#Vogel Canyon

[talesfromahs]

Stan Vogel

You are looking around in the forest for the trail that you wandered away from when a Jeep with the park logo stops in front of you and a man gets out. You can see by his name tag that he is Stan Vogel, and he seems to be pissed at you “I’ve been looking for you for hours! Why in God’s name did you go off the trail around this part of Kern Canyon? There are some things in this forest that it’s better you don’t see and it’s coming dark so come with me to the watch tower and we’ll get you in touch with your friends and get you out of here before nightfall if we can manage it.” He opens the door to the Jeep for you

[einereiseblog]

Die Anden sind eine der faszinierendsten Gebirgsketten der Welt und bieten eine Vielzahl von einzigartigen geographischen, kulturellen und Abenteuerreise-Erlebnissen. In diesem Artikel werden wir eine detaillierte Analyse der geographischen Merkmale der Anden vornehmen, einen Einblick in die kulturelle Vielfalt entlang der Gebirgskette geben und Empfehlungen für Abenteuerreisen in diesem beeindruckenden Gebiet präsentieren. Von den atemberaubenden Gipfeln und Tälern bis hin zu den faszinierenden indigenen Gemeinschaften und außergewöhnlichen Reiseerlebnissen - die Anden haben für jeden etwas zu bieten. Lassen Sie uns eintauchen in die einzigartige Welt der Anden und all die Wunder, die sie zu bieten hat. Geographische Merkmale der Anden: Eine detaillierte Analyse von Gipfeln, Tälern und Gletschern Die Anden erstrecken sich über eine Länge von etwa 7.000 Kilometern und sind somit das längste Gebirge der Welt. Die geographischen Merkmale der Anden sind äußerst vielfältig und beeindruckend. In der nördlichen Region finden sich hohe, schneebedeckte Gipfel wie der Huascarán und der Chimborazo, während im Süden die berühmten Patagonischen Anden mit ihren beeindruckenden Gletschern und fjordartigen Tälern zu finden sind. Einer der markantesten Gipfel der Anden ist der Aconcagua, mit einer Höhe von 6.959 Metern der höchste Berg außerhalb des Himalaya. Diese Gipfel bieten nicht nur atemberaubende Aussichten, sondern sind auch Heimat für eine einzigartige Flora und Fauna. Die alpinen Täler und Plateaus entlang der Anden bieten Lebensraum für eine Vielzahl von Pflanzen und Tieren, darunter die seltenen Puyas und den Andenkondor, das größte flugfähige Vogel der Welt. Die Anden sind auch das Zuhause von mehr als 50% aller tropischen Gletscher der Welt. Diese Gletscher sind von entscheidender Bedeutung für die Wasserversorgung in Südamerika, da sie jährlich Millionen von Menschen mit Wasser versorgen. Die Berge sind reich an natürlichen Ressourcen wie Kupfer, Silber und Gold, die seit Jahrhunderten von indigenen Völkern abgebaut werden. Die Tiefe der Täler in den Anden ist ebenfalls beeindruckend. Der Colca Canyon in Peru ist beispielsweise mehr als doppelt so tief wie der Grand Canyon in den USA. In den Tälern und Schluchten der Anden finden sich fruchtbare Böden, die für den Anbau von Kartoffeln, Mais und anderen Nutzpflanzen genutzt werden. Bauern nutzen traditionelle Anbaumethoden, um sich an die steilen Hänge anzupassen und gleichzeitig die natürliche Umgebung zu erhalten. Zusammenfassend sind die geographischen Merkmale der Anden äußerst vielfältig, von den schneebedeckten Gipfeln bis zu den tiefen Tälern und Gletschern. Die einzigartige Flora und Fauna sowie die Bedeutung der Anden als Wasserquelle machen dieses Gebirge zu einem faszinierenden Untersuchungsgegenstand für Geologen und Naturliebhaber gleichermaßen. Kulturelle Vielfalt entlang der Anden: Einblick in indigene Gemeinschaften, Kunsthandwerk und traditionelle Bräuche Die Anden sind nicht nur für ihre atemberaubende Landschaft bekannt, sondern auch für ihre bemerkenswerte kulturelle Vielfalt. Entlang der Gebirgskette leben zahlreiche indigene Gemeinschaften, die ihre eigenen Traditionen, Kunsthandwerk und Bräuche pflegen. Diese Vielfalt macht die Anden zu einem faszinierenden Ziel für kulturinteressierte Reisende. In den Anden finden sich verschiedene indigene Gruppen, darunter die Quechua, Aymara, Mapuche und viele andere. Jede dieser Gemeinschaften hat ihre eigene Sprache, religiöse Überzeugungen und traditionelle Kleidung, die einen tiefen Einblick in ihre einzigartige Kultur bieten. Besucher haben die Möglichkeit, diese indigenen Gemeinschaften zu besuchen und mehr über ihre Lebensweise und Traditionen zu erfahren. Kunsthandwerk spielt eine bedeutende Rolle in der Kultur der Andenbewohner. Von kunstvoll gewebten Textilien und handgefertigtem Schmuck bis hin zu traditionellen Keramikwaren und Holzschnitzereien gibt es eine Vielzahl von Handwerkskunst, die die reiche Kultur der Anden widerspiegelt.

Viele der Kunsthandwerksgegenstände werden auch als Souvenirs angeboten und sind eine großartige Möglichkeit, die lokale Kultur zu unterstützen. Darüber hinaus sind die traditionellen Bräuche und Feste, die entlang der Anden gefeiert werden, ein wichtiger Teil des kulturellen Erbes. Diese Feierlichkeiten, die oft mit farbenfrohen Tänzen, Musik und Kulinarik verbunden sind, bieten Besuchern die Möglichkeit, hautnah an den traditionellen Bräuchen der Andenbewohner teilzunehmen und einen Einblick in ihre festlichen Traditionen zu erhalten. Die Anden sind auch für ihre vielfältige Küche bekannt, die von den traditionellen Kochmethoden der indigenen Völker beeinflusst wird. Besucher haben die Möglichkeit, lokale Gerichte zu probieren, die aus frischen, regionalen Zutaten zubereitet werden und einen Einblick in die kulinarische Vielfalt der Anden bieten. Insgesamt bietet die kulturelle Vielfalt entlang der Anden einen reichen Einblick in die einzigartigen Traditionen, Kunsthandwerk und Bräuche der indigenen Gemeinschaften, die in dieser Region beheimatet sind. Reisende, die daran interessiert sind, eine tiefere Verbindung zur Kultur des Andenhochlandes zu knüpfen, werden von den vielfältigen kulturellen Erlebnissen begeistert sein, die diese faszinierende Region zu bieten hat. Abenteuerreisen in den Anden: Empfehlungen für Wanderwege, Outdoor-Aktivitäten und außergewöhnliche Reiseerlebnisse Die Anden bieten eine Vielzahl von Abenteuerreisemöglichkeiten für Outdoor-Enthusiasten und Naturliebhaber. Mit ihren majestätischen Gipfeln, tiefen Tälern und atemberaubenden Landschaften sind die Anden das perfekte Ziel für Wanderer, Bergsteiger und Abenteurer. Hier sind einige Empfehlungen für Aktivitäten und Erlebnisse, die Abenteuerreisende in den Anden erleben können. Wanderwege: Die Anden sind mit zahlreichen Wanderwegen gesäumt, die Wanderer jeden Levels ansprechen. Von anspruchsvollen Mehrtageswanderungen bis hin zu moderaten Tageswanderungen, gibt es eine Vielzahl von Optionen, um die Schönheit der Anden zu erkunden. Zu den beliebtesten Wanderwegen gehören der Inka-Trail in Peru, der Torres del Paine Circuit in Chile und der Salkantay-Trek in Peru. Bergsteigen: Die Anden sind die Heimat einiger der höchsten Gipfel der Welt, darunter der Aconcagua in Argentinien, der Huascarán in Peru und der Ojos del Salado in Chile. Für erfahrene Bergsteiger bieten diese Gipfel anspruchsvolle und lohnende Herausforderungen. Rafting und Kajakfahren: Die Anden sind von einer Vielzahl von Flüssen durchzogen, die ideale Bedingungen für Wildwasser-Rafting und Kajakfahren bieten. Flüsse wie der Apurimac in Peru, der Bio-Bio in Chile und der Cotahuasi in Peru bieten aufregende Wasserabenteuer in atemberaubenden Landschaften. Wildlife Beobachtung: Die Anden beherbergen eine Vielzahl von einzigartigen Tier- und Pflanzenarten, darunter Kondore, Pumas, Lamas und Alpakas. Naturliebhaber haben die Möglichkeit, seltene und faszinierende Arten in ihrem natürlichen Lebensraum zu beobachten. Vulkanbesteigungen: Die Anden sind die Heimat vieler aktiver Vulkane, die einzigartige Möglichkeiten zur Besteigung und Erkundung bieten. Vulkane wie der Villarrica in Chile, der Cotopaxi in Ecuador und der Misti in Peru bieten spektakuläre Ausblicke und unvergessliche Abenteuer. Mit so vielen spannenden Aktivitäten und Erlebnissen ist es kein Wunder, dass die Anden zu einem der beliebtesten Ziele für Abenteuerreisen geworden sind. Egal ob man ein erfahrener Outdoor-Enthusiast ist oder einfach nur auf der Suche nach neuen Abenteuern ist, die Anden haben für jeden etwas zu bieten. Entdecken Sie die majestätischen Anden Südamerikas Die Anden sind zweifellos eine der faszinierendsten geografischen Merkmale der Welt. Von Peru bis Patagonien erstreckt sich diese einzigartige Bergkette, die nicht nur atemberaubende Landschaften, sondern auch eine reiche kulturelle Vielfalt und unzählige Abenteuermöglichkeiten bietet. Ob Sie sich für die geologischen Besonderheiten, die indigenen

Gemeinschaften oder die aufregenden Outdoor-Aktivitäten interessieren, die Anden haben für jeden etwas zu bieten. Wir hoffen, dass dieser Artikel Ihnen einen Einblick in die Schönheit und Vielfalt der Anden Südamerikas gegeben hat und Sie inspiriert, diese atemberaubende Region selbst zu erkunden.

[reisewanderlust]

Island - Múlagljúfur Canyon, Fjallsárlón, Jökulsárlón, Diamond Beach

Auch heute sind wir wieder mit vorbereitetem Frühstück früh unterwegs - unser erstes Ziel ist die Mulagliufur Schlucht. Wir biegen von der Hauptstraße auf eine unbefestigte Schotterstraße ab und fragen uns noch, ob wir richtig sind, weil die Schlucht nicht ausgeschildert ist. Dann finden wir den Parkplatz, auf dem zwei Vans die Nacht verbracht haben und an dem die Wanderung beginnt. In der Ferne sehen wir die Vatnajökull-Gletschergruppe.

Der Wanderweg, der nicht ausgeschildert ist, an dessen Abbiegungen aber mit Steinen kleine „Straßensperren“ gelegt worden sind, sodass man weiß, woher man gehen soll, führt uns schnell leicht bergauf - muss ja auch, damit wir einen guten Ausblick auf die Schlucht haben, die sich wohl zu unserer Rechten bald auftun wird. Und richtig: je höher wir laufen, desto lauter wird das Wasserrauschen der kleinen Wasserfälle, die von den Klippen in den unten verlaufenden Bach fließen; das Moos wird grüner, die Klippen und Abhänge steiler. Rechts von uns können wir zu kleinen Felsvorsprüngen laufen, von wo aus wir direkt in die Schlucht schauen können - puuuuh, das geht ganz schön weit runter! Trotzdem setzten wir uns erstmal auf die bemoosten Felsvorsprünge, lassen den Blick schweifen und halten inne. Durch unsere bereits erreichte Höhe können wir nun auch den ersten Gletschersee mit großen Eisblöcken in der Ferne erkennen.

Wir laufen weiter und entdecken einen großen, tosenden Wasserfall, dessen Wasser sich rauschend unten im Becken sammelt, bevor es in den Fluss, der sich durch die Schlucht windet, weiterfließt. Der Weg wird steiler und gerölliger und wir sind uns gar nicht mal so sicher, bis wohin der Wanderweg führen wird. Wir laufen einfach der Nase nach und stehen plötzlich oben - mit einem atemberaubenden Blick in die Schlucht. Dunkelgrüne, bemooste Wände, lehmiges Gestein, oben der Schnee der Gletscherspitze, unten der Fluss in der Schlucht, die sich - so weit das Auge reicht - durch die Gesteinsklippen frisst. Seitlich fließen mehrere Wasserfälle in die Schlucht und am Ende der Schlucht schrauben sich lehmige Felsformationen als Spitzen und wie Kunstwerke in die Mitte der Schlucht. Hier oben kommt man sich richtig klein vor.

Langsam begeben wir uns auf den Rückweg und sind wieder einmal sehr beeindruckt davon, dass wir bereits bevor wir überhaupt gefrühstückt haben, so unbeschreiblicher Natur begegnen. Erst kurz vor Erreichen des Parkplatzes begegnen wir anderen Menschen - nur der frühe Vogel fängt den Wurm!

Auf dem Parkplatz angekommen trinken wir erstmal den obligatorischen Camping-Kaffee und werden freundlich-neidisch von anderen Wandersleuten beäugt.

Am Fjallsárlón werden wir mit außerordentlich starken Windböen begrüßt, als wir aus dem Auto steigen, sodass wir uns richtig in den Wind hineinlegen müssen, um überhaupt vorwärts zu kommen. Der Gletschersee liegt ruhig und grau etwas weiter unten und ist mit größeren und kleineren Eisblöcken übersät, die weiter hinten im See super blau aussehen und vorne am Strand eisig-durchsichtig.

Am Jökullsárlón wird uns mitgeteilt, dass unsere geplante Bootstour leider ausfallen muss, weil es wohl zu viel lockeres Eis auf dem See gibt. Leider erhalten wir auch keinen Platz mehr für eine Kajaktour über den Gletscher, auf die wir tatsächlich eigentlich sogar viel mehr Lust gehabt hätten. Stattdessen können wir am knallblauen Gletschersee entlang spazieren und die großen und kleinen Eisberge im See bewundern. Auch hier - in der Ferne weißes Eis, das stellenweise blau schimmert, aber das gesamte Bild ist durch das einbläue Wasser noch viel schöner als am Fjallsarlón. Vorne am Wasser hört man, wenn es ganz still ist, das leise Knacken der sich durch die Bewegung des Wassers berührenden Eisschollen, was insgesamt eine ziemliche Friedlichkeit ausstrahlt.

Wir überqueren die Straße und halten am Diamond-Beach - einem schwarzen Sandstrand mit überaus feinem Sand. Kräftige Wellen laufen auf den Strand und brechen an den Eisblöcken, die - komplett durchsichtig - am Ufer liegen, so weit das Auge reicht. Während es gegenüber, direkt am Gletschersee, (für isländische Verhältnisse) relativ warm war, sind am Diamond-Beach die Luft und dadurch die Hände so kalt, dass das Fotografieren eine kleine Herausforderung ist. Wieso der Temperaturunterschied so stark ist, können wir uns nicht erklären.

Nach einem wieder mal absolut erlebnisreichen Tag fahren wir noch Höfn und verbringen den ersten sonnigen Nachmittag mit Tee lesend, der Sonne im Gesicht und dem Ausblick auf das Vestrahorn auf dem Campingplatz. Wenn man es temperaturmäßig aushalten kann, macht auch Camping Spaß.

[talesfromahsmoves]

Stan Vogel

You are looking around in the forest for the trail that you wandered away from when a Jeep with the park logo stops in front of you and a man gets out. You can see by his name tag that he is Stan Vogel, and he seems to be pissed at you “I’ve been looking for you for hours! Why in God’s name did you go off the trail around this part of Kern Canyon? There are some things in this forest that it’s better you don’t see and it’s coming dark so come with me to the watch tower and we’ll get you in touch with your friends and get you out of here before nightfall if we can manage it.” He opens the door to the Jeep for you

[patbertram]

Tarantula Hunt

Ever since I started researching southeastern Colorado as a place to settle down, I’d come across references to the tarantula migration. I was so excited at the possibility of seeing masses of tarantulas wandering around, that I wrote the dates of the migration on my calendar for if/when I moved to the area.

Well, I did move here (been here six months!) This year’s tarantula migration has passed…

[kaiqarker]

the watchtower’s lighthouse | stan vogel

pairing: stan vogel x reader

warnings: smut, swearing

summary: months after a disasterous first date with stan vogel, your paths cross once more when you’re lost within the depths of kern canyon national park during a thunderstorm and stan happens to have inherited a shift patrolling from the watchtower.

a/n: back from the dead because of this man. hope y’all enjoy :)

THE SKY EMULATED STAN VOGEL'S morals, consisting of gray unpredictability. If he was within the familiar walls of his assigned cabin, located along the grounds of Kern Canyon National Park, it would be an indication he wouldn't have to do much patrolling. Campers usually stayed put if there was rainfall, sticking to their own site and not off doing God knows what to the land Stan takes pride in preserving. Cascading a thick husk of superiority and knowledge was his favorite thing about the job, which is why he was disappointed he was stuck maintaining the watchtower for tonight.

The surveillance for the watchtower was run by a tight knit schedule of volunteers and the occasional firefighter that needed a change of scenery for a couple days. Needless to say with all the strange occurrences and sightings, there have been less and less people willing to take on the task. And now the duty was bestowed upon the park ranger— at least for tonight. He swore to himself that at sunrise he would be out of there and back to being the persistent, vexing gum stuck to the bottom of everyone's shoe.

Stan now sat in a wobbly chair, feet propped up on the desk and his trusty binoculars in hand. His surroundings were darkening, quicker than they would at his cabin because of the parade of trees towering over the area. He could mostly only see shadows and the outlines of the forest. His paranoia kept him on the lookout, knowing all too well what kind of perilous entities the park harbored, dark secrets he was trusted in keeping.

It was why his body jolted and he nearly fell out of his seat at a sign of movement. His hands itched to drop the binoculars and reunite with the shotgun propped up in the corner. His burst of anxiety was halted, however, once the lenses revealed a person. A wandering, soaked person clearly becoming victim to the thunderstorm that had been periodically easing and worsening for the past two hours.

Stan stood, walking over to the window with his binoculars hanging from the strap around his neck. He easily pried it open and stuck out his head. The drizzle of rain didn't reach him because of the roof stretching out along the perimeter of the watchtower, but he still felt the dip in the temperature. He estimated that it had dropped at least fifteen degrees since the start of the storm, the disappearance of the sun only escalating the drafty change.

He was about to shout down at what is most certainly a woman who had strayed too far from her campsite but then she twisted around, finally noticing the light emitting from up above. Recognization crumbles both of their attentive expressions. She becomes more than a drenched, carmine tank top, huddled body, and ropes of wet hair. He transforms into the exact opposite of a saving grace when his beige uniform and ironically angelic face are perceived.

"Well, well, well. Look who it is. Stalking your ex, eh?" Stan called down to her. The pattern of swift and drawned out words, swirled into a provoking and often mocking Australian accent, reached her ears over the light patter of rainfall.

She sighed, dramatically enough for Stan to see the rise and fall of her diaphragm. She considered turning around and braving the unknown of the wilderness again. If it wasn't for her sore feet and her prediction that she would develop some sort of hyperthermia if she stayed out in the cold, then she would've already been on her way.

"We went out on one date. You don't count as an ex," she clarified, craning her neck up at him. His smirk from knowing she was in a miserable condition and that he was the only one that could do anything about it ignited the first sense of heat she had felt in awhile. Her fists clenched against her crossed arms. "And you're the one with the pervy binoculars. On the prowel for half-naked campers, are you?"

He scoffed, winding his head to the side for a moment. "Enough with the bullshit. Are you coming up or not?"

In any other situation, he probably would've dragged their reunion out, teased her for being so helpless and naive. But she was shivering and looked so small curling into herself; it was a sight that played his heartstrings like a mystical harp. Even after a date gone wrong and the resentment that followed, he couldn't bare to see her like this.

She, on the other hand, still clung to some hesitation. Cozying up in a small, confined space with Stan where there were no other people around to ground her into the realms of sanity wasn't a compelling option. The both of them simply didn't get along. The nightmare of their date was very vivid in her mind, too, and she didn't want tonight to be a repeat of that.

Almost like nature could sense her doubts, thunder crackled and reverberated around the forest. Lightning flashed, incandescent and forbiding. The rain intensified, hitting her bare skin with a harsh force. Muddy shoes stumble forward a few steps but still don't gravitate towards the ladder.

"Better move your ass, sweetheart! Unless you'd prefer to get struck by lightning? Not to mention all the dangerous things lurking around that you haven't the slightest idea about."

Undeniable complacency was weaved into his taunt. However, it did get her moving. If she would've bothered to look up or if there wasn't such vast distance between them from their differing heights, she might've seen the concern nestled into glimmering, cobalt eyes.

Suffering through a climb where her wobbly legs and white knuckles were put the use, she eventually made it to top. Stan already had the latch swung open, bent down in the center of the room and waiting for her with an outstretched arm. Reluctantly, she took his offered hand and allowed him to pull her inside the watchtower.

"Crickey, you're freezing," he murmured. There was a softness to his features and the low timber of his voice. He'd even began rubbing over her fingers with his own, attempting to summon some warmth back into him, before he realized what he was doing and backed away.

"That's what happens when you get lost and separated from your friends and then get caught up in a storm," she summed up, monotonous.

"Your friends are idiots," Stan muttered.

She was about to deter the insults back his way until she suddenly felt a subtle weight on her shoulders. The scent combination of spearmint gum and lingering campfire smoke was sensed with a mere sniffle, and soon her hands were reaching up to pull on the sage green trim of his coat.

"You don't even know them," she settled for saying.

"They let you get lost, didn't they?" Stan's eyes found her wide ones, squinting slightly in familiar anger, but she could tell—this time at least—it wasn't directed towards her. "Yeah, bunch of mates, they are."

It was her turn to break the intimacy blossoming between them. She disconnects their stare that was inevitably going to convey all the unspoken feelings that still flourished inside of her to spare a glance over his shoulder. The furnace filled with a burning stack of dry wood lures her away from Stan, and she kneels down in front of it.

His hands go to his belt, elbows bent outward like he was posing as a chicken. He was unsettled by how consumed he was by his emotions. He wanted to give her space but then he finds himself reaching for her. He wanted to remain civil but the distaste in her tone and her infuriating, unreasonable glare casted towards him causes him to delve into his own hostile urges. The confusion of what to do and how to deal with her presence was boardering on insufferable.

But facing her, watching her beneath the firelight, the strain of his internal compass ebbed. He was no longer directionless or purposeless. The orange glare enducing a riveting shine to her hair and her tranquil countenance she upheld gazing into the flames had him feeling certain in just about every single thing that made the universe, the universe.

"You're staring," she whispers, a tremble in her reply she blames on recovering from the weather.

"And you won't even look over at me for a second." His observation coaxes her into peering at him, finding that he enclosed the distance between them by a few steps. A playful smile twitches across his lips. "What? Don't like a man in uniform?"

"I wouldn't be bragging about your outfit, Stan. You're a glorified Boy Scout," she remarks, rising from her position on her knees. Her thumb and pointer finger pinch the small, golden slate pinned to his shirt. "Even have badges and everything,"

"Get your grubby little hands away from my name tag. You're gonna smudge it," he grumbles, smacking her hand away; she lets out a humorless, short-lived laugh at his overreaction.

"Still an uptight asshole, I see."

"Still a mouthy brat, then?"

His retort makes her face harden. "Being honest doesn't make me a mouthy brat."

"Just inconsiderate?"

"You're preaching to me about being inconsiderate? You live off of ridiculing people. On our date, you insulted and humiliated our waiter because he didn't know the exact species of deer mounted to the wall."

"I was just taking a moment to educate him!"

"You called him a fumbling idiot who didn't know the basic fundamentals of biology!"

"Oh, like you were any better! Shoving your tits into the bartender's face to get free drinks!" He throws his hands up, easily overtaken by frustration and unresolved jealously.

"I know how much you make, Stan. You should be thanking me for that," she says slowly, deliberately, bringing up the one thing she knows will push him over the edge. He takes the bait, but she doesn't expect what he throws back at her.

"You're right. Thank you, sweetheart, for acting like such a slut on our first date that all anyone had to do for dessert was crouch down between your open legs."

Her mouth dropped at his statement. His exasperation dissolves to shock at processing his own harsh comment. He isn't able to focus on it for long, though, because she properly acts by allowing her palm to connect to his cheek.

Head snapped to the side, he can begin to taste a droplet of blood on his tongue, emitting from where his incisor pinched his bottom lip. He licks over the minor wound thoughtfully, heaving out a breath of false amusement. When he looks at her again, his face is dark and full of cruel intentions of revenge.

Stan surges forward and doesn't stop until her body crashes against the wall like she was just a bag of dismantled bones. His coat falls from her shoulders and slumps against the hardwood floor during the journey. His towering height and weight pin her in place, leaving her at the mercy of splayed hands and the relentless motions of his mouth against hers.

The awakening, leftover flavor of gum he must've chewed eariler just sinks in when he bites down hard on her lip. A whimper, the first sound she makes besides the ejection of a surprised gasp, is forced out her from the harsh gesture. A metallic taste replaces the one prior, one eager swipe of his tongue rolling past her parted lips.

The instinct to shoot her hands up and enmesh them in the soft, chestnut strands of his cropped hair is interrupted by an action of his own. He eases the intensity of the kiss, allowing her to breathe through languid, desperate puckers she reciprocates, but his fingers hook around both her bra and tank top straps, yanking them down her arms. She lifts herself out of them only to have him grasp the collar of her shirt and pull it down, her bra in tow, until they were just bundled material around her midriff.

Calloused hands fondled her breasts while his mouth diverts to her neck, sucking and nipping until her skin resembled the colorful patches of a quilt. She throws her head back against the wall, leaning into his touch and letting out the most delicate moans that had all of his blood gushing to the apex of his legs; she felt proof of it when he rutted himself against her.

Her forearms are squeezed between their bodies so she can reach the buttons of his shirt, manicured fingers working hastily and with not as much care she knew Stan would've liked, but he seemed to be too preoccupied by kissing her all over. Soon her hands were tugging up the white t-shirt he always wore underneath his uniform, and he helped her out by shifting it over his head and discarding it to the growing pile of clothes.

His chest was warm and inviting compared to hers. Her skin felt like cool marble underneath his fingertips, keeping her nipples pebbled and sweat from the heated exchange at bay. It was quite a contrast as their bodies continued to press together, her hands sliding along the expanse of his taut back while he concentrated on undoing her shorts.

"All mine," he mumbled against her jaw; it was certainly hard to disagree with him and all his handsy clutches and kisses that left her craving more.

"All yours," she confirmed softly.

The words barely left her mouth before she felt the heart-jolting sensation that was his hand sliding past her unzipped shorts and underwear. His fingers ran up and down down her folds, taking his time, ever the explorer. He often grazed her clit, encouraging her hips to arch into him for more direct contact, but he was careful to only give her a slight, fleeting amount.

"Stan." His name parted from her in a low whine—somewhat shamefully because she never thought she'd be in this circumstance, begging a hardass park ranger with a major superiority complex for a release.

"So wet for me. Awful naughty of you to get this soaked from one arguement with me, don't you think?"

She nuzzled her face into the side of his, nose brushing along his chiseled cheekbone. "Please."

"Aw, look at you. So sweet. You'd never think that you live to slander me."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I am nothing but nice to you."

"Oh?" He inserts his middle finger into her, curling it precisely, while the heel of his hand grinds against her clit with every deliberate pump.

"Yes," she gasps.

Shallow pants gradually rack through her torso, and the ache of his throbbing cock becomes unbearable at the sight of her defenseless against his advances. He adds another finger, the grip and warmth of her slick walls causing him to shudder in anticipation.

"Such a little liar," he groans out after a particularly provocative contraction around his digits, one that rids him of whatever patience he had left.

He abruptly removes his hand from her shorts, something that makes her closed eyes flicker open. Her mouth immediately morphs into a pout and she squeezes his biceps in protest.

She isn't left waiting for long, hands on her hips guiding her away from the wall until the underside of her knees hit the edge of a cot. His mouth parts from hers once more, a sweet dragging of overlapped lips exchanged during the slow steps, so he can pull back the blanket. She looks over her shoulder at the neatly presented cot, which Stan must've brought with him along with his own fitted bedspread. She was now appreciative that he always came prepared.

Without having to be told, she crawled underneath the covers after ridding herself of the remainder of her clothing. Stan did the same once she was settled, becoming the final layer that draped over her body. The blanket and the crisp white of a top sheet stopped at the dimples of his back, and she was trapped in warmth, intensified by the glorious weight of his bare body on hers. Arms on either side of her head latch the cage as he leans down for another kiss.

"Don't mistake me keeping you warm as forgiveness. I'm still very mad at you. You drive me crazy," he sighs against her jaw, his eyelashes fluttering against the apple of her cheek.

"Don't mistake me moaning for you as an apology. You don't deserve one." Her strokes at the nape of his neck never faltered. Her thighs spread, legs winding around his, desperate for him to do something with his cock that laid twitching and swollen on her navel. "Well, you might if you fuck me hard enough."

"Shut up already."

Long fingers brick over her parted mouth in time with the repositioning of his hips, muffling the cries of consumption that came from him sinking inside of her. Eyes roll to the back of her head, almost completely sated by just the feeling of being filled. The head of his shaft glided against her most sensitive spot like a brush of shoulders, and her thighs tightening around his waist was her turning around, ready to chase shattering gratification.

Although slow, his thrusts into her were brutal. They held onto to each other like you would to ropes of a ruinous bridge connecting two cliffs, like they would be faced with a plummeting death if they were to let go. And yet, they were fighting along the wobbly planks, the semicircles of hip bones clashing together like medieval swords. It was all extremes, but neither of them would have it any other way.

He was making the most beautiful sounds above her. Through his ruthless motions, were breathy moans and whines of her name, the occasional praise intertwined into his enticing responses. Eventually, he allowed his hand to stop sealing her lips, sliding it down to clutch the flesh of her thigh with the promise of bruises. Her soft pleas and moans of euphoria joined his to create a symphony worthy of a ballet orchestra.

Strings of saliva conntected rouge lips to the marked skin of his neck, where she continued to suckle and playfully nip. The roll of their bodies picked up speed, both becoming impatient by the delicious ache they kept provoking, daring one another to spasm out of control. They craved for their muscles to become a tightrope and for the most intimate parts of them to pulsate from the finality of release.

"You've never looked prettier than you do right now. Your cunt squeezing me so tight, your mouth only able to form breathless whispers... completely wrecked. I love it."

"Please," she cannot help but beg, flickering eyes undecided on whether to shut her continue their hazy, half-lidded stare into his own.

"You want to come?" The inward pull of his eyebrows and the slight curl of his parted mouth way as well have been a mocking pout. "I know you do. I shouldn't even let you, though. You've been intolerable. I should just come all over your writhing body and leave you here without any satisfaction. Even if you were to finish yourself off, it wouldn't be enough. It would only feel subpar, and you know that, don't you?" His breath fans her face like the furnace had moments ago, and she can only whimper in reply. "Only I can sate you, sweetheart."

Her hands, whose nails had already inflicted damage to the freckled canvas of his back, sweep over his shoulders to cup his jaw. Her thumb strokes his jawline while the other ventures down the column of his throat, feeling the bob of his adam's apple with every constristing swallow he took. She could tell he was close, too, and decided to nod her head gently in agreement to his words, to wave her white flag.

Her surrender is reassured by fingertips dragging down her torso to her enlarged clit, granting bone-vanishing swipes that causes stuttered gasps and limbs going slack. It only takes a few seconds of coaxing rubbing for her release to erupt, the molten lava bursting from the pit of her stomach to electrify just about every nerve in her body. Her encompassing walls clutch around him so tightly that it summons a delirious climax from him.

His strenuous pace wavers, his hold on the cot becoming prudent, as if it was a buoy keeping him afloat through the thrashing waves of pleasure. White, sticky ribbons coat the inside of her thighs, and it's only when his heartbeat ebbs from his eardrums that he cracks his eyes open and collaspes into the small remaining space between her and the wall.

Stan speaks after catching his breath, remaining pants interwoven into his declaration. "This should've happened sooner."

"It would've if you weren't such a prick," she noted, sparing him a quick glance.

"Okay, maybe... I wasn't on my best behavior. But I was nervous. I liked you a lot. I wanted to impress you."

"And you thought bragging about how you're a know-it-all when it comes to plants and wildlife and the park's terrain was going to the trick?"She questioned, snorting at his logic. His nose twitch, an indicator of embarrassment, and she grabs his arm and tucks herself into his side. "You're such a dork."

He smiled at the gesture before she continued, "I'm sorry that I flirted with the bartender. I didn't mean to make you feel like you were second best or anything. Honest to God, I just wanted free stuff."

"Well, the cream puffs you got out of it were actually delicious," Stan admitted, tilting his head in her direction.

She smiled back at him. "I know, right?"

Stan may not be a prime example of a good guy but he had always took glory in being good at his job. That's what kept him going, that's what fueled him all these years. Now, he was considering what life entailed outside of that. Outside of the stressful responsibilities and government conspiracies and the never-ending studious tendencies. She came to him for refuge tonight, but, the truth is, he had been relying on her for a long time. To fascinate him, to stand up to him, to guide him back to where he belonged.

He felt like he was finally pursuing something that was more important than his duties here, than anything else he's ever experienced. He was an off-bound ship, cruising blind into the dead of the night, and she was a lighthouse, promising purpose and salvation from every bad thing that ever tried to sink him.

// idk who to tag but i think @sojournmichael @fckinsupreme & @instinctsxbaby might be interested (you’re all so talented)!

[omentrash]

🩸🌲Stan Vogel🌲🩸

He lurks among the trees now. A bloody forest guardian, haunting anyone who should be foolish enough to disrespect Kern Canyon.

And when he comes, the flesh eaters aren’t far behind.

(Basically, I can’t let characters die so I create ideas on how they can appear again and sometimes I draw them.)

[derlift]

61 Fenster für das Solothurner Kunstschaffen Nr. 15 – Luzia Klossner

Aus Anlass der 37. Kantonalen Jahresausstellung der Solothurner Künstler*innen im Kunstmuseum Olten stellen wir Ihnen die beteiligten Kunstschaffenden und ihre Exponate vor.

Die Jahresausstellung der Solothurner Kunstschaffenden findet abwechselnd in Olten und Solothurn statt. 2021 wird sie vom Kunstverein Olten im Kunstmuseum Olten ausgerichtet.

Die Ausstellung gibt Einblick in die vielgestaltige und lebendige Solothurner Kunstszene und bietet eine wichtige Plattform für den Austausch mit und zwischen den Kunstschaffenden der Region.

Luzia Klossner Landscape Model for Daily Use

Das Werk Luzia Klossners (*1996) erstreckt sich mittig über dem Boden des letzten Ausstellungsraumes im Erdgeschoss.

Abb. 2 Luzia Klossner: Landscape Model for Daily Use, 2021 Mixed Media, Installation, 200 x 250 x 20 cm Ausstellungsansicht Kunstmuseum Olten, 2021 37. Jahresausstellung der Solothurner Kunstschaffenden mit Werken von Luzia Klossner, Mathias Huber (links) und Maja Rieder (rechts) Foto Kaspar Ruoff © Künstlerin

Die 6 Tonobjekte und unterschiedliche Schaumstoffmatten verschmelzen zu einer fremdartigen Landschaft aus gegensätzlichen Elementen. Runde organische Formen stellen sich gegen die harten dicken und dünnen Kanten der Matten. Harmonieren die hellgrauen Gegenstände mit den violetten und zartfliederfarbenen Nuancen des Kunststoffes, so stehen die erdigen Terracottatöne der anderen Objekte wiederum im Kontrast dazu.

Dadurch, dass wir die Installation als Betrachtende umrunden können, erhält sie weitere Lebendigkeit. Schattenwürfe werden sichtbar, und je stärker der Blick die Formen des Gebildes abtastet, desto deutlicher treten Assoziation hervor. Hier ein Canyon, da Fabriktürme, eine Vase, Iglu, Moschee, und ist das etwa eine Anlehnung an eine Betonkirche, wie diejenige von Carsten Schröck?

Abb. 3–6 Luzia Klossner: Landscape Model for Daily Use, 2021 Mixed Media, Installation, 200 x 250 x 20 cm Foto + © Künstlerin

Das menschliche Gehirn ist bemüht, ein möglichst schlüssiges, auf seine visuellen, ästhetischen, kulturellen und soziologischen Erfahrungen beruhendes Bild der Welt zu liefern. Eine Erkenntnis, welche die Ausgangsposition zu Klossners künstlerischer Arbeit liefert. Sie selbst schreibt: «Ich setzte Zeichen, die den Betrachtenden das Gefühl geben, etwas zu erkennen. Durch die Verschiebung von Funktions- und Anwendungsmuster ergeben sich Objekte, die unterschiedliche Assoziationen ermöglichen und dadurch Sehgewohnheiten offen legen.»

Abb. 7 Luzia Klossner: Landscape Model for Daily Use (Detail), 2021 Mixed Media, Installation, 200 x 250 x 20 cm Foto + © Künstlerin

Der Titel «Landscape Model for Daily Use» hat sowohl eine deskriptive Komponente als auch einen verweisenden Charakter. Mit diesem Modell greift die Künstlerin auf ein beliebtes Verfahren der Bildenden Kunst zurück, welches die Kraft besitzt, die wahre Natur, sprich die schwer erfassbare Realität, vielschichtig erfahrbar zu machen. (vlg. Sabine Vogel)

Biographisches

Die Werke der gebürtigen Baselerin Luzia Klossner (*1996) bewegen sich auf der Bruchkante zwischen Kunst und Design. Aus dem Bereich des Objektdesigns kommend merkte sie schon bald, dass Ihr Interesse über die Ästhetik und Funktionalität von Gegenständen hinaus reicht. In Ihren Werke hinterfragt Klossner die gesellschaftlichen Konventionen, die mit alltäglichen Objekten in Verbindung stehen und spielt mit der Grenze ihrer Lesbarkeit.

Luzia Klossner schloss in diesem Jahr ihren Bachelor of Arts in Kunst und Design an der HSLU in Luzern ab. Seit 2018 ist die junge Künstlerin schweizweit in diversen Gruppenausstellungen vertreten.

Fragen an Luzia

Alle in der Jahresausstellung vertretenen Künstler*innen haben wir gebeten, uns dieselben sieben Fragen zu beantworten. Auf diese Weise möchten wir – im O-Ton – mehr über ihr jeweiliges Selbstverständnis, ihre Arbeitsweise und ihre Inspirationsquellen erfahren:

Warum bist Du Künstler*in geworden?

LK: Ich bin mehr oder weniger zufällig zur Kunst gekommen. An der Hochschule Luzern hatte ich mich anfangs für den Studiengang Objektdesign eingeschrieben. Nach dem ersten Studienjahr habe ich mich dann entschlossen, in den Studiengang Kunst+ zu wechseln. Angezogen hat mich die selbständige Art zu arbeiten und das freie Experimentieren mit Ideen, Materialien und Präsentationsformen.

Handwerk und Design sind noch immer Themen, die meine künstlerische Arbeit stark prägen. Im Studium schärfte ich meinen Blick für die Bedeutung der Beziehung zwischen Mensch und Objekt. Die Betrachtung im Kontext der Kunst machte mir bewusst, wie viele Codes wir im Unterbewussten entschlüsseln, bevor wir ein Objekt gebrauchen. Die Tatsache, dass unser Körper vierundzwanzig Stunden am Tag und in allen Lebenslagen von Objekten unterstützt wird, und wir uns dennoch selten mit deren Bedeutung und Wirkung beschäftigen, beeindruckt mich. Ich bin der Meinung, dass wir unsere enge Bindung zu den Gegenständen dazu nutzen sollten, um kritisch zu hinterfragen wie wir leben und wonach wir streben.

Wie definierst Du Kunst?

Für mich ist Kunst anzufertigen oder zu betrachten eine Methode um zu denken, die Dinge zu reflektieren, nicht nur auf intellektueller, sondern auch auf emotionaler und körperlicher Ebene.

Welchen Ort hat die Kunst in der Gesellschaft?

Obwohl Kunst so unumgänglich zu unserem Alltag gehört, in dem sie gesellschaftliche Debatten aufgreift und dadurch Platz schafft für Auseinandersetzungen, ist der Begriff für viele etwas ausserhalb ihrer Wohlfühlzone. Das liegt meiner Meinung nach daran, dass unter anderem die Meinung vorherrscht, es gäbe ein richtig und falsch bei der Betrachtung von Kunst. Das konnte ich oft in Gesprächen mit meiner Familie oder Freunden beobachten. Die Angst davor, etwas falsch zu verstehen, hält dann davon ab, sich wirklich auf ein Kunstwerk einzulassen. Ich denke, das ist einer von vielen Gründen, weshalb ein Teil der Gesellschaft die Relevanz von Kunst nicht wirklich nachvollziehen kann.

Gibt es eine/n ideale/n Betrachter/in für Deine Werke?

Ich freue mich über jeden, der sich die Zeit nimmt, mein Werk zu betrachten und sich damit auseinander zu setzen. Ich sehe es als meine Aufgabe in meinem Werk Anhaltspunkte zu setzen, die vom Betrachtenden gedeutet und verknüpft werden können.

Wo arbeitest Du? Wie sieht Dein Arbeitsort / Atelier aus?

Vor kurzem bin ich in ein Gemeinschaftsatelier gezogen, das zum Stellwerk Basel gehört, hier arbeite ich mit 5 weiteren Kunst- und Kulturschaffenden. Mein Arbeitsplatz ist meistens gut strukturiert und ordentlich, so behalte ich den Überblick über Skizzen und Materialversuche.

Abb. 8 Atelier Luzia Klossner Foto + © Künstlerin

Abbildungen

Abb. 1 Luzia Klossner (*1996) Landscape Model for Daily Use, 2021 Mixed Media, Installation, 200 x 250 x 20 cm Ausstellungsansicht Kunstmuseum Olten, 2021 37. Jahresausstellung der Solothurner Kunstschaffenden Foto Kaspar Ruoff © Künstlerin

Abb. 2–10 Siehe Legenden unter den Abbildungen.

…

Ein Beitrag von Rani Magnani, Kunsthistorikerin Praktikantin Kunstmuseum Olten

Redaktion: Katja Herlach Kuratorin Kunstmuseum Olten

Veröffentlicht am 26.1.2022

[dustedmagazine]

Dust, Volume 7, Number 7

What are Grandbrothers doing to that piano?

Greetings from under the heat dome, where shipments of vinyl are melting mid-journey and even the coolest of cool jazz sounds a little wilted by the time it reaches your ear. We are sitting in the shade. We are drinking lemonade and iced tea. We are looking for the window fans and lugging old air condition units up from the basement. We are, perhaps, headed to the community pool for the first time since our kids were young, though also, perhaps not. In any case, we are still getting through piles of recorded music, even in this heat, and finding some gems. Here are dispatches from the furthest reaches of Japanese psych, European free jazz, self-released indie folk, Irish lockdown angst, Moroccan raging punk and lots of other stuff. Contributors included Mason Jones, Jennifer Kelly, Bill Meyer, Tim Clarke, Bryon Hayes, Jonathan Shaw, Arthur Krumins and Chris Liberato. Stay cool.

Yuko Araki — End of Trilogy (Room40)

End Of Trilogy by Yuko Araki

These 16 tracks whoosh past in just 35 minutes, with most of them clocking in around two minutes in length. Many don't reach a conclusion: they simply end abruptly, and the next one starts. Araki manipulates electronics to create whirling, sizzling atmospheres of confusion, sometimes fast-moving burbles of percussion and synths, at other moments pushing distorted hissing and confrontational tones to the front. The aptly-named "Dazed" begins with a cinematic feel, then its galactic drones give way to static and metallic scrapes. "Positron in Bloom" is like a chorus of machine voices shouting angry curses into space, and "Dreaming Insects" sounds as if the titular creatures are being pulled downstream in fast-moving rapids. Oscillating between menacing and humorous, End of Trilogy's bite-sized pieces of surrealist electronics are never boring.

Mason Jones

 Alexander Biggs — Hit or Miss (Native Tongue Music Publishing)

Hit or Miss by Alexander Biggs

Alexander Biggs blunts sharp, stinging lyrics in the sweetest sort of strummy indie-pop, working very much in the Elliott Smith style of sincerity edged with lacerating irony. “All I Can Do Is Hate You” finds a queasy intersection between soft pop and tamped down rage, Biggs murmuring phrases like “I want you to fuck me til I can’t say your name,” but melodically, over cascades of acoustic guitar. “Madeline” is the pick of the litter here, a dawdling jangle of guitar framing knife-sharp lyrics about romantic disillusionment. “Miserable,” sports a bit of lap steel for emotional resonance, demonstrating once more, if you had any doubt, that very sad songs can make you feel better somehow. Biggs is good at both the softness and the sting, and for guy-with-a-guitar albums, that’s what you need.

Jennifer Kelly

 Christer Bothén 3 — Omen (Bocian)

Omen by Christer Bothén 3

Dusted’s collective consciousness has spent a lot of time considering Blank Forms’ recent publication, Organic Music Societies, which considers Don and Moki Cherry’s convergence of artistic and familial efforts during the 1960s and 1970s, as well as the two archival recordings by Don and associates, which shed light upon his Scandinavian musical activities. All three are worth your attention, but their liveliness is shaded by the awareness that almost every hopeful soul involved is no longer with us. But Christer Bothén, who introduced Don to the donso ngoni and subsequently played in his bands for many years, is not only among the living, he’s got breath to spare. This trio recording doesn’t delve into the African sounds that bonded Bothén and Don. Rather, the Swede’s bass clarinet draws bold and emphatically punctuated melodic lines, driven by a steaming rhythm section that takes its cues from Ornette Coleman’s mid-1960s trio recordings. This music may not sound new, but it’s full of lived-in knowledge and vigor.

Bill Meyer

Briars of North America — Supermoon (Brassland)

Supermoon by Briars of North America

New York-based trio Briars of North America take patient, painterly, occasionally cosmic approach to folk music. With “Sala,” Supermoon sounds like a backwoods Sigur Ros. A falsetto voice intoning a made-up language arcs elegantly over sustained waves of electric piano. Soon after, the album touches down into more grounded guitar-and-cello territory on pieces such as “Island” and “Chirping Birds,” which bring to mind Nick Drake, albeit less contrary or withdrawn. At the album’s midway point, the listener is carried into the aether with the eerie sustained brass and wordless vocals of the eight-minute “The Albatross of Infinite Regress.” A similar space is explored at the album’s end with the 12-minute “Sleepy Not Sleepy,” as strings and warbling synthesizer tones intermingle with the return of the made-up language. Though the band’s more conventional vocal-led songs, such as “Spring Moon,” are decent enough, Briars of North America touch upon something expansive and ineffable when they explore their more experimental side.

Tim Clarke

 Bryan Away — Canyons to Sawdust (self-released)

Chicago-based actor, composer and multi-instrumentalist Elliot Korte releases music under the moniker Bryan Away. His new album, Canyons to Sawdust, begins with what feels like two introductions. “Well Alright Then” is a Grizzly Bear-style scene-setter for wordless voices, strings and woodwinds, while “Within Reach” sounds like a tentative cover of Radiohead’s “Pyramid Song” that runs out of steam before it had the chance to build momentum. The first full song, single “The Lake,” gets the album up and running in earnest with its melancholy piano and string arrangement spiked with pizzicato plucks and bright acoustic guitar figures. Half Waif lends her vocal talents to “Dreams and Circumstance,” another highlight featuring some lovely interplay between guitar arpeggios and drum machine. One pitfall of exploring romantic musical territory is the risk of sounding a tad saccharine, and the weakest links in the album, companion tracks “Scenes From a Marriage” and “Scenes From a Wedding,” have the kind of performative tone you’d expect to find on the soundtrack of a mainstream romantic comedy. Elsewhere, though, Korte’s judgment is sound, and there’s plenty of elegant music to be found. Fans of Sufjan Stevens will no doubt find a lot to like, and it’ll be interesting to see where Bryan Away ventures next.

Tim Clarke

 Jonas Cambien Trio — Nature Hath Painted Painted The Body (Clean Feed)

Nature Hath Painted the Body by Jonas Cambien Trio

On its third album, the Jonas Cambien Trio has attained such confidence that it’s willing to mess with its signature sound. The Oslo-based combo’s fundamental approach is to stuff the expressive energy and textural adventure of free jazz into compositions that are by turns intricate and rhythmically insistent but always pithy. This time, the Belgian-born pianist Cambien also plays soprano sax and organ. The former, stirred into André Roligheten’s bundle of reed instruments, brings airy respite from the music’s tight structures; the latter, dubbed into locked formation with the piano and jostled by Andreas Wildhagen’s restlessly perambulating percussion, expands the music’s tonal colors. The tunes themselves have grown more catchy, so much so that their twists and turns only become apparent with time and repeat listening.

Bill Meyer

Ferran Fages / Lluïsa Espigolé — From Grey To Blue (Inexhaustible Editions)

From Grey To Blue by Ferran Fages

When discussion turns to a pianist’s touch, it’s tempting to think mainly of what they do with their fingers. But it must be said that Lluïsa Espigolé exhibits some next-level footwork on this realization of Ferran Fages’ From Grey To Blue. Fages is a multi-instrumentalist who functions equally persuasively within the realms of electroacoustic improvisation and heavy jazz-rock, but for this piece, which was devised specifically for Espigolé, he uses written music and an instrument he doesn’t play, the piano, to engage with resonance and melody. The three-part composition advances with extreme deliberation, often one note at a time, turning the tune into a ghostly presence and foregrounding the details of the decay of each sound. This music is so sparse that the shift to chords in the third section feels dramatically dense after a half hour of single sounds and corresponding silences. The elements of this music have been sculpted with such exquisite control that one wonders if Catalonia has looked into insuring Espigolé’s feet; her way with the piano’s pedals is a cultural resource.

Bill Meyer   

 Grandbrothers — All the Unknown (City Slang)

All the Unknown by Grandbrothers

The duo known as Grandbrothers hooks a grand piano up to an array of electronic interfaces, deriving not just the clear, gorgeous notes you expect, but also a variety of percussive and sustained sounds from the classic keyboard. In this third album from the two—that’s pianist Erol Sarp and electronic engineer Lukas Vogel—construct intricate, joyful collages, working clarion melodies into sharp, pointillist backgrounds. The obvious reference is Hauscka, who also works with prepared piano and electronics, but rather than his moody beauties, these compositions pulse with rave-y, trance-y exhilaration. If you ever wondered what it would sound like if the Fuck Buttons decided to cover Steve Reich, well, maybe like this, precise and complex and shimmering, but also huge and triumphant. Good stuff.

Jennifer Kelly

 id m theft able — Well I Fell in Love with the Eye at the Bottom of the Well (Pogus Productions)

Well I Fell in Love With the Eye at the Bottom of the Well by id m theft able

Al Margolis’ Pogus Productions imprint has cast its gaze toward the strange happenings in Maine, netting a mutant form of electroacoustic wizardry in the process. Scott Spear is the one-man maelstrom known as id m theft able, an incredibly prolific and confounding presence in the American northeast. He draws influence from musique concrète and sound poetry, but adds a whimsical spirit, a tinker’s ingenuity and the comedic timing of a master prankster to his compositions. Sometimes this leads to the bemusement of his audience, but he tempers any surface madness with an endless curiosity and a playful sense of the meaning of the word music. Well I Fell in Love with the Eye at the Bottom of the Well ostensibly came to be via Spear’s desire to create a doo-wop tune. Only Spear himself knows whether this is fact or fiction, because it is clear from the opening moments of “Shun, Unshun and Shun” that this disc is full of sonic non-sequiturs, amplified clatter and delightful mouth happenings that are as far removed from doo-wop as possible. The madness is frequently tempered with beautiful moments: a broken music box serenades a flock of chirping birds in the middle of a mall, Spear hypnotically chants at a landscape of crickets, flutes pipe along to the patter of rain on a window. As one gets deeper into the record, the sound poetry aspects become more and more pronounced, such as on “The Curve of the Earth” and the closing piece, “Purple Rain.” Those seeking a humor-filled gateway drug into that somewhat perilous corner of the sonic spectrum would be wise to pop an ear in the direction of this frenetic assemblage of sound.

Bryon Hayes

Mia Joy — Spirit Tamer (Fire Talk)

Spirit Tamer by Mia Joy

Mia Joy turns the temperature way down on gauzy Spirit Tamer, constructing translucent castles in the air out of musical elements that you can see and hear right through. The artist, known in real life as Mia Rocha, opens with a brief statement of intent in a one-minute title track that wraps wisps of vocal melody with indistinct but lovely sustained tones. The whole track feels like looking at clouds. Other cuts are more substantial, with muted rock band instruments like acoustic and electric guitars and drum machines, but even indie-leaning “Freak” and "Ye Old Man,” are quiet epiphanies. Rocha sounds like she is singing to herself softly, inwardly, without any thought of an audience, but also so close that it tickles the hair in your ears. Rocha closes with a cover of Arthur Russell’s “Our Last Night Together,” letting rich swells of piano stand in for cello, but tracing the subtle, undulating lines of his melody in an airy register, an octave or two higher. Like Russell, Rocha sets up an interesting interplay between deep introversion and presentation for the public eye; she’s not doing it for us, but we’re listening anyway.

Jennifer Kelly  

 Know//Suffer — The Great Dying (Silent Pendulum Records)

The Great Dying by KNOW//SUFFER

It’s not inaccurate to describe The Great Dying as a hardcore record. You’ll hear all the burly breakdowns; buzzing, overdriven guitars; and grimly declaimed vocals that characterize the genre, which since the mid-1990s has moved ever closer to metal. But Know//Suffer have consistently infused their music with sonic elements associated with other genres of heavy music. Most of the El Paso band’s 2019 EP bashed and crashed along with grindcore’s psychotic, sprinting energy. The Great Dying is a longer record, and it slows down the proceedings considerably. There are flirtations with sludge, and even with noise rock’s ambivalent gestures toward melody: imagine Tad throwing down with a mostly-sober version of Eyehategod, and you’re more than halfway there. As ever, Toast Williams emotes forcefully, giving word to a very contemporary version existential dread. But there’s frequently a political edge to the lyrics on this new record. On “Thumbnail,” he sings, “I swallow what must be hidden / Hoping assimilation makes me whole / The whole that everyone thinks I am / Smiling under this mask knowing / I’m not hiding my face in public.” “Assimilation” is a loaded word, especially on the Southern Border, and it’s no joke walking around in public as a proud black man anywhere in Texas. Wearing a mask as you walk into Target? P.O.C. stand a chance of getting shot. Know//Suffer still sound really pissed off, but the objects of their anger seem increasing outside of their tortured psyches, located in the lifeworld’s social planes of struggle. That gives their grim music an even harder charge, and makes Williams’s performances of rage even more powerful.  

Jonathan Shaw  

 Heimito Künst — Heimito Künst (Dissipatio)

HEIMITO KÜNST by Heimito Künst

The debut album from Italian experimental instrumentalist Heimito Künst, recorded over several years in his home studio, uses an array of electronic and primitive instrumentation to create an overall woozy, dark atmosphere. From groaning, atonal slabs of organ, like a detuned church service, to murmuring field recordings and scrapings, these seven tracks are less like songs and more like unsettling journeys through sound. Pieces like "Talking to Ulises" blend quiet Farfisa tones and a wordlessly singing voice in the distance. Ironically, although the final track is titled "Smoldering Life", it's unexpectedly brighter, with major-key synth notes over the cloudy sound of a drum being bashed to pieces before ending with an almost gentle, summertime feel.

Mason Jones

Jeanne Lee — Conspiracy (moved-by-sound)

Conspiracy by JEANNE LEE

Lots of 1960s and 1970s jazz reissues offer beautiful music, but few redefine how liberating improvised music can be. Conspiracy, originally recorded in 1974 by Lee on vocals with an ensemble that includes Sam Rivers and Gunter Hampel, falls into the latter category without feeling forced. It combines sound poetry, the conversation of spontaneity, and grooves that don’t stay on repetition but still get ingrained into your brain somehow. Best digested in a contemplative sitting, the album demands you give your whole attention to the direction of the music and words mixed with extended vocal techniques. The sound shifts from a full-on medley of flutes, drums, bass and horns with voice, to more minimal experiments. The recording is clean and uncluttered, even at its busiest. A lushly enjoyable listen.

Arthur Krumins   

 Sarah Neufeld — Detritus (Paper Bag)

Detritus by Sarah Neufeld

Sarah Neufeld’s third solo album grew out of a collaboration with the Toronto choreographer Peggy Baker, begun before the pandemic but dealing anyway with loss, intimacy and grief. The violinist and composer works, as a consequence with a strong sense of movement, underlining rhythms with repeated, slashing motifs in her own instrument and pounding drums (that’s Jeremy Gara, who, like Neufeld, plays in Arcade Fire). You can imagine movement to nearly all these songs. “With Love and Blindness” rushes forward in a wild swirl of strings, given weight by the buzz of low-toned synthesizer and airiness in the layer of denatured vocals; you see whirling, bending, graceful gestures. “The Top” proceeds in quicker, more playful patterns; agile kicks and jumps and shimmies are implied in its contours. “Tumble Down the Undecided” has a raw, passionate undertow, its play of octave-separated notes frantic and agitated and the drumming, when it comes, fairly gallops. This latter track is perhaps the most enveloping, the notes caroming wildly in all directions, in the thick of the struggle but full of joy.

Jennifer Kelly

Aaron Novik — Grounded (Astral Editions)

Grounded by Aaron Novik

Aaron Novik is a clarinetist with an extensive background in jazz, klezmer, rock and in-between stuff, but you wouldn’t know any of that from listening to this tape. Its ten numbered instrumentals sound more derived from the sound worlds of 1970s PBS documentaries, Residents records of similar vintage, and Pop Corn’s fluke hit, “Pop Corn.” Recorded during the spring of 2020, when Novik’s new neighborhood, Queens, became NYC’s COVID central, it manifests coping strategy that many people learned well last year; when the outside world is fucked and scary, retreat to a room and then head down a rabbit hole. In this case, that meant sampling Novik’s clarinets and arranging them into perky, bobbing instrumentals. The sounds themselves aren’t processed, but it turns out that when recontextualized, long, blown tones and keypad clatter sound a lot like synths and mechanized beats. There’s a hint of subconscious longing in this music. While it was made in a time and place when many people didn’t leave the house, it sounds like just the thing for outdoor constitutionals with a Walkman.

Bill Meyer  

 Off Peak Arson — S-T (Self-released)

Self Titled by Off Peak Arson

Presumably named after the Truman's Water song — a fairly obscure name check, indeed — Off Peak Arson hail from Memphis, TN. Their debut EP's five songs are less reminiscent of their namesakes than of heavier, noisier bands like Zedek-era Live Skull, Dustdevils and Sonic Youth. Which is not a bad thing at all. The four-piece leverage the dual guitars to nicely intense effect, and with all four members contributing vocals there's a lot going on, at times blending an interesting sing-song pop feel with the twisty-noisy guitar. The band have a way of finding memorable hooks amidst sufficient cacophony to keep things challenging while also somehow catchy. Keep your ears open for more from this quartet.

Mason Jones

 Barre Phillips / John Butcher / Ståle Liavik Solberg — We Met – And Then (Relative Pitch)

We met - and then by Phillips, Butcher, Solberg

In 2018, ECM Records issued End To End, a CD by double bassist Barre Phillips which capped a half-century of solo recording. You might expect this act to signal the winding down of the California-born, France-based improviser’s career; after all, he was born in 1934. And yet, in 2018 he played the first, but not the last, concert by this remarkable trio, which is completed by British soprano/tenor saxophonist John Butcher and Norwegian percussionist Ståle Liavik Solberg. Recorded in Germany and Norway during 2018 and 2019, this CD presents an ensemble whose members are strong in their individual concepts, but are also committed to making music that is completed by acts of collective imagination. The music is in constant flux, but purposeful. This intentionality is expressed not only through action, but through the conscious yielding of space, as though each player knows what openings will be best occupied by one of their comrades.

Bill Meyer

Round Eye — Culture Shock Treatment (Paper +Plastick)

“Culture Shock Treatment,” the lead-off track from this unhinged and ecletic album, swings like 1950s rock and roll, a sax frolicking in the spaces between sing-along choruses. And yet, the gleeful skronk goes a little past freewheeling, spinning off into chaos and wheeling back in again. Picture Mark Sultan trying to ride out the existential disorder of early Pere Ubu, add a horn line and step way back, because this is extremely unruly stuff. Round Eye, a band of expatriates now living in Shanghai, slings American heartlands oddball post-punk into unlikely corners. Frantic jackhammer hardcore beats (think Black Flag) assault free-from experimental calls and responses (maybe Curlew?) in “5000 Miles, “ and as a kicker, it’s a commentary on ethno-nationalist repression (“Thank…the country. Thank…the culture”). “I Am the Foreigner” hums and buzzes with exuberance, like a hard-edged B-52s, but it’s about the alienation that these Westerners most likely experience, every day in the Middle Kingdom. This is one busy album, exhausting really, a whac-a-mole entertainment where things keep popping out of holes and getting hammered back, but it is never, ever dull.

Jennifer Kelly

 So Cow — Bisignis (Dandy Boy)

Bisignis by So Cow

This new So Cow record is a mood. Specifically, that mood during the third and “least fun” of Ireland’s lockdowns, when you head to your shed and bash out an album about everything that’s been lodged in your craw during a year of isolation — including, of all things, the crowd at a Martha Wainwright show (on “Requests”). And while sole Cow member Brian Kelly might have dubbed the record Bisignis, the Old English word for anxiety, it’s his discontent that takes center stage. “Talking politics with friends/Jesus Christ it never ends” Kelly sings on early highlight “Leave Group” before employing a guitar solo that could pass for some seriously fried bagpipes to help clear the room. This album takes the opposite approach of The Long Con, the project’s 2014 Goner Records one-off where So Cow made more complex moves towards XTC and Futureheads territory but obscured its greatest weapon: Kelly’s deadpan wit. And while a couple of these songs overstay their welcome with their sheer garage punk simplicity, others like “Somewhere Fast�� work in the opposite way and win your ears over with repeat listens. “You are the reason I’m getting out of my own way,” Kelly sings, and in doing so has produced the project’s best full-length in a decade. So what? So Cow!

Chris Liberato 

 Taqbir — Victory Belongs to Those Who Fight for a Right Cause (La Vida Es Un Mus)

Victory Belongs To Those Who Fight For A Right Cause by Taqbir

In our super-saturated musical environment, another eight-minute, 7” record of scorching punk burners isn’t much of an event. But the appearance of Taqbir’s Victory Belongs to Those Who Fight for a Right Cause (the title is almost longer than the record itself) is at the very least a significant occurrence. The band comes from Morocco and features a woman out front, declaiming any number of contemporary socio-political ills. So there’s little wonder that the Internet isn’t bursting with info about Taqbir; you can find a Maximumrocknroll interview, some chatter about the record here and there, and not much else. It must take enormous courage to make music like this in Morocco, and even more to be a woman making music like this. The long reign of King Mohammed IV has edged the country toward marginal increments of cultural openness — if not thoroughgoing political reform — but conservative Islam and economic struggle are still dominant forces, combining to keep women relegated to submissive social roles. And the band is not fucking around: their name is a Moroccan battle cry, synonymous with “Alu Akbar!” Their repurposing of that slogan in support of their anti-traditionalist, anti-religious, anti-capitalist positions likely makes life in a place like Tangier or Casablanca pretty hard. The songs? They’re really good. Check out “Aisha Qandisha” (named for a folkloric phantasm that ambiguously mobilizes the feminine as murderous and rapacious monster): the music slashes and burns with just the right dash of melody, the vocals go from a simmer to a full-on rolling boil. Taqbir! y’all. Stay safe, stay strong and make some more records.

Jonathan Shaw

 TOMÁ — Atom (Self-Release)

Atom by TOMÁ

Tomá Ivanov operates in interstices between smooth jazz and soul-infused electronics, splicing bits of torchy world traditions in through the addition of singers. You could certainly draw connections to the funk-leaning IDM of artists like Flying Lotus and Dam-Funk, where pristine instrumental sounds—strings, piano, percussion—meet the pop and glitch of cyber-soul. Guest artists flavor about half the tracks, pushing the music slightly off its center towards rap (“A Different You featuring I Am Tim”), quiet storm soul (“Outsight featuring Vivian Toebich”), falsetto’d art pop (“Catharsis featuring Lou Asril”) or dreaming soul-jazz experiments (“Blind War featuring Ben LaMar Gay”). Thoughout, the Bulgarian composer and guitarist paces expansive ambiences with shuffling, staggering beats, roughing up slick surfaces with just enough friction to keep things interesting.

Jennifer Kelly  

 The Tubs — Names EP (Trouble In Mind)

Names EP by The Tubs

“I don’t know how it works” declared The Tubs on their debut single, but they’re diving right in anyways on its follow-up, Names, with four songs that explore the self and self-other relationship. Their cover of Felt’s “Crystal Ball” tightens the musical tension of the original in places but still allows enough slack for singer Owen Williams to stretch the lyrical refrain — about the ability of another to see us better than we see ourselves — into a more melancholy shape than Lawrence. Of the EP’s three originals, Felt’s influence is most obvious in George Nicholls’ guitar work on “Illusion,” especially when the change comes and his lead spirals off Deebank-style behind Williams while he questions his connection to his own reflection. “Is it just an illusion staring back at me?” “The Name Song” is the longest one here at over three minutes, and in a similar way to The Feelies, it feels like it could go on forever, which might prove useful if Williams adds more names to his don’t-care-about list. “Two Person Love” is the best track of the bunch, though, with its classic sounding riff that swoops in and out allowing room for the chiming and chugging rhythm section to do the hard work. The relationship in the song might have been “pissed up the wall,” as Williams in his Richard Thompson-esque drawl puts it, but The Tubs certainly seem to have figured out how this music thing works.

Chris Liberato

 Venus Furs — S-T (Silk Screaming)

Venus Furs by Venus Furs

Venus Furs sounds like band, but in fact, it’s one guy, Paul Krasner, somehow amassing the squalling roar of psychedelic guitar rock a la Brian Jonestown Massacre or Royal Baths all by himself. These songs have a large-scale swagger and layers and layers of effected guitars, as on the careening “Friendly Fire,” or hailstorm assault of “Paranoia.” A ponderous, swaying bass riff girds “Living in Constant.” Its nodding repetition grounds radiating sprays of surf guitar. You have to wonder how all this would play out in concert, with Krasner running from front mic to bass amp to drum kit as the songs unfold, but on record it sounds pretty good. Long live self-sufficiency.

Jennifer Kelly

 Witch Vomit — Abhorrent Rapture (20 Buck Spin)

Abhorrent Rapture by Witch Vomit

Witch Vomit has one of the best names in contemporary death metal (along with Casket Huffer, Wharflurch and Snorlax — perversely inspired handles, all), and the Portland-based band has been earning increasing accolades for its records, as well. They are deserved. Witch Vomit plays fast, dense and dissonant songs, bearing the impress of Incantation’s groundbreaking (gravedigging?) records. Does that mean it’s “old school”? Song titles from the band’s previous LP Buried Deep in a Bottomless Grave (2019) certainly played to traditionalists’ tastes: “From Rotten Guts,” “Dripping Tombs,” “Fumes of Dying Bodies.” And so on. This new EP doesn’t indicate any significant changes in trajectory or tone, but the songwriting makes the occasional move toward melody. See especially the second half of “Necrometamorphosis,” which has a riff or two that one could almost call “pleasant.” If that seems paradoxical, check out the EP’s title. Is that an event, a gruesome skewing of Christianity’s big prize for the faithful? Or is it an affective state, in which abject disgust somehow builds to ecstatic transport? Who knows. For the band’s part, Witch Vomit keeps chugging, thumping and squelching along, doling out doleful songs like “Purulent Burial Mound.” Yuck. Sounds about right, dudes.

Jonathan Shaw

 yes/and — s-t (Driftless Recordings)

yes/and by yes/and

This collaboration between guitarist Meg Duffy (Hand Habits) and producer Joel Ford (Oneohtrix Point Never) is an elusive collection of shape-shifting instrumentals. Each piece is built around Duffy’s guitar, yet the timbre and mood tends to switch dramatically between tracks. The album’s run-time is fairly evenly split between dark, atmospheric pieces, such as “More Than Love” and “Making A Monument,” and hopeful, glimmering miniatures, such as “Centered Shell” and the wonderfully titled “In My Heaven All Faucets Are Fountains.” “Learning About Who You Are” looms large at the album’s heart, as nearly eight minutes of hazy, wind-tunnel drone pulses and reverberates across the stereo space. Despite the variation in tone, each track stakes out its own territory in the tracklist, and it’s only “Tumble” that comes across as an unrealized idea. While it’s only half an hour, yes/and feels longer, its circuitous routes opening up all kinds of possibilities.

Tim Clarke

[follow-the-sun-blog]

Hokitika

Angerissener Tag

Unser Plan die Scheibe in Greymouth auswechseln zu lassen, ging ja leider nicht auf. Deswegen hatten wir einen angebrochenen Tag, an dem wir nicht nur auf der faulen Haut sitzen wollten. Deshalb fuhren wir zuerst in das kleine Dorf. Dort besuchten wir das Touristeninformationsbüro. 

Hokitika ist bekannt für die Kunst, welche aus Schwemmholz vom und am Strand gebaut wird. Also machten wir uns als erstes zum Strand. Ausser dem Schriftzug des Dorfes, befanden sich zum Zeitpunkt leider keine anderen Skulpturen aus Holz hier. 🤷🏻‍♂️ Also suchten wir ein Cafe aus und assen erstmal etwas zu Mittag. Nach der Stärkung fuhren wir zu einem kleinen See, beziehungsweise zu dem Weg, welcher an den See führt. Mit Sonnenbrille auf der Nase montiert machten wir uns auf. Der Weg führte durch den Wald und es zwitscherte so mancher Vogel. Sehr friedlich. Mit der Zeit verschwand die Sonne, aber wir liefen entspannt weiter. Am See, waren die Wolken auch hier wieder viel zu dicht, um etwas von den umliegenden Bergen zu sehen. Und schon spürten wir die ersten Tropfen. Wir warteten unter der Infotafel ein wenig ab, bis der Regen nachliess. So liefen wir in leichtem Regen wieder zurück zum Auto. So ist das Wetter in Neuseeland, stündlich fast sogar minütlich veränderlich.

Der Campingplatz war nur etwa 5 Minuten von dem Wanderweg entfernt. Der Platz war sehr klein mit nur einem Gebäude, aber dieses reichte völlig aus. Das Wohnzimmer war mega gemütlich und sehr liebevoll eingerichtet. Hier konnten wir ohne Probleme den Rest des Tages verbringen auf den Sofas verbringen.

Straffes Programm

Hokitika liegt in unmittelbarer Nähe des Hokitika Gorge. Ein Fluss in einem kleinen Canyon, der durch seine leuchtend türkis Farbe berühmt ist. Heute strahlte auch die Sonne wieder. 😃 So sahen wir auf der Fahrt die schneebedeckten Alpen das erste Mal in voller Pracht. Vorbei an Schafen und Kühen, erinnerte die Landschaft stark an die Schweiz. Angekommen und das Auto abgestellt, könnt ihr zwei Mal raten wer wieder um Fabian herum schlich: ein wunderfitziger Weka.

Nach dieser Begegnung war eine leichte Wanderung auf dem 20-minutigen Weg am Fluss entlang angesagt. Die Farbe war wunderschön. 

Sie entsteht durch die Kombination von «Steinmehl» und dem Gletscherwasser.

 Nachdem wir ein paar Erinnerungsfotos geschossen hatten und wieder über die Hängebrücke gingen, machten wir uns zurück zum Auto. 

Über einen Scenic drive entlang des Sees, kamen wir zu den Dorothy Falls.

Ein schöner Wasserfall. Aber dann mussten wir schon wieder zurück nach Greymouth, damit wir pünktlich unser Auto für die Reperatur abgeben konnten.

Mit Laptop und Buch ausgerüstet, mussten wir nun 3-4 Stunden in Greymouth verbringen. Wir hatten uns ein Picnic gemacht und assen es als erstes auf einer Bank. Danach war das Dorf ziemlich schnell abgelaufen. Also setzten wir uns in ein Cafe, und nutzen das gratis Internet. Kurz nach 15:00 Uhr kam dann der erlösende Anruf, dass sie fertig wären. Also auf zum Auto und wieder zurück zum Camping. Endlich wieder sorgenfreies herumfahren ohne nach jedem grösseren Rumpeln die Scheibe überprüfen zu müssen. 

Am nächsten Morgen gingen wir in die berühmte Ortschaft Franz Josef. Mit einer neuen Scheibe, welche nun hoffentlich ganz bleibt. (SPOILER: sie blieb heil, aber in die Werkstatt mussten wir trotzdem nochmals).

pa 9.10.19

[greenudon]

Durch die Cahorros von Monachil

Für den letzten Tag in Granada entschieden wir uns für eine Canyon-Wanderung aus dem Rother Wanderführer. Nach knapp halbstündiger Fahrt erreichten wir einen Parkplatz und die Wanderung begann entspannt bergab vorbei an Gärten und kleinen Höfen. Die erste kleine Herausforderung kam nach ca. 2 km - eine 70 Meter lange Hängebrücke. Diese meisterten wir mit Bravur. Auf dem Weg dahin passierten wir noch einige Kletterrouten, welche unter anderem von einem Kletterer mit Schlafbrille erklommen wurde. Das war wohl ein ganz spezielles Training für alle anderen Sinne. Der weitere Verlauf der Wanderung war von wirklich atemberaubenden Ausblicken und botanischen Frühjahrsboten geprägt. Auch entdeckten wir einen gelben Vogel und identifizierten diesen mit der Birdnet App als Gierlitz - eine nicht bedrohte Finkenart. Nebenher wurde noch zahlreicher Plastikmüll und Masken eingesammelt. Am Ende war es eine ganze Tüte geworden.Zum Schluss nach 10 km gönnten wir uns bei der Bar am Parkplatz ein Käffchen.

[onceuponawildflower]

© 2014 Claire Marie Vogel Slot canyons - Arizona

[stil-lindigo]

beachside bonzoes

AN: hello everybody! this is something different to what i usually do so uh. please be kind. I was going to post this yesterday but with the cancelling of dirk gently i decided to put it off to today. i thought we might all need some fluffy rowdy time.

summary: the Oh No van’s AC breaks down and the rowdies terrorise a tourist beach. there’s family, anarchy and just the slightest bit of drummerwolf. also, the universe being super passive aggressive.

beachside bonzoes

Squinting against the bright, burning, sun, Amanda Brotzman downs the last of her water from her water bottle and groans.

‘Ugh,’ she mutters as she slumps back into her tattered passenger seat. ‘It’s like I’m drinking my own sweat.’

‘Ewww, boss!’ Vogel yelps in disgust from the backseat. ‘Now I’m roastin’ and grossed out.’

 ‘Gross-ting,’ Gripps’ voice is croaky from where he’s splayed out on the red seats, arm slung over his face. Cross lies beneath him, diligently fanning both Cross and Vogel with old magazines.

 ‘Toasting,’ he adds with a tired chuckle. Nearby, Beast emits a low growl.

 ‘We’re fucking burnt, boys,’ Amanda sighs and glances over at their shitty air conditioner chugging out metallic-smelling but cold air. Martin grunts at her from the driver’s seat before she can get a word out.

 ‘ ‘s on the highest setting, drummer. Ain’t nothin’ gonna make it work harder.’

 Amanda groans louder and rolls the grimy window down, staring out at the passing landscape with a tangible irritation. This suffocating heat had been plaguing them for a few days now and the new, thinner clothes they’d managed to snatch at a roadside op shop were already filthy from sweat. The Disney shirt Vogel had been so excited about had been the first casualty and was now operating as a bright, pink sweat rag.  

 Martin, strangely enough, didn’t seem to be too affected by the heat. In saying that though, the boys had basically stripped down to their boxers the moment the temperature went over 40 degrees. Amanda still held a sneaking suspicion that the one reason they weren’t going commando was because of her and Beast.

 At her millionth deliberating sigh, Martin taps her on the shoulder and silently hands her a cigarette, gesturing to the window.

 ‘Do I look that bad?’ she mutters wryly and he shrugs, a small smirk gracing his features.

 Without any preferable option, Amanda leans out the window and breathes in the addicting scent of smoke. Martin uses a pretty shitty brand but it’s all she’s got and right now, it tastes like heaven. Like something akin pathetic fallacy – a big word she learned in high school that she never used again after graduating – a miraculous cool breeze sweeps by, ruffling her tied up hair so that strands break free from the hair tie and swirl around her face.

 ‘Thank you, universe,’ she breathes blissfully and then immediately regrets it because, as always, the universe just loves to mess with people. The moment the words leave her mouth, their air conditioner makes a horrible, sputtering grate of a sound and wheezes out a foul-smelling cloud of smoke. Martin smacks it with increasing severity and, after the third strike, knocks the grate clean off. The air conditioner does not restart.

 ‘You have got to be fucking kidding me.’ Amanda could cry. And she only cries at dogs dying and beautiful canyons. From the backseat, Vogel whimpers out a long exasperated groan that, with Beast’s help, quickly devolves into a strung-out growl.

 ‘The hell.’ The short, plaintive word is the only indication that Gripps isn’t dead.

 Cross is already clambering over the others and pushes in between Amanda and Martin in the front. For a second, he squints at the smoking mess of an AC.

 ‘Yep,’ he grunts. ‘That’s busted.’

 ‘Fuck,’ Amanda drags her hands down her face and then snatches up her phone. As always, the battery is dying but it’s got enough. ‘Google maps, don’t fail me now. There better be a mechanic close by.’

 Within a few minutes, she’s found one only a few miles away. It’ll mean a detour from their usual, instinct-driven route but if it means a working air conditioner, they’re more than willing. It’s when they’re only a few minutes away that Amanda stops mid-instruction at the sight of a sliver of blue.

 ‘It’s the ocean!’ Amanda bolts upright and sticks her head out the window, watching as a sandy bay sneaks into view.

 ‘What is that?’ Vogel, marginally less comatose, leans over Amanda and squints at it. From behind him, Gripps does the same and suddenly all of the rowdies are tumbling into the front and Martin’s screeching to a stop.

 ‘That’s one big lake,’ Gripps says. ‘Where are the giant ducks?’

 ‘That’s a lotta…’ Vogel fumbles for a word. ‘Yellow. What’s it doing there?’

 ‘It’s sand,’ Cross grins. ‘It’s wannabe dirt.’

 ‘That’s cool! I wanna touch it!’ and with that, Vogel’s out the door and running down to the bay. Whooping, Cross and Gripps follow, towing a confused and disoriented Beast behind them.

 ‘C’mon, Boss!’ Vogel shouts back around halfway down the hill and Amanda glances back at Martin. He shrugs.

 ‘Why not? It’ll cool them off.’ He says. ‘Go on and join ‘em. I can take the van myself.’

 ‘Really? We can always take it later.’

 ‘Sooner the better, right? Also-’ Martin pauses and runs a hand through his hair. ‘Don’t do well with sand.’

 ‘How Skywalker of you,’ Amanda smiles at his confused expression as she hops down to the ground.

 ‘I don’t get it.’

 ‘Yeah, sorry. It’s a reference,’ she says. ‘But don’t go alone. At least take Beast with you.’

 Ever since Blackwing separated the rowdies, Amanda’s felt wary of letting any of them go anywhere alone. It’s a paranoia that she’s just a little bit embarrassed by but she would be perfectly happy if she was never separated from this family – her family – ever again. Conveniently, Martin is an emotionally-aware vampire and, maybe its because of that that he lightens the mood with a low chuckle.

 ‘Don’t think I’m scary enough to get a discount on my own?’

 ‘You?’ Amanda laughs. ‘Scary? Absolutely not.’

 ‘Oh?’ Martin produces a cigarette and lights it, fitting it snug between his lips.

 ‘You’re too lovable. Like a big dog.’

 He stares at her for a second, his jaw working around the cigarette, then shrugs, puffing out a wispy cloud of sweet smoke.

 ‘I can live with that.’

 ‘Boss! Look!’ Amanda turns at the sound of Vogel’s voice and comes face to face with a giant inflatable duck with some unfortunately drawn features.

 ‘Did you steal this?’

 ‘Nah, some guys threw it at us when we came near so we’re keeping it!’ Vogel’s face splits into a wide toothy grin. ‘It’s super cool!’

 Behind him, Gripps comes into view, wearing a wide-brimmed sunhat and glasses with blinds on them.

 ‘Drummer! There’s a clothes shop here! It’s crazy!’ he yells, gesturing down at a small shack down by the pier. ‘Look at this!’  And with that, he pulls the cord on the glasses and snaps the blinds shut. ‘My world is broken!’

 ‘Okay, please tell me you paid for this,’ Amanda pauses as she takes in the sight of the curtain glasses. ‘Actually, don’t. Don't tell me you used real money to get that.’

 ‘It’s a cash bash!’ Cross jumps in between them, smiling wide as he gestures to his new baseball cap that reads ‘Money Maker’. Amanda knows her face is wearing an expression but she has no idea what it is.

 ‘Why,‘ she says.

 ‘We paid, boss! Don’t worry, we used the money we stole from those bad suit guys before!’ Vogel shoves a handful of $50 notes in her face and bounds away like a hyper kangaroo. ‘Let’s go fight a fish!’

 Cross and Gripps whoop and bellow out their grunts of agreement and skid down the sandy bank. From behind her, Martin lets out a content chuckle and grabs a few notes from the bundle.

 ‘Guess I’ll be going then,’ he says. ‘Beast?’

 The rainbow-haired creature scurries up and leaps into the passenger seat with palpable relief. Beyond her, Martin sits back, turns the ignition and the van purrs into life. Amanda’s about to join her boys down at the beach when-

 ‘Oi, drummer.’

 ‘Yeah?’

 ‘Woof,’ he winks, deliberately, his smirk matching the quiet intensity of his eyes, and then the van’s gone, barreling down the road.

 It’s hot out, Amanda reminds herself as she makes her way down to the ocean. Flushed cheeks don’t mean a thing.

 --

 The beach-side clothes shop actually had a pretty decent selection, Amanda finds as she peruses their clothes racks.

 More than decent, in fact. Some strange few could say that it was in tune with the universe.

 After a few minutes, she emerges from the shop’s air conditioned depths wearing a worn-down ‘Mexican Funeral’ top and some skin-tight swimming bottoms. The top is thin and soft from age and the lettering is a bit cracked but, as Amanda flaps it to let a cool breeze in, she finds that it’s completely what she’d expect. The store clerk’s face had lit up when she’d handed it over for him to ring up – apparently the band was ‘super obscure’ but ‘totally underrated’ and it wouldn’t even be stocked if the guy hadn’t insisted to ship some in.

 Damned universe. Too nosy for its own good.

 I get it, she thinks to the universe as she sprints down to the water, picking up speed. Call your brother. But not right now. Right now-

 And here, she kicks off her boots, her socks and jumps –

 -right now, I’m cooling off.

 With a thunderous splash, she’s underwater and the change is instant - the water is shockingly cold, biting into her skin like a knife before her body catches up with the plunge in temperature. Bubbles foam around her in clouds and she grins, giddy off the relief of the sea on her burning skin and watches water rush past her as she boosts herself to the surface. She breaks into open air to the whoops and cheers of her boys. They’re all around her, wet and dirty and sweaty and hers and she bundles them into a tight, slippery hug, laughing and shouting with them as they drag her into their rhythm. It’s dumb, this is so dumb, playing like toddlers seeing the sea for the first time but then she remembers the years she spent in fear in her dim, crusty room and – even more than that – the boys, for them, this might be their first time so she lets the world go and blows raspberries into the air. Cross squeezes their inflatable duck ring around her and he and Gripps haul her up and carry her towards the horizon, like she’s a queen on a yellow plastic throne.

 ‘We’re fucking insane!’ Cross howls over the crash of the waves and they roar, together, with their squeaking inflatable duck and handfuls of seaweed and wet sand. High off exhilaration, Vogel dives underneath and pops out of the water with a starfish in each hand, giggling.

 ‘You’re a star, kid!’ Amanda speaks like a talk show host and Vogel beams.

 ‘I don’t know what that is!’ he hollers and in an instant, the starfish are chucked back into the water and he’s leaping at Amanda, arms outstretched. ‘Capsiiiize!’

 They go down like bowling pins, splashing back into the water. Amanda resurfaces, spitting out saltwater and picking seaweed out of her hair but she laughs and splashes Vogel right in his mischievous face.

 ‘You dick!’

 The plunge doesn't seem to slow down Cross and Gripp’s momentum and they drag up Vogel from under his armpits, slapping him on his back good-naturedly before they promptly dunk him back into the water. Instantly rebounding, Vogel flaps around his wet hair like a dog and smacks a clump of wet sand into Cross’ hair.

 It’s pretty dumb how much fondness she feels for these mud-slinging idiots. But she doesn’t think she’ll ever get tired of their reckless energy, their chaos that pumps life through her veins. Friends, family - they’re her boys and Amanda doesn’t think she could love them more. For a moment, a weird anxiety finds her (an attack? no, although she hates that she still feels a stab of fear at the thought of them) and she wonders if they know – she hopes they know how much she loves them.

 Suddenly, the ground is falling away and Amanda’s abruptly torn from her thoughts as Gripps unceremoniously chucks her onto his back.

 ‘Get yer head out of the clouds, drummer!’ he yells as he charges into the fray of the mudfight. ‘We gotta get some dirt on ya!’

 With bellows and laughter thrumming in her ears, Amanda leaves behind her cloudy thoughts and shrieks out a giddy battle cry.

 --

 Grant Brantley has worked at his little garage for a little over a decade. And maybe its because his business is right next to a tourist-magnet beach that brings in weirdoes from all over that makes his new customers a bit more normal. The man’s fine (even though his disproportionately-coloured hair is a bit odd). It’s more his friend that puts Grant off. She’s got brightly dyed hair and kind of a-a pale sort of complexion and he thinks she’s shaven off her eyebrows which makes her scurry-walk a bit more off-putting. Also she keeps on sniffing his tools. He just hopes she doesn’t start licking them.

 ‘Hey, um – ‘he turns to the man who said his name was Martin and then did not give a surname which makes Grant’s job a bit more difficult because usually he refers to the lads as misters but now he’s just gotta say ‘sir’ which makes him feel like a chimneysweep or a needy orphan and in fact, he’s pretty sure he’s older than Martin but what can you do? ‘-sir, your uh…could you please ask your friend to stop sniffing the merchandise? I swear they haven’t gone off.’

 It’s supposed to be a joke – an icebreaker, you know- but Martin nods, seriously, as if it's a legitimate concern.

 ‘Hey, Beastie,’ he clicks his fingers and the woman happily scuttles over, abandoning the outdoor display of wrenches. Grant thinks she’s talking to Martin but – god, she’s gotta be foreign, right? He can’t even understand what language he’s speaking. It sounds like she’s imitating a chain-smoking frog but – c’mon, Grant, don’t be mean, it’s not as if you’re a well-travelled bloke in the first place, what would you know about foreign culture. He chances a friendly smile at her and she returns it with a mouth of sharp teeth and a high whistle. Oh boy.

 ‘So,’ Martin clears his throat a bit awkwardly as he shifts on the step he’s sat upon. ‘How long will it take to fix the AC?’

 Thank god, familiar territory.

 ‘Oh, it’s a simple fix, really. An hour or so,’ Grant scratches his head thoughtfully as he takes in Martin’s hulking van. He thinks those are bullet holes peppered into its graffitied hide but honestly, he’s dealt with weirder.

 Upsell, he reminds himself, like those persuasive kids at the fast food places. ‘I could easily spruce up some stuff. She’s a bit of a clanker. And it won’t cost much more.’

 ‘Nah,’ Martin says not unkindly, and produces a battered pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his loose jeans. ‘Gotta get back soon.’

 Grant politely flicks out a lighter before Martin can and holds the flame steady for the other man. Martin nods appreciatively and, miraculously, Grant feels a bit less wary round the guy.

 ‘Got someone waitin’ for you?’ he says as he unlatches the car door and begins to work. From the corner of his eye, he sees Martin smile to himself.

 ‘Yeah, a few guys.’

 ‘And a girl, I bet,’ Grant replies. ‘Or a guy,’ he adds, catching himself at the sight of Martin’s odd expression. ‘Either is fine. Or none. I don’t mind. Love is love and all that.’

 He’s babbling now but Grant tends to get that way when he’s nervous. ‘Sorry, don't mean to impose. You looked mighty happy there is all. And don’t get me wrong, you can look happy about friends – I ain’t the type of guy to think we lads can’t have good, non-sexy relationships – but also, you know-’

 Martin laughs a small laugh but it’s got some mirth behind it so Grant trails off and hopes his furious backpedalling worked. The white-haired man puffs on his cigarette and leans his head to one side in a bit of a conceding shrug.

 ‘Yeah,’ he allows, after a second. ‘Yeah. I guess it’s a girl.’

 Martin doesn’t seem like he’s going to say any more on it so Grant doesn’t push it. Mentally, he breathes out a sigh of relief. Gosh, his big mouth has gotten him into problems in the past – he’s just glad that this time the weird guy seems alright. Might be the cigarettes. Hey, it might be a good idea to keep his supply stocked then, right? Right. Okay, good thinking, Brantley. Now suggest it without also implying he’s hooked because god knows you’ve come across some kooks who were adamant about their independence, honestly -

 ‘Hey, we’ve got some more cigs inside,’ Grant blurts out and gestures towards his little shop. ‘They’re right next to the cash register.’

 Martin looks surprised for a second.

 ‘Don’t think I’ll steal them? I’m just a stranger.’

 Grant shrugs.

 ‘They’re only $5. I’m not that hung up on money,’ he pauses. ‘Also I can see you through the window.’

 The white-haired man huffs out a chuckle. ‘Mm. Smart building design.’

 He stands up, stuffing his hands into his pockets and gives an appreciative nod to Grant.

 ‘Thanks, Mr Brantley. Might take you up on your offer.’

 ‘Might?’

 ‘Gotta check the brands first,’ he grunts jokingly and he makes his way into the service shop.

 Grant turns back to the van and mentally dances a happy jig. He knows the type of guy Martin is – he’s met a wide bunch of people in this job – and that exchange was good, as in it was a Big Deal in its goodness. The guy feels less intimidating now that they’ve had that conversation. In fact, now he thinks he shouldn’t watch through the window in that half-looking-but-also-could-just-be-engrossed-in-the-rear-view-mirror way he’s cultivated.

 The choice of whether or not he spies on Martin, however, gets thrown to the side at the sound a familiar revving engine. Grant groans and puts his head in his hands. Really? Now?

 With a screech, a sleek, scarlet sports car rounds the corner and skids to a stop directly in front of the workshop. Its occupants, a group of four, tank-top wearing young men, clamber out with whoops and guffaws. Grant sees that one of their shirts simply reads ‘You Suck’. Another, who he knows has not served, is wearing dog tags on a necklace. One of the men, the shortest, steps forward and leers at Grant.

 ‘Hey, Mister Brantley,’ he sneers. ‘What’s up?’

 ‘Hello, Sherwood,’ Grant steps away from Martin’s van and approaches the teenager with a palpable reluctance. ‘Are you drunk again?’

 Immediately, Sherwood’s smile is replaced by a snarl and he jabs an accusatory finger at Grant.

 ‘Yeah? And what the fuck are you gonna do about it?’ he hisses. ‘Don’t forget my dad owns these parts. You complain and I’ll kick your ass out of here. You’re already on thin ice with your asshat son.’

 ‘I’m –’ Grant sighs. This is the worst. ‘I’m not going to complain.’

 ‘Good,’ Sherwood sneers. ‘Go get me n’ my boys some smokes.’

 Grant is about to go in when he remembers – Martin. The white-haired man is staring at him over the countertop, a new pack of cigarettes in his hand, and from where he’s standing, Grant can see he’s put down a $5 bill next to the till. The older man shrugs, overcome by embarrassment, and brushes past Martin apologetically. With a sigh, he begins piling boxes of cigarettes into a plastic shopping bag.

 ‘They ain’t gonna pay for those, are they.’

 It’s more of a statement than a question really and Grant grimaces.

 ‘No. They’re not. But what can I do?’ He ties off the end of the bag with a forceful twist. ‘Charlie – that’s my boy, really smart kid, he’s gonna do great things – Charlie’s gotten into a fight with Sherwood over there. His dad owns this land and money ain’t real consistent – this is a tourist place, you know.’

 Grant doesn’t completely know why he’s telling Martin this stuff.

 Something about him makes you wanna spill your beans, he thinks to himself. Whether in fear or not.

 A striking yelp jolts him out of his thoughts and his gaze whips to the boys standing in his parking lot who are currently fending off a rainbow-haired woman. He sprints out of the shop to find her – Beast – circling them on all fours and forcing them back with intermittent snarls.

 ‘Ma’am!’ Grant calls out, a bit lost. ‘Uh-ma’am please uh-’

 Sherwood’s head shoots up at the sound of Grant’s voice.

 ‘Oi, Brantley!’ he shouts, furious. ‘Is she yours?!’

 ‘No! Sherwood, she’s uh – a customer- ’

 ‘A customer?’ one of Sherwood’s friends shrieks out. ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’

 ‘Bullshit!’ Sherwood screams and Beast answers with an even louder growl that sends the boys backing away towards their car. Sherwood levels an icy glare towards Grant. ‘Look at you, using this bitch to chase us off. You could’ve just given us the smokes, you dick!’

 ‘Sherwood, wait-’

 ‘Beast.’

 Martin steps out beyond Grant who is currently fumbling for words and approaches the woman. She whips around at his footsteps but immediately softens at the sight of him. Grant’s close enough to hear that she says something that sounds like ‘meanie’. Meanwhile, Sherwood and his friends have already slipped into their sleek car and with a round of middle fingers, they’re hurtling away at breakneck speeds.

 Grant still doesn’t know what just happened.

 ‘Oh boy,’ he whispers to himself and his legs fold under him. Martin looks over with a placated and somewhat remorseful-looking Beast beside him. ‘What a shitshow. Pardon my language.’

 ‘Sorry,’ Martin says.

 ‘Don’t trouble yourself, son,’ Grant gestures offhandedly as Martin takes a seat on the concrete next to him. ‘This was comin’ sooner or later. In fact, I wish I could’ve done it myself instead of your friend obliging.’

 ‘Mm,’ Martin hums in agreement. ‘That’d be a sight to see.’

 ‘You know, Sherwood really ain’t that bad either,’ Grant chortles at Martin’s expression. ‘Yeah, I know. He used to be an okay kid, though. I think he got messed up in something shady a while back and now he feels invincible. He just needs a bit of a wake up call.’

 Martin wordlessly picks at his teeth, as if attempting to dislodge a morsel of food. Beside him, Beast swings back and forth on her haunches.

 ‘You scared, Mr Brantley?’ he asks, quietly. ‘Sherwood’s probably gonna go tell his pa.’

 ‘Oh yeah, I’m a little fearful,’ Grant sighs. ‘But you gotta roll with these punches.’

 ‘Damn straight,’ Martin claps him on the back and gets to his feet and stretches, yawning wide.

 ‘Tired?’

 He shrugs.

 ‘Just ready for a meal.’

 --

 It’s around when Vogel’s finishing up on burying Cross in sand that Amanda notices the ice-cream.

 ‘Hey!’ she yells from where she’s floating on the inflatable duck. ‘Look! People have ice cream!’

 At her shout, a number of people give them weird looks but she’s used to it by now. Weird is good when it means you get a strip of beach all to yourself. Gripps arises from the shallows where he’s arranged seaweed on his forehead like a wig and scares a nearby unwitting couple.

 ‘We’ve got ice cream here?’ he says. ‘Why aren’t we eating it then dying from brainfreeze?’

 As if to demonstrate, Vogel flops to the ground in mock-unconsciousness, letting his tongue loll out of his mouth with carefree abandon.

 ‘Brainfreeze!’ he echoes and from underneath, Cross fist bumps his way out of his sandy casket.

 ‘Waffle cones!’ he yells and somehow produces a sun hat to slap over Vogel’s head. ‘They’re good crispy.’

 Amanda’s already wading up to meet them, dragging her loyal duck behind her as she approaches the still partially-buried Cross.

 ‘You still got the money, Money-maker?’ she asks wryly and he slings off his cap to show the notes stuffed into the seam.

 ‘You know it, boss,’ he flashes a toothy grin. ‘Get me a bubblegum.’

 ‘Sweet tooth,’ she pokes him on his nose and he laughs, loud and mischievous. Suddenly, Vogel drops into Cross’ lap and grabs Amanda’s face by her cheeks.

 ‘Pineapple for me, boss!’ he grins from ear to ear. From nearby, Gripps adds ‘And boysenberry!’

 ‘Boys-enberry!’ Vogel repeats and giggles at his own joke. ‘Boys!’

 Rolling her eyes, Amanda pecks Vogel on the forehead and revels in the brief silence that follows as he blinks up at her, beaming.

 ‘We get it, Vogel,’ she says then slinks out of his grip even as he laughs and whoops with the other boys.

 ‘Love you, boss!’ he calls after her and even though she groans from embarrassment and waves them away, Amanda can’t help the grin the creeps across her features.

 Surprisingly, the ice cream stall doesn't have a very long queue – probably because Amanda and her boys only noticed it after the big crowds left - and she gets to the front sooner than anticipated.

 ‘Cool shirt,’ the girl serving her comments and smiles at her. ‘They’re a great band.’

 ‘Yeah,’ Amanda slaps the dollar bills down on the counter and thinks passive-aggressively to the universe to chill. ‘I like your septum piercing.’

 ‘Oh! Thanks,’ she giggles and flicks her long aqua-blue pigtails over her back, revealing her own shirt that bears a faded illustration of a Rorschach symbol floating in an eyeball. Unbidden, Amanda feels a smile spread across her face. Good times.

 ‘Do you want these in a box?’ the girl asks, unaware of Amanda’s thoughts.

 ‘Yeah, that’d be great,’ Amanda says and then, just for good measure, she winks and adds in a secretive tone, ‘As good as I am with my hands, four at once is a bit much.’

 At that, ice-cream girl laughs, really laughs, and her tanned cheeks tinge with red.

 ‘Nice,’ she says and hands Amanda the holder full of ice cream cones with a smile. ‘Come again soon!’

 She doesn’t even get a block away from the stall before Amanda’s already licking her own salted caramel ice cream cone. The taste of it is sweet and relieving after a day of fish and chips and trashy oil-soaked food. Also, she got a strawberry cone and flavoured ice cream cones are one of the better inventions of humanity. The slap of her store-bought flip flops on the burning pavement and the cold creeping through her body from the ice cream leads her into an almost-mesmerising trance. As she walks, she makes up a tune to hum and its like merging a few of her favourite songs together, a mashup of the metal radio station the Oh No Van tunes into from time to time. For some reason, Amanda wonders what Martin would’ve chosen from the ice cream stall.

 Is there a nicotine flavor? she thinks to herself, wryly. But the thought brings back a memory from earlier that day – when Martin had given her the cigarette. And it’s as Amanda’s licking her rapidly melting ice cream that she remembers that it had already been lit and halfway done by the time he’d handed it to her. Which means -

 ‘Fuck!’ Amanda saves herself from tripping just in time and steadies the ice cream cones in their respective holders. There’s melted ice cream all over her hand now but there’s enough still in the cone that the boys will be happy. ‘Jeez, get yourself together.’

 From behind her comes a piercing wolf whistle.

 ‘Hey! Sweet cheeks! Bend over again!’

 Amanda’s eyes shoot open wide and she turns around excruciatingly slow to come face to face with two burly guys coming up behind her.

 ‘Excuse me?’ she’s trying to inject as much disgust as she can into the words, but apparently these idiots have skulls made of steel because nothing’s getting through it. They snort and guffaw at her expression. One air-thrusts at her.

 ‘Jesus Christ,’ Amanda mutters to herself then faces the two guys directly. ‘What is this, 2005? Get a hobby, you walking troglodytes.’

 The men make mockingly awe-struck gasps. The air-humper steps forward to close the distance between them.

 ‘Oooh, you know big words! Doesn’t make you better than us.’ he says in a sing-song tone. Amanda considers stuffing her icecream down his throat and decides it’d be too kind. ‘And we were just being nice. Jesus, learn how to take a compliment.’

 ‘It doesn’t take much to be better than you,’ Amanda replies coldly. ‘Knowing big words like ‘troglodyte’ should immediately put me out of your league.’

 The man’s smile falls instantly and he makes a grab for her shoulder but she’s already dodged and is considering kicking his incredibly kick-able groin when the familiar growl of an engine roars up behind her.

‘Drummer,’ Martin says in acknowledgement. Beyond him, Beast waves furiously with a new wrench which still has its price tag stuck on. ‘Nice ice creams.’

 ‘Thanks.’

 Martin glances at the two men standing before them and his gaze instantly cools by a few degrees. Even though they’re obviously wary of the newcomer, the two guys have stuck around which either makes them even more idiotic than she originally thought or – nope, they’re just idiots.

 ‘ ‘s there a problem?’ he asks, his tone icy.

 ‘I don’t know,’ Amanda turns back to look at the pair of walking examples of toxic masculinity and raises a questioning eyebrow. ‘Is there?’

 The two guys mumble something incoherent – probably an insult of some kind – but they hurry past, their pace quickening the longer Martin stares after them.

 ‘Troglodytes,’ she mutters.

 ‘Nice insult.’

 ‘I learnt it off a TV show.’

 ‘Even better.’

 ‘Oi! Boss!’ Vogel comes barreling up the hill and it’s only Amanda’s quick reflexes that save the ice cream cones from being toppled onto the pavement. He steers around quickly, leaping up onto the hood on the van in one swift motion and waves at the occupants inside. ‘You found Martin and Beastie!’

 ‘And you got my Bubblegum!’ Cross snatches his cone from the box quickly and immediately bites into the ice cream. His ensuing expression is somehow triumphant and regretful at the same time. For some reason, Gripps does the exact same thing for his cone and does not get different results.

 ‘Hey, drummer,’ Cross manages to say as he recovers. ‘What was up with those brickheads that were here just now?’

 Martin clicks his tongue in disgust and taps the steering wheel with the palm of his hand.

 ‘They were peacocking, boys,’ he says grimly and the resulting wave of disapproving growls is deafening.

 ‘Way old school,’ Gripps mutters. ‘Way crusty.’

 ‘Damn tail-flickers,’ Vogel seconds.

 Cross licks his lips and glares after the retreating forms of the two men.

 ‘Anybody else hungry?’ he hisses and the other rowdies bellow in agreement, already moving to chase after them.

 ‘Boys.’

 And like that, they halt, shifting to Martin for direction even though Vogel’s foot still taps away on the concrete, impatient.

 ‘We got a bigger meal waiting for us,’ he smirks dangerously and the rowdies erupt in cheers and congratulatory roars, already clambering into the hollow depths of the van. ‘Ready for dinner?’

 With a fond lick and snicker, Beast vacates her seat for Amanda and leaps into the back to curl up on the red velvet floor. Amanda settles herself into the leathery front seat, slams the car door behind her and turns the AC up to the max setting, whistling appreciatively at the blast of cold air sweeping through the van.

 ‘You’ve been busy, haven’t you?’ she grins at Martin and he answers with a toothy chuckle.

 ‘I get around,’ he replies then slams on the ignition, lurching forward and bellowing over the growing howls of their rowdies.

 ‘Now who’s hungry for take-out?!’

 --

 Amanda wolfs down the last of her Chinese food from its plastic box and sinks back into the sand with a content sigh. At her left, the six-pack of beer she bought at the convenience store remains submerged in a blue plastic bucket Vogel had stolen and filled with cold seawater.

 ‘Beer over sandcastles,’ he’d reasoned as he handed it to her. She couldn’t really argue with that.

 It’s cooled down now that the evening’s creeping in and she appreciates the cool breeze. It’s a bit of a relief to relax after pummeling those frat boys into the hood of their own car. Amanda’s hand automatically twitches at the memory of swinging Beast’s wrench into the headlight and laughing as the glass had showered over her.

 Kind of dangerous, now that she thinks about it. But she made it out unscathed. So it was probably universally predestined to happen. Amanda grabs a beer bottle and lifts it up to the sky in a toast.

 Rest in peace, car, she thinks to herself then downs a mouthful. I barely knew thee.

 Quietly, she reflects on the pit stop they made before returning to the beach: a garage owned by a Mr Brantley who she only knew from overhearing Martin’s brief conversation with him. Seemed like a sweet guy. Owned a decent brand of smokes. And he’d patted Martin’s shoulder like he was his dad, despite them seeming to be around the same age. Weirdest thing about it was that Martin let him.

 The sun peeks out from behind a purple-pink cloud and she squints. Nearer to the horizon, her rowdies are still splashing in the ocean with their boundless energy. They’re the only ones still there seeing as most of the beach-goers had left around an hour ago but they make enough noise that it would be easy to mistake a crowd still remaining. The stragglers still tend to give them a wide berth and it suits them just fine. Struck by inspiration, Amanda sits up and she howls, letting her voice taper off into the sky. To her utmost joy, her family answers with matching enthusiasm.

 One of them breaks off from the pack and lopes up to sit on the bank next to her. Wordlessly, she hands him a bundled-up dry shirt she’d been using as a pillow to dry off his sopping wet hair with.

 ‘How are you still wearing your glasses?’

 Martin grunts and points at the green band tying the legs together behind his head.

 ‘Rubber bands. Versatile.’

 ‘Uh huh. But you still can’t see with all the droplets on them.’

 He shrugs and ruffles out his semi-dry hair into a comically fluffy-looking mohawk.

 ‘Survived through worse. Remember the red goggles?’

 Amanda laughs at the memory but the reminder of Wendimoor sends her thoughts towards someone else. She sinks back into the sand with a low groan.

 Todd.

 They’d parted ways after the Wendimoor escapade a few weeks ago and she’d promised to check in from time to time. But, somehow, the prospect of a first phone call after recently making up with him is scary as shit. The stupid thing is that she can’t even put her finger on what is so terrifying about it. They’d sent each other little dumb texts (mainly pictures of the new detective agency and then games of ‘Spot Mona in this messy workplace!’) in the first week and a half but even that mode of communication had died out. Yeesh. ‘Died out’. Bad choice in words, considering the trouble they got themselves into.

 Speaking of that, Todd could be on a new case right now. Todd could be in trouble.

 And yet, she still doesn’t want to call.              

 Amanda sits herself up, shaking sand out of her hair, to find Martin staring at her out of the corner of his eye.

 ‘What?’

 ‘I can hear you thinking there, drummer,’ he mutters softly. ‘What’s goin’ on?’

 She runs a hand through her hair sheepishly.

 ‘I’ve gotta call my brother.’

 ‘Toad?’

 ‘His name is Todd. But Toad totally works. He’ll love it.’

 Martin looks out thoughtfully towards the horizon.

 ‘You’ve got time. Phone’s in the van right now.’

 Amanda chews on her lip for a second.

 ‘I mean. I could always do it tomorrow.’

 ‘Putting it off isn’t very punk.’

 ‘Oh, fuck off,’ she snickers and punches him in the arm good-naturedly. She’s 90% sure he doesn’t even feel it.

 ‘C’mon, drummer,’ he continues. ‘What’s keepin’ you?’

 Her smile falters and her eyes dart down, away. It’s personal, this stuff, family stuff. But she’s gotta face this at some point, doesn’t she? And here, in the dying sunlight with a fresh pack of beer…

 She knocks her head back and gulps down the rest of bottle’s contents, hissing as it burns on the way down. On her left, Martin watches her with a half-cocked eyebrow.

 ‘Okay, so,’ she slams her hands down as she starts but they kind of just disturb a sand pile which irks her a bit. ‘Me n’ Todd have technically made up but like, there’s still a lot of weird boundaries here and I don’t know, my head’s still not the greatest and I-’

 She trails off as she looks over at Martin. He’s listening, really listening, with his eyes trained directly on her and his genuine intensity makes an irrational guilt rise up in her.

 Stop sidestepping the issue, she tells herself and sighs.

 ‘I’m scared of getting close to him again,’ she says finally. ‘Old Todd was a complete shithead built entirely on lies. And New Todd is…new. And I know he’s trying. But I don’t know how New Todd is going to be.’

 Amanda looks out towards the horizon. She feels tired, for some reason. There’s something else she wanted to say, something about her not wanting to get hurt again, but that seems a bit too cheesy. And, as she looks over to gauge Martin’s reaction, she finds her eyes meeting his and she feels like he already knows.

 Damn emotion-sensing vampires.

 He releases a gravelly sigh and looks out at the sea as well. His glasses have dried off somewhat and now they shine, reflecting the weakening sunlight onto his well-defined features.

 ‘You won’t know until you try,’ he says after a little while. ‘Give it a shot. It’ll be better than nothing.’

 ‘Will it?’

 ‘You don’t let opportunities pass you by, drummer,’ at this, he turns to her and grins. ‘You tie a note to a brick and throw it at them.’

 ‘…sweet talker,’ she mumbles because it makes her smile, as dumb as it is, and she props her elbows on her knees, trying to hide the dusting of red spreading across her cheeks.

Dammit, he’s right. Or she’s right. At some point, her wariness had lessened and now she thinks it’s the only course of action really left for her. The fear’s still there, simmering, but it’s tolerable. And god, she’s faced down psychopathic shape witches and, even worse, dudebros so what the hell. With a purposeful exhale, she dusts the sand off her knees and gets to her feet.

 ‘Okay. I’m doing it,’ she announces and Martin nods in encouragement.

 ‘It’s in the cupholder,’ he says and turns away, giving her privacy as she makes her way up to the van parked behind them.

 Amanda’s grateful he doesn’t follow. This is something she needs to do alone. Desperately, she remembers what she’s about to do and her brain races to formulate a plan but, goddamnit, the walk to the van really isn’t that long and then she’s there, the phone is in her hand and she’s punching in Todd’s phone number.

 Amanda breathes out a shaky exhale, her other hand clenching into a fist at her side, and then hits the green call button.

 --

 ‘Dirk, there a lot of black cats out there,’ Farah explains exasperatedly. On the opposite side of the diner table, Dirk stops shoveling his strawberry pancakes into his mouth and looks up, eyes twinkling with inspiration.

 ‘Maybe we can make an ad specifically catered to black cats associated with a range of disappearances or gorey murders!’ After a second, Dirk’s beaming expression falters. ‘Wait, actually –’

 ‘Why are we even using our resources on this?’ Todd interrupts as he picks at his own scrambled eggs and toast. Farah gives him a pointed look.

 ‘Because it’s a liability! We’ve got to take care of loose ends!’ she explains. ‘And, maybe we can harness its-its sharkness and use that for ourselves!’

 ‘I don’t know, Farah,’ Todd mutters. ‘I don’t think it’ll be that easy to control kitten-shark. Because, you know, it’s literally a shark in a kitten. Like, what if we forget to take out its litterbox one day? Do we just get chomped?’

 Dirk lifts up his maple-syrupy fork in his I-have-a-point-to-make way.

 ‘But Todd, I should say this,’ he says. ‘The kitten-shark did seem to like me. Maybe I’m the key!’

 ‘Yeah and what a shocker that would be,’ Todd says wryly and moves to pick up his fork so that he can eat more of his meal. Immediately, Dirk slaps him hard on his shoulder. ‘Whoa, what the hell?’

 ‘That’s. Mona!’ Dirk states deliberately and holds up an identical fork. ‘This is your fork!’

 ‘How can you even tell?’

 Dirk blinks at him, wide-eyed.

 ‘It’s obvious!’

 Before Todd can succinctly point out why that is such bullshit, his phone buzzes loudly from its place by his plate and he nearly forgets how to breathe when he sees the caller ID.

 ‘Holy shit!’ he says, snatching it up. ‘Oh my god, it’s Amanda!’

 ‘Oh, amazing!’ Dirk claps his hands together giddily and reaches for the phone. ‘We haven’t spoken to her in ages!’

 ‘Wait what? No-I-just let me-’ Todd hits the answer button quickly and gets out of their booth, striding into a quieter, more private area. ‘Amanda? Amanda, are you okay?’

 ‘Uh. Yeah. Just calling to check in with you,’ It’s thin and tinny but it’s her voice, not the voice of some would-be kidnapper, so Todd breathes a sigh of relief. ‘I call for things other than disasters, Todd.’

 ‘Yeah,’ he laughs, a bit nervous. ‘Sorry. Habit, you know.’

 ‘Right,’ she says and it’s kind of awkward but a background noise catches his attention.

 ‘Are those…waves?’

 ‘Yeah, I’m at a beach. It was super hot today and our AC broke so we’re hanging out here now.’

 ‘And how are your uh-,‘ Todd fumbles for a word for her gang. ‘-your friends?’

 ‘The rowdies? Oh, they’re loving it. They’re like, half naked and just fucking around in the water,’ Amanda’s voice gains a conspiratorial tone. ‘I’m including Beast in this description by the way so you can report back to Dirk.’

 Todd sniggers as he imagines how Dirk would react to the insinuation.

 ‘Sounds like you guys are having a good time.’

 ‘We are! Well, most of us. Martin doesn’t like sand.’

 ‘Wow, very Skywalker,’ he replies and smiles at the sound of Amanda’s laugh.

 ‘Yeah, that’s what I said!’ she says and, yet again, there’s a short, tense silence. ‘So uh, how’s it going on your end?’

 ‘Oh, well, we’re at a diner right now: me and Dirk and Farah. Dirk got a huge stack of strawberry pancakes that he’s definitely gonna regret soon.’

 ‘Pancakes? Isn’t it kinda late for that?’

 ‘Yeah, Dirk says evening pancakes are a thing. Mona’s here too but I’m still not entirely sure what she is,’ Todd squints back at his booth from which Dirk furiously waves with a fork that could or could not be Mona.

 ‘Sweet. So no new case yet?’

 ‘Well, you know how it works. A case’ll come when it wants to.’

 Amanda snorts.

 ‘Soooo you guys are just sitting on your asses?’

 ‘No! We-we’re trying to find the kitten-shark right now. Farah says it’s a liability we’ve gotta take responsibility of.’

 ‘Dude, it’s been ages. That kitten is long gone. Although, I guess you can’t really argue when Farah’s in charge,’ she adds sympathetically. Todd nods in agreement then realizes she can’t see him.

 ‘Yeah, she can be really scary.’

 ‘But also scary hot.’

 ‘Amanda!’ he splutters and over the line she breaks into laughter. Again, it devolves into a strained sort of silence before Amanda coughs a bit self consciously.

 ‘Um. How have you been feeling, Todd?’ she says. ‘The attacks, they-’

 ‘Yeah, uh,’ Todd continues. ‘You know, they’re a thing. But the pills help. Yep.’

 A pause.

 ‘This is weird,’ Todd says.

 ‘So weird,’ Amanda seconds. ‘I need to be like, 200% more drunk for this.’

 ‘You’re drunk?’

 ‘How do you think this phone call is even happening?’

 ‘True. I should’ve guessed that.’

 ‘You’re part of a detective agency, man.’

 ‘Technically, the detective part is all Dirk.’

 ‘Doesn’t mean you can slack off, slacker.’

 The ensuing silence is marginally less awkward. Todd counts that as a win.

 ‘I think I need to go soon,’ Amanda says quickly and Todd rushes to respond.

 ‘Oh! Okay!’ he says. ‘Um. Stay safe! And uh – wear protection?’

 For a second, there’s just the sound of waves coming in from Amanda’s end then-

 ‘What. The fuck, Todd.’

 ‘I-I don’t know what you guys do so-!’

 ‘Are you fucking kidding m-’Amanda makes a soul-crushing groan. She kind of sounds like she’s dying. ‘We’re not, like, having orgies 24/7 or something, Todd! Jesus Christ!’

 ‘-you never tell me what you do! I’m just trying to cover all bases, here.’

 Another silence, this one more weighted than the others.

 ‘Was that a fucking pun.’

 ‘What?’

 ‘I can’t believe you!’

 ‘That was not – I mean, I guess it was – ’

 ‘You made a pun about - ’

 ‘- it was absolutely not intentional – ’

 ‘Okay, I am definitely leaving right now. Bye.’

 ‘Wait, Amanda!’ Todd exclaims and exhales in relief as the sound of the ocean doesn’t immediately cut off. Amana breathes out a despairing sigh.

 ‘Yeah?’

 Todd swallows down his nervousness.

 ‘I love you, Amanda. Thank you for calling,’ he says quietly. On the other end, the sound of waves. He’s getting used to the silences now. ‘You don’t have to answer or anythi-‘

 ‘Love you too, Todd,’ she blurts out. ‘Bye.’

 And then she’s gone and Todd is left feeling oddly satisfied with what was, all in all, a very strange conversation.

 ‘Yes!’ he hisses to himself and skips back over to his booth. Dirk and Farah look at him expectantly.

 ‘Well?’ Dirk asks. Todd grins mischievously.

 ‘Amanda wants you to know they’re at a beach and Beast is half naked.’

 ‘Oh for god’s sakes – ‘

 --

 Amanda nearly cracks her screen with how forcefully she ends the phone call and throws the device unceremoniously into the glovebox. Jesus Christ, her face is still red and she buries it in her hands for a good few seconds, desperately willing away the embarrassment.

 ‘Wear protection’. God.

 Still. That end part. That was okay.

 With a sigh, she closes the car door and climbs down the sandy slope. Martin doesn’t seem to have moved but now he’s smoking a fresh cigarette and he gestures for her to sit down.

 ‘I’m guessing it went well, then,’ he says as she slumps into the ground beside him.

 ‘Well yeah but you are an emotionally-conscious vampire,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘No need to guess.’

 ‘You’re smiling, drummer. Doesn’t take my abilities to know,’ he chuckles as she sputters in embarrassment. ‘Aaand there it goes.’

 ‘You’re so...’ Amanda grumbles, turning away. ‘May sand eternally plague you.’

 ‘Mm. Very ‘celestial punishment’. I like it.’

 In response, she kicks a wave of sand over his legs. Annoyingly, he doesn’t even move.

 ‘C’mon, drummer,’ he hands her a fresh bottle of beer from the bucket. ‘Truce.’

 She squints at him suspiciously and then snatches it out of his hands. Appeased, he leans back on his haunches and puffs out a cloud of smoke, content. For some reason, it strikes her in that moment as she sips from her bottle how bestial he really feels. Not savage, not like that. It’s more like he embodies the slow grace of a natural hunter, a predator. Eternally watchful.

 Amanda wonders, in her stupor of silent contemplation, if he came to her because she howled for him.

 ‘Somethin’ wrong, drummer?’

 She didn’t even notice that he’d moved to look back at her.

 ‘Just wondering if we’re leaving soon.’

 He shrugs and inclines his head towards her.

 ‘It’s your call. Remember, drummer, you’re the boss.’

 She laughs, shortly.

 ‘The boss? It took me a whole day to hype myself up for a phone call. With my brother.’

 ‘You did it, though. That’s something.’

 From him, the phrase somehow doesn’t seem like an empty platitude. Amanda stares at him for a second then sighs, conceding. And maybe it’s the beer, maybe it’s how she’s so emotionally vulnerable after that phone call that she started waxing poetry. All she knows is that she suddenly feels very tired and she leans into Martin, her head sliding into the crook of his neck. His skin is still damp from the sea and the water seeps into her hair like cool, massaging fingers.

 ‘This doesn’t feel real,’ she whispers, her voice barely audible. ‘Any moment now, I’ll wake up in my bedroom and go through my list of pills to take and walk around my dumb, tiny house with the door that’s always locked and-’

 Amanda trails off as she feels the comforting weight of Martin’s fingers stroke through her hair.

 ‘It’s real, drummer,’ he says gruffly. ‘We’re here.’

 On any other day, this would seem impossible. But today, Amanda smashed a car, broke a frat boy’s nose, drank two bottles of bucket beer and made a phone call to her brother. So she can’t really help herself from leaning up and kissing Martin lightly on his cheek, smiling at the feeling of his bushy beard scratching at her skin. And then she’s on her feet and running down to the waves, joining her rowdies who welcome her with shouts and cheers, desperately affirming to her that this is her life, this is real, and she captures each one’s face in her hands and kisses them on their forehead, their nose, their cheeks.

 ‘I love you,’ she whispers into them and they hear and celebrate with whoops and laughter and glee and there’s no more silence. No more empty, cramped house in her mind, no pills, no lies.

 It can’t be a dream. She knows this now. Her mind couldn’t have even imagined this, much less force it onto her in her sleep.

 And then Martin is there, picking her up and swinging her around, his hand solidly placed on her back to hold her close and she’s wrapping her arms around his neck and laughing into his skin. She makes a deep happy sigh and giggles.

 ‘I am so drunk,’ she says and she falls back, knowing with an unfailing certainty that her family will be there to catch her before she hits the water.

[cmaceface]

Explored the Big Tujunga Canyon side of the forest today. Hiked to the Condor Peak area out of Vogel Flats. Early wildflower blooms, partly cloudy skies, mid 50's, cold breeze, can't complain about that! #condorpeaktrail #bigtujungacanyon #bigtujungadam #angelesnationalforest #anf #sangabrielmountains #springbloom #wildflowers #hike #hiking #hikinglife #hikingadventures #hikingwithdogs #thegreatoutdoors #optoutside #nature #naturelover #naturephotography #landscape #landscapephotography #goodday #goodhike #findyourhike #findyourpark (at Condor Peak) https://www.instagram.com/p/CMI0KdtAFnr/?igshid=10p5fgngtczz

[harry-is-on-route-66]

Day Seven: Vogel Canyon

Colorado

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15/6/20 Komischer Vogel. Das passiert, wenn man Bilder aus einer andern Perspektive anschaut. #angelawerlen #angieverlaine #book #drawing #instaart #collage #coronachronicles #coronart #ateliercorona #tobecontinued #sketchbook #skizzenbuch #ilovebirds #komischervogel #sturmfrisur #hühnerbeinchen #canyon #see #spiegelung (hier: Ferden, Switzerland) https://www.instagram.com/p/CBjBtAuAGNC/?igshid=15kyle7fl24s8