahi na. Pata tha mujhe! Isiliye shop from LMO. Get everything you are looking for from the verified local merchants and enjoy!

Acha, bye!

Source - https://golocal123.blogspot.com/2021/11/shopping-in-kerala-we-have-list-ready.html 

[savidecor-blog]

Choosing a rug: 7 things you need to keep in mind.

Suppose you are going to propose your loved one. The first thing you’re going to get is a ring, right? But before you go to the jeweler’s shop you will really be considering some facts. What is their finger size, what material should be used, will they like the design, will they be using it regularly or will be just showing off occasionally. Trust me, Buying a perfect rug or a carpet for your new home can be as overwhelming as well because it reflects your personality and lifestyle. So here I will just remind you the checklist you need to follow before buying a home area rug.

1. Rug shape and measurement

Choose what shape of the rug will suite you room the best. Round rugs are for foyers/entrances/ kids room that are more playful. Otherwise most of the rugs and carpets used in bedroom, living room and other spaces are rectangular in shape and are standardized in size. Also if you want to place it in your hallway, you might need a different sized rug. The measurement is important. Decide if you want your carpet under the furniture or just in the spaces and measure the size accordingly. Common sizes (approximate) of rectangular rugs are:-

3x5ft (91x152cm)

4x6ft (122x183cm)

5x8ft (152x244cm)

6x9ft (183x275cm)

8x10ft (244x305cm)

If your room needs some unique size, please let us know we will help you with choosing a best rug and if not available, we will make one, specially for you.

2. Rug material

The rugs come in different type of materials. The high quality material includes wool, silk and high quality cotton, but synthetic materials like nylon, polyester, Triexta, olefin, while they can be also woven using jute, sisal, coir, seagrass etc.  If you are looking for a heirloom rug, go with the silk material, for the areas like hallways and open areas, synthetic material will go better and the natural fibers can be used when you want to give your home a Eco-friendly rustic look. So, choose accordingly after a good research on materials.

3. Rug Colors/ designs/Patterns

Certain rugs are famous for a particular type of designs, Like traditional Persian or Kazakh Rugs will have the detailed pattern filled with redundant, interwoven ornaments, often in form of elaborate spirals and tendrils in a manner, secured by border, where else the modern carpets may have the geometrical design stretching till the outer lines of rug, one basic design may dominate the entire field, or the surface may be covered by a pattern of repeating figures. and the contemporary style carpet can have a design of color splashes. Beautiful intricate designs mean greater workmanship on the rug, that could easily take 8-10 months with 2-3 weavers working on it on an average. Choose what design will go with the interiors of the house. Light colored rugs/pastel tones would not just add size to your room and make it look bigger but also match with most of the interiors of your space. And if you want your rug to be the sole focal point in your single tone interior, you can go for a colorful dark color rug. A quick tip: While purchasing your favorite rug, it doesn’t have to match 100% as long as it compliments, is in sync with the rest of the room and is visually appealing.

There are various designs and patterns one can choose from. Coming to patterns and textures, there are quite a lot of textures out there, different pile length and many more pattern variants.

4. Legs on or off the rug

This is one aspect where a lot of us get confused whether to keep the legs of the furniture on the carpet or off the carpet. Well, the trick is to be consistent throughout instead of having one side of the carpet with legs and the other side without the legs of the furniture. If you have more room and would like your entire rug to be as visible as possible, then the best bet would be to have the legs off the carpet plus this helps on vacuuming the rug as nicely as possible. But if the lags are going to be on the one side of the carpet, you might want to rotate the carpet in every few months. One more tip: Even if there is sunlight falling directly on a part of rug, the color will fade away, so to even this process also, you might want to rotate it.

5. Traffic area

A high traffic area needs a rug that is more durable, stain resistant and has more longevity. Due to this, it is advisable to choose a rug that is double weft, good quality fiber (wool/silk). For low traffic areas like bedroom, one can consider handmade pure silk rectangular rugs to place by the bed front and long runners for bed side. Also you might want to consider if you have any pets who think they-are-a-human-running-around or a toddler.

*Low traffic areas include bedroom, formal dining area and living room, guest room whereas High traffic areas include lounges, casual dining/living room, kid’s room etc.

6. Rug durability

Rug durability depends on many factors. Earlier we spoke about the material. the second important thing is the weave.

A handmade rug is 5 times more durable than a machine made rug. And if you want something to last for generations and are ready to burn a hall in your pocket, I would recommend buying a hand knotted rug. Another thing is the yarn used in backing and the density of knots per inch. But if you are looking for something that is in your budget and also nice looking, the synthetic material in machine will last for a good span of time.

7. Budget

Sometimes what we plan of and what we can afford are two very different things. My biggest advice is to set a realistic budget on what you can afford but will still very much fit the brief. A rug will live in your space for quite some time – and therefore should be seen as an investment piece. Shop smart! Invest in a good quality product that will stand the test of time. Like anything, it’s easy to get swept away in the moment, and the next thing you know – that vintage Persian rug is on its way to you! Think calmly and pragmatically, and plan out your purchase.

On the other hand, if budget is a constraint and yet you would like to have a beautiful rug that adorns your house each morning, handmade is the way to go since they more durable as opposed to a machine made rug which are short lived. So, tell me what will be your first and foremost lookout and what else should we check before buying a rug or a carpet?

[gcnenineteen-blog]

LITTLE MUSE THINGS

Tagged by: stolen from @cllgood

Tagging: This fandom consists of a dinghy full of people and an unspeakable horror from beyond the stars that we don’t speak of but feed by mutual agreement, so. If you haven’t done it already, take it. 

WHAT DOES YOUR MUSE SMELL LIKE? Jamie almost always smells like castor oil and turmeric. One of the symptoms of his illness that will become the most debilitating over time is inflammation of the joints, and he uses a poultice made with those two ingredients on his hands and feet, to soften the hide-like skin and keep it from cracking, and to reduce the inflammation. In the advanced stages of his disease it won’t help much, but until then it helps maintain quality of life, and he always has a musky, spicy smell as a result. He stops using it on the trail, however, because it’s too strong to be stealthy, at which point he’s more likely to smell like sweat and horse than anything else.

HOW OFTEN DOES YOUR MUSE BATHE/SHOWER? ANY HABITS? Though he’s taken great strides toward getting over this with time, since he was a boy Jamie has been in the habit of bathing as quickly and economically as possible - largely because gunslinger apprentices bathe communally, and Jamie used to be extremely self-conscious of his deformities. He’s gotten over the shame, but retained the habit of bathing quickly. Frequency varies by circumstance; he can handle not bathing for weeks on end if he has to, but he prefers to do it as often as possible if he can.

DOES YOUR MUSE HAVE ANY TATTOOS OR PIERCINGS? Not a one. His skin is marked enough for his own tastes already, and as a person with an immune deficiency, he knows better than to toy with needles unnecessarily. His liver has a hard enough time keeping his blood pure as it is. 

ANY BODY MOVEMENT QUIRKS? (E.G. KNEE SHAKES?) Like Laird, Jamie frequently cocks his head as an indication of either attention or consideration - often in lieu of eye contact, which is something those close to him have had to learn doesn’t indicate a lack of interest. Otherwise, Jamie is more notable for his lack of bodily quirks than the presence of them; that he’s an inexpressive boy is a matter of common knowledge, but what can occasionally be off-putting is that he simply does not fidget. Part of this is just his nature, but the behavior was heavily “encouraged” by Cort when Jamie’s particular skill at tracking and long-distance shooting began to manifest: he can sit perfectly still for hours at a time without losing patience, so long as he has a goal to focus on. It makes him a fine hunter and sniper both, but in company the dearth of gesticulation can hinder him: he has to actively think about what expressions or gestures would be appropriate, and the lag can make him look unnatural, disinterested, or insincere. 

WHAT DO THEY SLEEP IN? A linen shirt and cotton smallclothes in hot weather, wool longjohns in cold - or in whatever he happens to be wearing by day if travel demands it. The one consistency is that he never beds down unarmed, under any circumstances: he’s too aware of his small size, and of the disadvantage it would put him at in an ambush if he didn’t take care to even the odds preemptively.

WHAT’S THEIR FAVOURITE PIECE OF CLOTHING? More of an accessory than a piece of clothing, but he’s very fond of the surgical kit he inherited from Laird, which he keeps in a leather satchel embroidered by his mother. After the fall of Gilead he becomes viciously protective of it, and never completely faces the grief of his parents’ deaths until losing it in battle shortly before Jericho Hill. 

WHAT DO THEY DO WHEN THEY WAKE UP? Even after leaving the barracks, Jamie retains the habit of waking early, eating and cleaning himself quickly, and getting to work immediately. He saves leisure time for the evening, if he has any; he’s very much an early bird, that person who inexplicably springs out of bed with the motivation to start achieving things before the sun is even up, and it would probably be infuriating to everyone around  him if he wasn’t so quiet about it. 

HOW DO THEY SLEEP?  POSITION? As a boy he slept curled on one side with an arm under his head, but after a year in the barracks he began sleeping flat on his back - and sleeping much more lightly. By age sixteen he’s trained himself to doze off anywhere, in any position, at any time, and to wake immediately at any unexpected sound, and he’s able to sustain himself on periodic catnaps, but when the opportunity to sleep safely in a proper bed does arise, he comes to have increasing difficulty sleeping through the night. 

WHAT DO THEIR HANDS FEEL LIKE? Tough and dry, like cracked old hide. The skin feels mottled and too thick, and his knuckles are already prominent, though not yet too large. Being touched by him feels like the rasp of sandstone, and the excessive bloodflow that contributes to his hands’ distinctive color makes them feverishly hot. 

IF YOU KISSED THEM, WHAT WOULD THEY USUALLY TASTE LIKE? Turmeric again, and mint or rosemary, which he chews often to keep the first from making his breath stink. Thomas Whitman described is as “like kissing an apothecary - the whole shop, not just the alchemist”.

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wot. a. trip.

Shrouded misty skies, light snowfall, and hands clenched tightly onto warm blankets. This was my spring break. It was a far cry from the normal: driving to PCB, getting drunk and attempting to hook up with strangers. Yet it was incredibly insightful and I would be foolish to forget it so I'm giving myself the task of writing it down. At least one day of it. 

To start, the cabin was atop a secluded peak near Blue Ridge overlooking a scenic view of the surrounding area. I distinctly remember opening the sliding door to the back porch and being struck with the quiet delicateness of the scene before me. I stopped and I listened. I heard the wind rustle bare branches, the calm river flowing below, and bursts of laughter from my best friends. I was, and still am, in awe that such deep friendships could forge in only a year. Smiling to myself, I walked back inside anticipating the next few days. This spring break was unique in its own regard because two of my best friends, Owen and David, took acid for the first time and it was my duty to keep them grounded in reality (while being blazed out of my mind from an edible, details to come). I’ve never taken a psychedelic drug, so needless to say I did not know what to expect from them. Out of the eight people (nine including one guy who dropped in): two took acid, five ingested edibles, and the remaining two were sober. We decided to take everything together ensuring we’d all begin the high simultaneously. Cheers.

As time passed, our collective excitement skyrocketed. I felt as though I was dreaming in a way, constantly asking Owen and David if they had seen anything unusual while giggling uncontrollably waiting for the gradual high to peak. Owen and I shared a bowl out of pure impatience as David took it easy watching the tree line. I felt like I kept asking and asking to the point of annoyance but I persisted because I wanted to experience what they were feeling. Once they began the trip, it was as if I were on the same trip as they were but a wall was between us. Or rather a wall of reality had shifted for them but mine was still standing. I attempted to transcend this wall as every pattern they explained I envisioned and every dilemma they faced I challenged alongside them. Sitting on the porch was an experience like no other, marveling at the earth with my two best friends who were filled with a childlike innocence perplexed and amazed by anything they laid eyes on. The happiness and euphoria they felt, I felt as well. I had a purpose that day and I felt appreciated. It was bliss. 

Eventually we all took a long walk down the winding driveway to the river I mentioned before. It was strange, I could almost sense a divide in the group. Owen, David, and I cheerfully led the way eager to reach the destination while the rest lagged behind sluggishly. The sharp cold of the air filling my lungs and the greenery of the forest egging me on. As we arrived at the river, tears pricked my eyes but I quickly wiped them away. The river was beyond beautiful, it was otherworldly in my eyes. The firecracker finally properly digesting, I hit a new level. We all took our places around the rock and the divide between us diminished as we settled into our own minds. Watching Owen and David, their backs kissing the wet earth beneath them, smile into to sky lifted my spirits further. The clouds separated revealing the richest blue we’d ever seen, and the sun’s rays caressed our skin with a palpable warmth. It happened, my high was peaking as the edible steadily digested. So much so, that my overly-sensitive nervous system couldn't keep up and I experienced the urge to pass out. I shimmied down the face of the rock and melted into the earth next to David. Owen, a little further over, lost in his perceived reality. I noticed then that Owen wasn't taking the trip as easily as David was but the thought quickly flitted away as my mind was enveloped in the high. Once I was flat against the earth, my nervous system calmed and David and I began chatting about a fallen bridge and the shimmering ripples on the surface of the water. It was wonderful that such a simple thing could be so fulfilling in its brevity. Just existing was nirvana. We were lost in our heads somewhere around two hours before we made the journey back to the cabin.   

Inside the cabin was a different story entirely. The inevitable cotton mouth had arrived and it was vengeful so I took a seat on the couch with David and Owen. Amidst struggling to breath out of my mouth (my nose was congested from a cold) without sounding like a dying animal, I attempted to draw. I chose my friend Michael while David drew Grant, who were both fading into sleep from the edibles. It was amusing watching David lose the ability to remove colored pencils from their case and even more so when the array of choices overwhelmed his incapacitated state of mind. I give both David and Owen credit for their ability to keep in touch with reality while tripping because I know it would be a difficult task for me. Drawing was demanding (simply being high), as being an avid drawer made the process all the more tedious. I got the outline of the head after a few minutes but was tiring quickly. Owen would periodically show us his cartoonish doodles which to my delight fully encompassed his silly personality in a few colorful strokes. David’s drawing took a simpler form but it was art to me nonetheless. The last thing I remember is falling asleep to their laughter.

When I awoke, I was still noticeably high as the edible continued to digest in waves of extreme potency. I looked around the room to see the rest of the group peacefully napping. I sliced an apple and ate it with heavy dollops of creamy peanut butter and softly talked with Michael. This was around the time I remembered I had an important job to do and found both David and Owen swinging on the porch. I was happy to see them using the blanket I brought and took my place on the far right of the swing next to Owen. Again, I asked them questions and they both had equally interesting answers and analogies to how their perceptions were altered by the drug. I recall fervently explaining how we separate reality and define truth (thanks sociology). With music playing in the background, we gently swung from side to side, the three of us completely in sync. Owen relaxed his head onto my shoulder and David followed suit. Although I was uncomfortably squished into the wood of the swing, my happiness couldn't be touched in those moments.

As the sun set and the chill of the air closed in, we made our way inside for dinner. Everyone was still lethargic from earlier but pizza helped. I noticed that Owen and David hadn’t eaten much but they explained the drug altered their feelings of hunger and thirst, regardless it was unusual eating more than they did. After some debate as to how to end the night, we decide to play the VHS version of Home Alone on the ancient television in the living room. The picture quality was absurd and I still can't fathom how I made it through the entirety of the movie without losing my shit, let alone those on acid. In the end, we all said our goodnights and went to bed. I fell asleep to the buzz in my head still going strong surrounded by people I care about. And that is the recollection of one of the most relaxing and fulfilling days of my life.    

[thesunlounge]

Reviews 375: Katherine de Rosset

Katherine de Rosset’s music is born of experiences of profound change, and of the courage it takes to dive into the unknown in search of self-actualization. As explained on her Bandcamp page, the artist moved from Portland to LA, only to have her living situation fall apart almost immediately. Against the tides of uncertainty, de Rosset turned to the guidance of tarot and the art of meditation–while also focusing more deeply on her musical work–and in a moment of inspiration, decided to move to Austin, TX…a place where the healing process could fully complete its cycle. Indeed, within the arms of this strange haven, de Rosset reconnected with the natural world and found solace in the ever-changing flow of energy that comprises existence, and as her soul flourished, so did her music, a result of which is The Tower. Self-released by de Rosset, the album is a mystifying musical adventure that simultaneously explores exotic landscapes of magical fantasy, and the vast zones of the inner self. And while listening, there is a sense that The Tower is meant not just as an artistic rendering of de Rosset’s own experiences of love, restoration, and growth, but also as a guide for others…as a set of sonic and poetic rituals which are intended to help the spirit shed that which is no longer needed, in order to create a “sacred ground for the journey of coming home to oneself.”

These themes of metamorphosis of the self, of the magical forces of nature, and of the “joy of impermanence” are all threaded into de Rosset’s lyrics throughout The Tower, and her vocals inhabit zones similar to those of White Poppy and Grouper in their alchemical merging of dream pop and acid folk. At her most powerful and abstract, de Rosset even calls to mind an early Christina Carter, especially in moments where voices swell to an ecstatic howl amidst layers of ghostly drone. As for the underlying instrumentation, almost everything is sourced from sparse rhythms and spiritual keyboard playing, which often aligns in vibe, if not totally in sound, with the work of Beverly Glenn-Copeland, as well as with more recent sign posts like Nailah Hunter and Katya Yonder. Diving deeper still, de Rosset concocts a bewitching sonic world wherein brushed and hushed jazz drums anchor fluttering strings and warming brass pads while baroque vocal incantations intersperse with spells of springtide romance. Toms pound in triumph beneath poetic affirmations and shades of shoegaze diva bliss, crystalline lutes and gemstone harpsichords play a sort of medieval folk psychedelia, submarine basslines waltz through fairytale forests, and reed organs from outerspace work through passages of funereal minimalism…all while beatific breaths of reverb and delay caress every single sound. 

Katherine de Rosset - The Tower (Self Released, 2021) “Flowing Into Joy” introduces starlight drones and a machine drum shuffle overlaid by ecclesiastical keyboard magic. de Rosset sings softly while dancing gemstones move in counterpoint…the whole thing awash in a joyous energy, and evoking visages of satyrs and nymphs dancing around maypoles. Washed out keys and ethereal vocal hazes coalesce as de Rosset’s lyricisms dash romantically across the mix, with everything building towards a climactic chorus. Then, as the track reduces to plucked harp tones and squarewave synth sparkles, de Rosset locks into a mantric lullaby repetition of “Here I am / I want to show you”…like the voice of a mysterious spirit guiding the soul towards realms of joy. “The Star” follows with harpsichords and crystalline tones waltzing through a dew-soaked forest clearing, while splashes of metal shimmer in the distance. de Rosset swoons overhead, her voice subtly double tracked to add further hints of baroque folk mysticism, and her vocal poetics weaving together autobiography, spiritual guidance, and affirmations concerning the presence of a divine light within us all. Cascades of vibrating glass descend as jazz pop drums hold a skeletal structure, with rides tapping and snares smacking through a stereo field overflowing with panning drones and galactic swells of spectral harmony. “In the World and Yet Above” sees polysynthetic keys moving through baths of reverb and angelic voices guiding a splattered kick drum as it slowly structures into a beat. Radiant psych folk melodies are sourced from futuristic electronics, cymbal shadows move in the background, and ebowed guitars sing dolphin songs until everything seems to disperse, only for multi-tracked vocal mirages to emerge amidst feathery pad accents…as if strands of nacreous cotton are stretching out and surrounding de Rosset’s voice. The bass drum slowly builds back and tapped triangles give off sparkles of gold glitter while tom toms roll and hi-hats tick beneath layers of smoke–and over it all, a glorious call and response emerges between de Rosset’s singing and new age synthesizer themes colored in hues of silvery starlight.

A bongo-led downbeat anchors “Do You See What I Am?” and funereal organs call out amidst layers of shadowy haze as de Rosset’s voice lets loose darkly enchanting spells of reassurance, and of recognition of the light within the soul. The rest of the track builds around the singing, with billowing pads climbing ladders of starlight and whooshes of oceanic atmosphere moving all around. The drums work into a barely-there pulse, mysterious whispers pan back and forth, and the song’s structure holds together while ever-threatening to vaporize…all as bewitching vocals affirm the magic of the inner self, with de Rosset’s voice staying low before rushing towards an exploding sky, supported by bashing toms and slow cyclical synth arps. In “Her Body Made of Stars,” minimalist organ patterns are repurposed for an esoteric elegy, and gothic prog rock keyboards are overlaid by beating bongos and witchy vocalizations. de Rosset’s voice is close–yet hard to grasp–as it flits around the mix, and her breathy coos transition at times towards feathery falsetto. There is a touch of downer flower folk to the poetic phrases and mysterious melodies, and at some point, de Rosset sings: “there is magic in your blood / hear our breath as we are one / feel the magic in your blood / do you know how strong we are?”. Strummed zithers move over the doom-inflected jazz rhythms and as sonars ping and crystals glimmer, the minimalist keyboard patterns wash out completely, leaving behind an ocean of voice to float the spirit. Multiple layers circulate in round and reverb and delay patterns create counterpoint movements while synthesizers float through the stereo field, and as swells of solar brass seek the sky, they portend hope of a radiant dawn.

Side B begins with “The Eclipse” and its hopeful chord patterns and dancing pixie melodies. Wheezing organs sit above a sparse jazz beat and de Rosset sings through it all, weaving cosmic allegories and explorations of inner space that pull my mind to Will Cullen Hart and Circulatory System. Drums devolve to tapped cymbals as pads play majestic themes for fantasy kingdoms, with voice washing back and forth as it repeats “I’ll be there in your heart.” When the infectious jazz beats return, synths blur into clouds of cold comfort, while new age woodwinds sing ethereal songs through star oceans. Airy fills and pounding toms intersperse the rhythms and at some point, lyrics are abandoned as de Rosset drifts off into pure wordless wonderment…all while hopeful keyboard melodies ascend in support. The heart overflows with feelings of spiritual affirmation while the mind gazes upon scenes of impossible beauty, and as the track progresses, evocations of Beverly Glenn-Copeland begin shining through with pronounced strength. “91818” comes to life on reed organ drones and thunderclaps, while ghostly voices and bowed metals evoke early Charalambides. Pulses of smoldering static pan across the spectrum and a mesmerizing dreamscape emerges from bodies of orchestral murk, with blurred melodies dancing across the length of the keyboard, heavenly chord fogs hovering in place, and de Rosset whispering up above, her voice sweeping and reversing through arcs of resonant beauty. Sighing strings flutter in and out of view and seafloor crystals sparkle–though their glimmer is barely discernible through layers of washing water–and during one of de Rosset’s wondrous call and respond sections, a voice asks “Is this what you wanted for us?,” and in reply, another whipsers “I know I am ready,” Dazzling melodies slowly rise then recede before fully resolving and eventually, the song blurs into whooshing waves of darkened ambiance. Then comes multi-tracked fantasy dance supported by quivering staccato choirs and time-lag echo accumulations…as if Terry Riley had composed a baroque-tinged new age incantation.

Church organs pulse in “Sacred” as de Rosset floats overhead, with sparse tom hits panning side to side and sparkling seascape melodies meeting wavefronts of cosmic atmosphere. Plucked tones of tropical warmth bring a balearic touch while coral colorations swirl around the stereo field, and as we back down into a horizontal paradise–one replete with mermaid pads and idiophones made of seafloor crystal–de Rosset asks “what if my love is your love / is the truth then discovered?” only to answer, “no, not in words you can speak of / but in her radiant darkness.” The drums reduce to a brushed whisper against an ecstatic run of vocal poetics, and dreamy island melodies mix with new age diamond clusters. Toms beat anthemically as de Rosset moves into repetitions of “what you want will be yours now” and eventually, everything fades into a cloud of lullaby melodics and hopeful hazes. Droning reed organs return in closing track “Resonate”…the sound like an electrified harmonium wheezing from the center of the cosmos...before the vibe turns towards dream folk bewitchment. Treble tones pierce the mind, organs seek the sky, and billowing voices thread around the heart while sleepy-eyed serenades radiate dark sunset hues. A rush of celestial sound brings in multi-tracked whispers that cascade over themselves, with webs of lyrical wonderment threading together and resulting in an entrancing passage of dueling vocal flows…like a round, but not quite…wherein heavenly voices sing certain phrases in one ear, while a whispered falsetto speaks in the other. Joyous clouds of ambiance swell in support and radiant sunbeams refract as de Rosset says “I’ll follow deeper still,” and during a gorgeous coda, cloudform vortices and hymn-like keyboard patterns surround plucked strings while the body walks through a forest of restorative light…a place where waves of springtide soul energy transform existence into a paradise of everlasting optimism.

(images from my personal copy)

[kidtantrumz]

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Pendleton Blankets- What lags This Famous Useful Art

Pendleton coverings are top-notch in every way and also oh so soft and stunning. When you snuggle under a Pendleton product, you can see and feel the top quality. Making use of 100% pure virgin woollen, these coverings are lightweight yet soft and cozy.

 For over 140 years this family-owned organisation has actually been creating products in the Northwest; for the previous 96 years, Pendleton has been known for weaving world class wool. The Pendleton blanket comes from a lengthy custom.

 In 1863, Thomas Kay, a young English weaver made a four-month trip down the Atlantic coast, with the Isthmus of Panama by burro as well as up the Pacific shore by sailing vessel. He was headed to an area where the problems for elevating the best wool-producing sheep were ideal? Oregon. The modest weather condition and ready supply of water were excellent for obtaining the best woollen offered in the emerging Northwest of America.

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 Thomas Kay arranged a second woolen mill in the Oregon town of Brownsville, where he oversaw the weaving operation as well as later ended up being supervisor of the business. In 1889, he selected Salem, Oregon to open up a mill of his own. His tale is truly a tale of the American dream become a reality.

 Thomas Kay's oldest daughter, Fannie, assisted her papa and found out every aspect of the mill operation. She wed C.P. Diocesan who was a specialist with retailing and also manufacturing, firming a solid foundation wherefore was to end up being Pendleton Woolen Mills. Their three boys turned into this heritage and also, in 1909, with the support of the family members and also town, the Diocesan children restarted an idle mill in Pendleton, Oregon. Located at a significant railhead, the town was a wool center for the sheep growers in the area. The Diocesans created a more efficient mill building and in September of 1909, the very first products left the completing division. This is the saga of the custom of quality that is available only from Pendleton.

 Pendleton produced top quality Indian blankets making use of the distinctive layouts and colors of the Southwest Native Americans. These vibrant shades and also detailed patterns consisted of in the blankets made by Pendleton ended up being searched for. Trade consisted of the Nez Perce country, increasing to consist of the Navajo, Hopi as well as Zuni nations.

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 Utilized as putting on apparel, the Pendleton made coverings became the standard for trading among the Indigenous Americans as well as they were very treasured for tribal ceremonial use. Today, these ceremonial blankets by Pendleton are very coveted collector's products.

 Pendleton grows today and the Bishop household still directs the operations. There are now eight facilities and several Pendleton shops. Even today, Indigenous American styles are created in blankets woven by Pendleton but many various other gorgeous, soft as well as comfy coverings are also component of the Pendleton line. Any person that has a Pendleton made covering boasts of their great covering, whether it be a vintage enthusiast's item or a new blanket with modern designing. Let's take a look at several of a coverings made today by the prominent Pendleton factories more closely.

 Pendleton's Textured Weave Summer Dreams Blanket is constructed from Merino woollen, the finest woollen readily available. This woollen has the most loft and produces a blanket that is awesome enough for spring and also summer use. The 100% virgin Merino wool really feels soft, smooth and also silky versus your skin when you need a light blanket. The Pendleton option is readily available in awning stripe, plaid and also eight shades. This blanket by Pendleton must be dry cleaned up; you'll only desire the most effective treatment for your great blanket.

 Pendleton Solid Easy Treatment Blanket is an excellent option due to the fact that it is made of 100% virgin woollen that is machine washable! Yes, laundering this blanket by Pendleton is basic and easy. The hand of this blanket is specifically lush as well as with 6 solid shades to select from, you'll discover one ideal to blend with your bed linen.

 The All Period Blanket is Pendleton's mid-weight 100% virgin wool covering woven in basket weave to add appearance. The tiny waffled pockets resulting from the basket weave causes air to be trapped in winter season, keeping you cozy cozy. You'll find yourself pulling this Pendleton woollen blanket out as quickly as the crunchy autumn air begins to cool. Readily available colors are green, white and tan as well as this covering need to be completely dry cleaned.

 From the Indigenous American collection, Pendleton provides the Courting Robe covering. Designed by Laurie Jacobie as well as based upon an original drawing made by a Kiowa warrior, this blanket captures the courting custom-made of the Plains Indians. A young brave would cover a young woman in a covering and also spend hrs talking together are their dating routine. Red, yellow, environment-friendly, black, brown and also camel make this 82% virgin woollen/ 18% cotton blanket gorgeous. The blanket measures 80 X 64 inches and must be completely dry cleansed.

 There are lots of other blankets in the Pendleton collection. Coverings for your bed in timeless designs, novelty tosses as well as numerous Indigenous American styles are generated today, utilizing the same top-notch that began with Thomas Kay's child and her spouse back in 1909. You'll love these coverings a lot, you'll intend to be the happy owner of numerous, both vintage as well as modern-day.

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Wayne Goss Brush Review

Wayne Goss does an important tabletop demo on sun care and skin care. 

I’ve been frequently traveling the past few years but dramatically so in the last 6 months. I thought I had become proficient in all transit procedures...  until my luggage was lost in a perfect storm of two missed connections which left me naked apart from my small Guitalele, the clothes on my back, and the laptop that I had, fortunately, had the divine foresight to remove from my luggage before my carryon parted ways with me somewhere in Denver. 

When my luggage finally arrived at my hotel looking rather tired and forlorn, I opened the contents of my bag to a relief that my valuables were all there apart from one very carefully wrapped linen scarf that I kept my sacred makeup brushes. 

Like anything, experience points make the difference in the tools that you use. When first learning the Guitalele (for example) any cheapo 80 dollars eBay investment will do and does perform quite well for my limited knowledge of how to do basically anything guitar related. However, as I practice I hope that this will change. It certainly was the case for me and makeup. 

Any serious artist will groan aloud when they hear that a collection of brushes were stolen. The fact that mine is used on my face shouldn’t make a difference. One brush could sometimes cost up to 70 dollars and surprisingly enough the larger ones were sometimes the less expensive!

The first thing I did when I arrived at my destination with no luggage was to go to Walgreens and try to find some kind of outfit for the next few days as I was at a conference and couldn’t let myself go wearing the same comfy set of stretchy pants I strategically wore on the plane... I was able to find the basics all in one place late at night and felt grateful to be an American where my consumer needs could be satiated even at 11 pm on a Thursday. I felt as if I was somehow parachuted into unfamiliar territory with only a few square bits of plastic (debit card) to use in my environment for survival. In a weird stressful way, solving that problem was oddly exhilarating. 

But as I looked in the mirror of the fluorescent Walgreens bathroom in my 10 dollar replacement dress (which got compliments later on) and saw how tired my eyes were and the jet-lagged hair - dull and limp from recycled air - I knew I had to get SOMETHING to make myself feel more comfortable in this body that I more or less was dragging around at that point. 

I don’t nag on drugstore makeup because it’s usually pretty workable if you know what you are looking for.  Your canvas depends entirely on the genetic makeup you have and after years of trial and error with powders, liquids, and mousse,  I can confidently find my way around the drugstore aisles and find which will work for me in a pinch... I bought a light whipped foundation in my shade, a small contouring pallet, eyeliner, mascara, and the cheapest application brushes that I could justify spending on. 

Back in the hotel, I almost immediately discarded the brushes. They were cheap synthetic fiber and left almost invisible little hairs in the crease of my eye that were like cactus needles.... impossible to see but exquisitely painful to endure if you happen to want to blink your eye every now and then. I went to apply with my hand and fingers which I haven’t done (much) since I was a child playing in my mother’s shoes and grandmother’s makeup bag. Hopefully I didn’t look as clownish as I did when I was a small girl but no one ran away screaming. Either I blended in, or people were too polite to say otherwise so frankly, you’ll have to ask someone else. 

After calling the airline when I got back home to my beautiful 3 bedroom apartment in the Bronx, I received the news that I could buy new brushes and then make a report and wait for 12 weeks on whether the airline would honor the receipt or not. I knew I couldn’t go without as I am going to be a guest speaker at an art auction in a little over a week so I knew that I had to figure something else out and fast. 

I was caught between spending the money on high quality and risking that the airline would say “tough tiddies” or cheaper more available brushes that were less risky. In my heart of hearts, I already knew where to go. I poked around online for a bit but saw nothing that gained my TRUST in the artistry of makeup apart from what I had already researched in regards to Wayne Goss. 

Wayne Goss is a brilliant YouTuber who unlike most of the Instagram/youtube beauty babes with their sugar skull contouring, Wayne Goss gives highly perceptive artistry tips on how to correct, enhance, and diminish traits on the face, as well as any of the old masters of the Renaissance, could do with oil on canvas. It does take skill and experience to create a visage on a three-dimensional surface that is essentially alive and reacting with the environment. The face is mass in movement and therefore makeup becomes interactive and involved in the flexibility of that movement. 

So I ordered the Wayne Goss Anniversary Set Volume 2 (limited edition) and The Brow Set because these would replace MOST of the brushes that were too soon taken from me by an airline that will remain unnamed. 

The Anniversary Set Volume 2 contains 8 brushes handmade by artisans in Kumano, Japan from pure white (undyed) goat hair. These eight brushes are:

Brush 01: a dense duo-fiber brush for fast, flawless foundation application

Brush 02: a tapered sculpting brush for highlighter, blush, and bronzer

Brush 03: a fluffy eyeshadow brush that doubles as a precision highlighter brush

Brush 04: a silky-soft crease brush that works with any eye shape

Brush 05: a finely pointed pencil brush for detail work around eyes and lips

Brush 06: an eyeshadow blending brush that softens pigment in a single swipe

Brush 07: a flat eyeshadow brush that packs on pigment and works wonders with concealer

Brush 08: a small push liner brush that works color deep into the lashline

The Brow Set contains 3 brushes also crafted in Kumano, Japan. They are:

Brush 21 – The Hero: A short, flat brush for applying all types of brow products—wax, powder, pencil, pomade, or gel—with precision and ease. Create natural, hair-like strokes with the fine tip to blend color seamlessly into brows.

Brush 22 - The Multitasker: This multitasking tool includes natural bristles to groom, shape, and define brow hairs for an endless array of unique styles. The fine-toothed comb separates lashes and de-clumps mascara.

Brush 23 – The Pre-Show: An upscale take on the classic spoolie, the soft, dense bristles on this cone-shaped brush are designed to distribute products smoothly into the brow. It’s also perfect for applying mascara.

The goat hair brushes from the Anniversary Set Volume 2 had some minor shedding as I tested them rather vigorously on my hand. The number 01 seemed to have the most shedding but also took the most of the circular blending technique and the others will mostly be used in a different method. 

The hair is bundled in a tapered layered way which will promote excellent longevity to their lifespan. There are a few wisps that wander off from the heads of the brush but I think that mostly was done in the shipping and will some relaxing they will fall more so into place. 

The Brow Set comes with different courses of boar bristles (I believe). Brush 22 has longer course hair and slanted plastic teeth for the reversed side. I like that these are of course natural hair and not synthetic as I find that synthetic has a tendency to become brittle and break easier. The plastic teeth are fine and tapered but seem durable enough. I ran my nail across the tip to see how flexible they are and they seem to be alright... The plastic and can be moved without much force. Brush 23 - The Spoolie is slightly bent at an angle to allow precision combing of the lashes. The angle itself seems almost perfect and intuitive. Many props to Wayne Goss and Co. for that. 

The real test with any quality brush will be how it holds onto the wand. The metal seems durable and the promise of 20 artisans from Japan give me hope that it will last, but it’s been my experience that sooner or later my makeup brush heads always seem to pop off. 

The packaging from Beautylish was DIVINE. I opened the package and was treated to a very stylish black box that fit the inside of the cardboard perfectly. Inside the black box, my eyes were treated to a handwritten note thanking me for my purchase, a crushed velvet drawstring pouch, a light black canvas bag which carried two tubes of my brushes inside. 

I was apprehensive about how my brushes would arrive and if I would have to get a new brush roll, but luckily Wayne Goss saved my pennies a bit longer with their stylish carrying arrangement. The brushes were gorgeously wrapped in black tissue paper that felt like origami to unfold and was tied with thick black cotton ribbon.

As I opened up my package all I could say was “Oh Wow” and I heard myself becoming my tiny Italian grandmother who coveted craftsmanship in all of her purchases. This demand for quality made her the most stylish and beautiful woman I have ever come across in my days on this wide green Earth. If you are serious about makeup and it’s application as an art form then I am pleased to give you my suggestion to purchase from Wayne Goss. He is a deserving entrepreneur in the beauty industry whose videos are meant to enlighten the people (for free) and the advice is actually worth more than gold. I included a very important PSA about a lie that the beauty industry tells us to get our money while putting us at risk for serious health risks such as skin cancer. If you haven’t heard of Wayne Goss I urge you to find him and subscribe. 

[futurearthandicraft]

Roman Navy Blue Padded Gambeson | Medieval Costume Gambeson 

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This is made of pure cotton ,less on hands and in armpit. This is Very good thing and soft wearing to the Armour. Gambeson is perfect to wearing below your armor. This is made of padding and airflow so that you wear comfortable below your armor. It is use to wear below chainmail as well as a full suit of armor, or individual pieces of armor, The Gambeson is made of fine quality cotton fabric. When worn by itself it is comfortable to wear. The gambeson is produced with a sewing technique called quilting. Aketon lagging Armor. When worn by itself it is comfortable to wear. Lagging Chausses Lower Under Gambeson Hauberk Medieval Armor. Medium # Chest-41" Length From Shoulder- 34" Sleeve-12" Large # Chest-44" Length From Shoulder- 34" Sleeve-12" X-Large # Chest-47" Length From Shoulder- 34" Sleeve-12" 2X-Large # Chest-50" Length From Shoulder- 34" Sleeve-12" 3X-Large # Chest-54" Length From Shoulder- 34" Sleeve-12" 4X-Large # Chest-56" Length From Shoulder- .36" Sleeve-12" 5X-Large # Chest-58" Length From Shoulder- 36" Sleeve-12" 6X-Large # Chest-60" Length From Shoulder- 40" Sleeve-12" 7X-Large # Chest-62" Length From Shoulder- 40" Sleeve- 12" The original color will be different from product photos that on listing Please Note: We do not Ship any parcel on this code APO / FPO Military Addresses, Po Box address as our Courier partners do not book international parcels on these addresses. Please note that - depending on your geographic location Shipping carriers or methods may change.                

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