#WESTON WOODS. got it

[squoobest]

FUUUCK SPACE MUTINY IS PLAYING on the mst3k turkey day marathon while im cooking . i can’t afford to miss big mclargehuge. rip steakface.

[kyseya]

How would the farm brothers react if reader was an artist or if they liked to sing and they caught them singing to themselves while they worked?

If reader enjoyed singing (feat. the dogs)

Lucas’ ears perked up. He’d picked up on a strange sound- number of sounds, if one wanted to be specific. The were muffled and he couldn’t hear them clearly but it was definitely human speech. Had someone managed to get into the farm? Why had the dogs not warned them? Godamnit, they would have to be trained again and should be prepared to lose their treat privileges.

The young man put down the hammer he was working with. Both him and Weston had agreed it would be best to reinforce the walls of the barn.

Despite there being little to no chance they’d get out or even get very far, the brothers couldn’t risk anyone getting lose.

If it was an ordinary citizen they would be easily driven away or..taken care of- if that’s what it takes. However, should it be an officer there were chances of real trouble. Before Lucas took another step in the direction of his brother, he cast the hammer a second glance. Thoughful for a moment, he picked it up again. It was sturdy in his calloused hands. It felt safe. It felt right. You can never be too careful, after all.

He quickly went to find his brother. Weston’s back was turned to him whilst he was chopping wood. He made it seem so easy; only one swing and the log fell into two distinct pieces. A small bead of sweat rolled down Weston’s forehead. One might say ‘oh, so he is human after all. See, he sweats!’ , but Lucas knew how long he’d been out there and it wasn’t until now a sign of exhaustion showed.

“Weston!” He said alarmingly. The older brother looked up from his work, a worried expression taking over his once neutral face. “I heard talking, I thinks someone’s at the farm- near the main house.”

Weston’s whole body tensed up. “Where is (Y/n)?”

Oh no. In the past he was always used to going directly to his brother if he suspected the slightest thing. It was so far drilled into his mind you could call it an instinct. He had done it so many times he didn’t think at all of the little woman they’d made part of their family. She was so fragile compared to them, how would she be able to fare on her own.

The two of them immediately rushed to where Lucas had heard the sounds(Weston also had the notion of bringing his working tool). The closer they got, the clearer the noise got. Eventually they realised it was song. Someone was singing. If they hadn’t been so focused on finding their beloved and ridding their home of the intruder, they would have stopped to consider how wonderful it sounded.

As they got near the source, both realised the voice was actually somewhat familiar. Very familiar, in fact. They slowed down and peeked around the corner.

On the porch of the main house sat you. You had this calm aura around you and a bright smile. You were the one singing. The song was light and happy, just like you. Clearly, the farm dogs were feeling it too because they were simply melting in your hands. You gently took one’s head in your palms and massaged its face. You chuckled and gave it a kiss. The dog happily wagged its tail at the gesture and licked you on the cheek in return.

So the pups were the ones you were singing for.

The Callaghan brothers instantly relaxed. Great, there were no danger. Weston gave Lucas a slight glare, who responded with a nervous laugh.

“Sorry. I-I haven’t heard her sing before and it was actually from a distance! You can’t fault me for making a mistake.” He quickly excused himself and went back to work. He felt a chill down his back and as he walked, he could stil feel his older brothers stink eye following him.

Weston sighed when lucas was out of sight. What an idiot. It seemed like they’d gotten worked up over nothing. He looked over at you once more before leaving to continue his labour. You were so beautiful as you sat there in the afternoon sun, playing with the dogs. Now you had started on a new song and some of the pups were becoming jealous with the amount of attention the other one was getting.

Weston smiled to himself. Perhaps he’d get you to sing in front of him live one day.

[elmleif]

It’s the last full day of the big Granite Falls trip, so after breakfast Weston asked Rowan to join him on a hike. And almost as if Mother Nature knew these two were about to enter the woods for a proposal, they were greeted by a group of monarch butterflies which happen to be their favorite. They hiked for a while, Weston anxiously following Rowan’s lead since he knows this forest well, until they finally reached a clearing where they could sit and watch the clouds roll by together. They eventually got back up to start their long hike back to the cabin, and when Rowan began walking off Weston politely held onto his arm to stop him from going further, looked him dead in the eye, and dropped down to one knee and popped the question. Rowan knew it was coming at some point this trip after accidentally finding the ring in their luggage, but that still didn’t make this moment any less exciting or perfect to him.

[mysticstarlightduck]

ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕀𝕟𝕥𝕣𝕠𝕕𝕦𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 (𝕎𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕃𝕦𝕣𝕜𝕤 𝕀𝕟 𝕋𝕙𝕖 ℍ𝕠𝕝𝕝𝕠𝕨) - ℤ𝕒𝕔𝕙 𝕋𝕒𝕪𝕝𝕠𝕣𝕤

Another character introduction post for What Lurks In The Hollow, this time for Zach Taylors - Amy's best friend and boyfriend.

If you like this, pls reblog! 💕

🎞️About/General Info🎞️

The first friend Amy made after returning to Vinethorn Grove, Zach Taylors is a goth teenager ran away from home to escape his abusive stepfather who lives in a neighbouring town, so now Zach secretly lives in an abandoned cabin he found near the woods - he may be homeless, but according to himself, he has never felt more free, or more safe. He and Amy were an instantly match made in chaos heaven, having been friends ever since they bumped into each other on the chilly autumn evening of the day she'd moved back into town. A certified troublemaker, Zach is still a gentleman and possibly the kindestkid in town, despite his kooky and eccentric personality. He loves alternative music, often ones matching with his improvised grunge/goth style, and can often be found either skateboarding around town or reading books - which he steals from the local library - on the outskirts of the woods, near the lake. Amy's brother, Dylan, is a bit wary of him, worried that he may be trouble and sometimes considering him 'too much', but also partially because Zach's sarcastic wit and rebellious tendencies clash with Dylan's more serious outlook, and so they don't always see eye to eye. As their paranormal investigation progresses, Zach slowly starts to become part of the Millihan's family, and finds that he may just not be quite as lonely as he once was anymore, much to his relief and confusion.

🎞️ More Info 🎞️

Pronouns - He/Him Age - 16 Appearance - Zach is average height and has pale skin without freckles, as well as messy short dark brown (almost black) hair that sticks out in a few directions and which he brushes up off his face. His eyes are brown and sharp, and he has a mischievous grin. For clothes, he usually wears cotton or flannel long-sleeve shirts usually in hues of grey, brown or black, under a long pitch black jaket, with black denim pants, black converse shoes studded with spikes and black fingerless gloves with ripped fishnetting. He also almost always uses black nail polish and eyeliner, which he takes great pride in.

Personality Types:

📸Enneagram: 7w8

📸MBTI: INTP/ENTP

Occupation: Homeless runaway, works part time jobs at a few local businesses that don't ask too many questions

Place of Birth: Criksdale (a town neighbouring Vinethorn Grove)

Orientation: Straight

🎞️ Personal Life 🎞️

Family:

Jenny Taylors (nèe Weston) - Mother

Status: Unknown Age: Presumably late 30s, early forties, if she's still alive somewhere Occupations: Convenience store clerk, busker (plays the guitar) Relationship: Complicated but not awful (she was troubled and developed a drug addiction/drinking problem after his father passed but wasn't a bad mother, wasn't a perfect one either)

David Taylors - Father

Status: Deceased Age: 29-30 Occupations: Ex-military, mechanic, musician Cause of Death: Accidental Electrocution (while at work) Relationship: Great (David was an awesome father and Zach's main role model, and also was the person from whom Zach got his love for unique things and a goth style)

Brendan Heddam - Step Father

Status: Alive Age: mid forties Occupations: Biker, Gang Leader Relationship: AWFUL (Brendam is a very violent and abusive man who hurt Zach emotionally and physically especially after Jenny hit the road/disappeared, and though Zach was able to run away the man is still hunting him down as he blames him for Jenny 'leaving him')

Best Friends/Allies:

Amy Millihan:

Status: Alive Age: 16 Occupation: Student (currently on school break), Paranormal Investigator & Enthusiast Relationship: Good (Amy is his best friend and girlfriend)

Liam Steele:

Status: Alive Occupations: Student (currently on school break), Rock 'n Roll Enthusiast, Local Troublemaker, Paranormal Investigator (begrudgingly) Relatioship: Good

Cody Piotrowitz

Status: Alive Occupations: Student (currently on school break), Animal Shelter Volunteer, Paranormal Investigator Relationship: Good

Tasha Strikehart

Status: Alive Occupations: Student (currently on school break), car wash assistant, barista and repair shop assistant Relationship: Good

🎞️ Likes & Dislikes 🎞️

Hobbies/Interests:

Listening to grunge rock and alternative pop, especially more gothic or spooky styles, on his old headphones, almost all the time

Skateboarding around town

Playing with his gecko, Mark, (which he stole from a parked pet store truck) and spending time taking care of it

Reading books, stolen from the local library, in the woods - his favorite genres are detective mysteries, philosophy, and obscure classics and books by unknown authors

Drinking milkshake at their favorite diner and eating hamburgers with curly fries

Investigating the paranormal activity of the woods with Amy and their friends, especially whenever their searches do wield results

Being a menace to society

Making passinate debates about sociopolitical topics or even very trivial or unknown facts

Playfully getting on Dylan's nerves on purpose

Spending quality time with Amy, watching movies, walking around, talking or just being in the same room

Sleeping

Eating big breakfasts with more food than one would consider possible

Making new, improvised props for his goth style and even sewing some new patches to his clothes or changing a shirt's shape all together

Pranking his friends

Additional Favorites: (Extra List Here)

Music: Grunge Rock/Alternative Pop

Person (his 'comfort people'): Amy

Candy: Caramel candies with peppermint

Place: 1. The Millhan's lakehouse, 2. his hideout

Fictional Creature: Banshee, Mothman

Scent: Petrichor, Vanilla Milkshakes and Burnt Wood

General Dislikes/Hates:

His step father (Brendan). Despite Zach's confidence and teenage swagger, he is absolutely terrified of his step father and with good reason: the man is dangerous, and would probably kill him if he had the chance. Whenever they have a close call with Brendan, Zach always has a panic attack later.

Being abandoned/discarded. Zach is a very loyal and kind person, but due to his early traumas - his dad's death, his mother leaving, his stepfather's abusive tendencies - he has developed an inherent fear that he might be 'worthless' or 'unlovable' and lives with a constant dread that his current friends may leave him ("just like everyone else does") once they """grow tired of him""".

Judgemental people, as well as controlling traditions which stifle the creativity of new generations

Corrupt or lazy politicians or public figures

Feeling like he's missing out on something, especially if he feels he isn't being included, though he usually hides the feeling

People who mistreat animals

Dylan not accepting him or treating him like he's just a troubled kid

Movies with cheesy plots or badly written character arcs

When townsfolk cling to misguided beliefs because its just easier that way

People who abuse of their power

Motorcycles and bikers, especially threatening ones

Repetitive conversations about meaningless topics

The smell of cleaning disinfectant

Squishy/sticky food

🎞️ Playlist: 🎞️

Boulevard of Broken Dreams - Green Day

Seventeen - Heathers

It's Alright - Mother Mother

Crossfire - Stephen

The Chain - Evanescence

Ride - Twenty-One Pilots

I'm Not Famous - AJR

What Lurks In The Hollow Taglist (-/+): @ray-writes-n-shit, @sarandipitywrites @smol-feralgremlin, @kaylinalexanderbooks,

@diabolical-blue @oh-no-another-idea

@cakeinthevoid, @clairelsonao3, @sleepy-night-child

@thepeculiarbird

@the-golden-comet, @urnumber1star, @ominous-feychild, @anyablackwood, @amaiguri, @finickyfelix

@lyutenw, @elshells, @thelovelymachinery,

@bookwormclover, @an-indecisive-nerd, @the-letterbox-archives

Let me know if you'd like to be added!

[mappingthemoon]

Books Read 2024

David Bowie (Little People, Big Dreams) / Ma Isabel Sánchez Vegara ; Ana Albero (ill.) (Francis Lincoln Children’s Books, 2019)

Angels and Insects / A. S. Byatt (Chatto & Windus, 1992)

How to Stay Alive in the Woods / Bradford Angier (Collier Books, 1962)

Mythology: Timeless Tales of Gods and Heroes / Edith Hamilton (Grand Central Publishing, 2011)

True Stories / Sophie Calle (Actes Sud, 2018)

The Lottery and Other Stories / Shirley Jackson (The Modern Library, 2000)

The Healthy Deviant: A Rule Breaker’s Guide to Being Healthy in an Unhealthy World / Pilar Gerasimo (North Atlantic Books, 2020)

The Ascent of Man / J. Bronowski (Little, Brown and Company, 1973)*

David Bowie: His Life on Earth, 1947-2016 / Allison Adato (ed.) (Time Inc. Books, 2016)

“The Paranoid Style in American Politics” / Richard Hofstadter, in: Anti-Intellectualism in American Life, The Paranoid Style in American Politics, Uncollected Essays 1956-1965 (The Library of America, 2020)

Underworld / Don DeLillo (Scribner, 1998)

The Primal Wound: Understanding the Adopted Child / Nancy Newton Verrier (Gateway Press, Inc., 1993)

Moon Shot: The Inside Story of America’s Race to the Moon / Alan Shepard & Deke Slayton (Turner Publishing, Inc., 1994)

Nevada / Imogen Binnie (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2022)

Collected Short Stories and the novel The Ballad of the Sad Café / Carson McCullers (The Riverside Press ; Houghton Mifflin Company, 1955)

The Discovery of the Titanic / Robert D. Ballard w/Rick Archbold ; Ken Marschall (ill.) (Warner/Maidon Press, 1987)

The J. Paul Getty Museum Handbook of the Photographs Collection / Weston Naef (The J. Paul Getty Museum, 1995)

Changing the Earth: Aerial Photographs / Emmet Gowin ; Jock Reynolds (Yale University Art Gallery in association with the Corcoran Gallery of Art and Yale University Press, 2002)

“There’s an Awful Lot of Weirdos in Our Neighborhood” & Other Wickedly Funny Verse / Colin McNaughton (Simon & Schuster, 1987)*

The Anatomical Tattoo / Emily Evans (Anatomy Boutique Books, 2017)

Artists Books / Dianne Perry Vanderlip (cur.) (Moore College of Art ; University Art Museum, Berkeley, 1973)

Risomania: The New Spirit of Printing / John Z. Komurki (Niggli, imprint of Braun Publishing AG, 2017)

American Music / Annie Leibovitz (Random House, 2004)

Atonement: A Novel / Ian McEwan (Anchor Books, A Division of Random House, Inc., 2003)

The Land Where the Blues Began / Alan Lomax (Pantheon Books, 1993)

Snoopy to the Moon! (Peanuts Space Adventures) / Jason Cooper ; Tom Brannon (ill.) (Peanuts Worldwide LLC ; Happy Meal Readers ; Reading Is Fundamental, 2019)

Just for Fun / Patricia Scarry ; Richard Scarry (ill.) (A Golden Book; Western Publishing Company, Inc., 1960)

The Emotionally Absent Mother: How to Recognize and Heal the Invisible Effects of Childhood Emotional Neglect / Jasmin Lee Cori (The Experiment, 2017)

A Girl Is a Half-Formed Thing / Eimear McBride (Coffee House Press, 2014)

Bluets / Maggie Nelson (Wave Books, 2014)

The Secret History / Donna Tartt (Ballantine Books, 2002)

Touch Me I’m Sick / Charles Peterson (powerHouse Books, 2003)

Rose-Petal’s Big Decision (Rose-Petal Place) / Nancy Buss ; Pat Paris & Sharon Ross-Moore (ill.) (Parker Brothers, 1984)*

9½ Weeks: A Memoir of a Love Affair / Elizabeth McNeill (Berkley Books, 1979)

Keep Coming Back / Julia Clinker (Nexus Press, 2001)

Parable of the Sower (Earthseed #1) / Octavia Butler (Seven Stories Press, 2016)

Parable of the Talents (Earthseed #2) / Octavia Butler (Seven Stories Press, 2016)

Great Expectations / Charles Dickens (Cherish, [1994])

I’ve Got a Time Bomb: A Novel / Sibyl Lamb (Topside Press, [2014])

My Brilliant Friend: Book One: Childhood, Adolescence (The Neapolitan Novels #1) / Elena Ferrante ; Ann Goldstein (tr.) (Europa Editions, 2012)

Artists’ Books: A Cataloguers’ Manual / Maria White, Patrick Perratt, Liz Lawes on behalf of ARLIS/UK & Ireland Cataloguing and Classification Committee (ARLIS/UK & Ireland ; Art Libraries Society, 2006)

The Book as Art: Artists’ Books from the National Museum of Women in the Arts / Krystyna Wasserman (Princeton Architectural Press, 2007)

Alas, Babylon / Pat Frank (Perennial Classics, 1999)

To the Lighthouse / Virginia Woolf (The Hogarth Press, 1967)

The Photograph as Contemporary Art (World of Art), 3rd ed. / Charlotte Cotton (Thames & Hudson, 2014)

Swamp Water / Vereen Bell (Little, Brown and Company, 1941)

Ongoingness: The End of a Diary / Sarah Manguso (Graywolf Press, 2015)

Selected Poems / T. S. Eliot (Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1964)

The New Way Things Work / David Macaulay ; Neil Ardley (Houghton Mifflin Company, 1998)

The Little Friend / Donna Tartt (Vintage Books, A Division of Random House, Inc., 2003)

At the Same Time: Essays and Speeches / Susan Sontag ; Paolo Dilonardo, Anne Jump (eds.) (Farrar Straus Giroux, 2007)

It’s All Absolutely Fine: Life Is Complicated So I’ve Drawn It Instead / Ruby Elliott (Andrews McMeel Publishing, 2017)

Things Fall Apart / Chinua Achebe (Penguin Books, 2017)

Beyond Katrina: A Meditation on the Mississippi Gulf Coast / Natasha Trethewey (University of Georgia Press, 2010)

A Humument: A Treated Victorian Novel (Final ed.) / Tom Phillips (Thames & Hudson, 2016)

Tree of Codes (2nd ed.) / Jonathan Safran Foer (Visual Editions, 2011)

Gutshot: Stories / Amelia Gray (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2015)

Equus / Peter Shaffer (Scribner, 2005)

National Geographic, vol. 136, no. 6 (December 1969) “Space Record”

Sun Moon Earth: The History of Solar Eclipses from Omens of Doom to Einstein and Exoplanets / Tyler Nordren (Basic Books, 2016)

Pittsburgh’s South Side (Images of America) / Stuart P. Boehmig (Arcadia Publishing, 2006)

Books read in 2024; asterisks * denote rereads. Favorites this year were Ian McEwan & Donna Tartt, LOVE a good coming-of-age story with a perceptive & melodramatic protagonist set in that liminal period between childhood and adulthood!! Pretty sure the main reason I grabbed the Donna Tartt books while thrifting was just from seeing the occasional tumblr user obsess about them, and oh man I was not disappointed! It is rare that I speed through a 600-page novel but, ugh, the way she puts words together is so riveting. Dickensian levels of detail! Speaking of which, I did actually read a Dickens book this year, Great Expectations, which ended up on my list a few years ago after a stranger on the bus tried to initiate conversation with me by asking what I was reading. He said that Great Expectations was his favorite book, and I was like, “oh cool, I read that in high school, I liked it,” and he was like, super excited that I had also read his fave classic. Well, later on after I got off the bus, I realized I had gotten that title confused with The Great Gatsby (which I did read in high school along with millions of other Americans probably) and I felt bad for accidentally deceiving Random Guy on the Bus, so the next time I saw a copy of Great Expectations at the thrift store, I picked it up. Not bad!!

What else? I’m very late to the Elena Ferrante party, but I enjoyed My Brilliant Friend in text form wayyy better than my attempt to listen to the audiobook five years ago (I just could not follow the audio version and couldn’t get into the story). Charles Peterson’s Touch Me I’m Sick was a fave photo book of the year; it had been on my list since 2015, whoops (I had to interlibrary loan it). This year I read a pretty even mix of books from my to-read list (earliest titles added 2015), books from my to-read pile (items I have thrifted within the past few years), and random interruptions to those lists. Oh, I also read a TON of essays and articles about artists’ books (not listed above) for the class I took at Rare Book School in the summer. I read a couple painfully healing books about motherhood and adoption (The Primal Wound / Nancy Newton Verrier & The Emotionally Absent Mother / Jasmin Lee Cori) that I wish I could’ve encountered earlier in my life but also who knows, maybe this year was cosmically the perfect time for my brain to be receptive. I picked up Alas, Babylon because it was a title I remembered seeing my dad reading at the kitchen table one time when I was a kid. (It’s a 1959 novel about surviving in post-nuclear apocalypse small-town Florida; there is some light misogyny and racism of its era, but also the librarian plays an important role, which I thought was sweet. A couple paragraphs are devoted to the librarian’s perennial struggles [pre-apocalypse] to secure funding, to keep the populace’s attention in spite of modern distractions like tv and air conditioning!) Finally, I also really enjoyed Moon Shot (which I took with me to the eclipse on April 8); here's what I wrote about it in my reading spreadsheet: “The writing style wasn’t particularly phenomenal, yet I was still moved to tears several times while reading … about witnessing the beauty of space, the thrill of exploration, the astronauts’ successes and tragedies, and at the end, the simplicity and sentimentality and symbolism of the Apollo-Soyuz friendships. I can’t help but wonder what the fuck it is about billionaires … that they seemingly don’t become overwhelmed with the desire to save and protect our fragile planet after seeing it from space, a feeling many astronauts seem to have experienced.”

In general, I do most of my reading on the bus during my commutes to and from work, so I get in about 30-60 minutes per day of reading. But also this year I had several incidents of extensive sustained silent reading due to long waiting periods during travel – I read at least the first 100 pages of The Secret History while I was stuck overnight at Newark Airport in July; in August, I read almost all of Parable of the Talents on an Amtrak from Atlanta to Greensboro, then a chunk of Great Expectations on the way back. It was so nice to have that kind of IMMERSIVE, hours-long reading experience again! And especially with such richly detailed & descriptive stories! In 2025 I hope to be able to devote more time to slow, analog reading.

[jpbjazz]

LÉGENDES DU JAZZ

HORACE TAPSCOTT, UN INNOVATEUR D’EXCEPTION

“He saved Los Angeles when it comes to progressive music. Because if you were going to get involved in that, you had to come through Horace Tapscott.” 

- Dwight Trible

Né le 6 avril 1934 à Houston, au Texas, Horace Tapscott s’était installé à Los Angeles avec sa famille à l’âge de neuf ans. Issue d’une famille musicale, Tapscott était le fils de Mary Lou Malone, une tubiste et pianiste de stride.

C’est également à l’époque de son arrivée à que Tapscott avait commencé à apprendre le piano et le trombone. Durant son adolescence, Tapscott avait joué du trombone avec de futures sommités du jazz comme le saxophoniste Frank Morgan, le trompettiste Don Cherry et le batteur Billy Higgins.

DÉBUTS DE CARRIÈRE

Après avoir fait son service militaire avec la US Air Force au Wyoming, Tapscott était retourné à Los Angeles et avait joué du trombone avec différents groupes, dont ceux de Lionel Hampton de 1959 à 1961. Tapscott avait abandonné le trombone peu après pour se consacrer au piano.

Tapscott n’avait jamais tellement apprécié la vie de tournée. Lors d’une escale à Los Angeles en 1961, Tapscott était finalement sorti de l’autobus de tournée d’Hampton pour la dernière fois. Comme Tapscott l’avait expliqué au cours d’une entrevue qu’il avait accordée en 1982: “No one discovered I was gone until they got to Arizona.’’

Toujours en 1961, Tapscott avait formé son propre groupe appelé le Pan Afrikan Peoples Arkestra, une formation qui avait pour but de préserver, de développer et de faire la promotion de la musique afro-américaine tout en prêchant les vertus de l’unité (ujamaa en langue swahili). Le groupe était formé à l’origine de Lester Robertson au trombone, d’Arthur Blythe, de Jimmy Woods et de Guido Sinclair aux saxophones, de David Bryant à la contrebasse et de Bill Madison à la batterie. Caractérisé par une instrumentation inusitée rappelant ses influences africaines, le groupe était souvent composé de deux ou trois bassistes, de deux ou trois percussionnistes et d’au moins un batteur. Outre ses influences africaines, le groupe s’inscrivait directement dans la lignée de la musique de pionniers du jazz comme  Art Tatum, Duke Ellington et Thelonious Monk, aussi bien que d’innovateurs contemporains comme Andrew Hill et Randy Weston

En 1963, le groupe s’était joint à une organisation plus vaste appelée la Underground Musicians Association (UGMA) qui avait adopté plus tard le nom d’Union of God's Musicians and Artists Ascension (UGMAA). Mais l’implication de Tapscott dépassait largement la musique. Lors des émeutes de Watts en 1965, le groupe se produisait sur un camion plateforme situé au milieu de la route lorsqu’il avait été interpellé par des policiers armés.

Très impliqué dans une communauté particulièrement marquée par le racisme, le groupe se produisait régulièrement dans les églises, les centres communautaires, les prisons et les hôpitaux souvent pour une bouchée de pain et remettait ses rares revenus au mouvement des Black Panthers, ce qui avait lui avait valu d’être surveillé étroitement par le FBI.

Le groupe avait aussi permis à plusieurs musiciens de la relève de se produire sur scène pour la première fois. Il avait également regroupé les musiciens de rue et efait connaître les arts aux jeunes enfants du ghetto. Parmi les membres successifs du groupe de Tapscott, on remarquait de futurs grands noms du jazz comme  Arthur Blythe, Stanley Crouch, Butch Morris, Wilber Morris, David Murray, Jimmy Woods, Kamau Daaood, Adele Sebastian, Phil Ranelin,  Sabir Mateen, Nate Morgan et Guido Sinclair. Doté d’une remarquable longévité, le groupe était demeuré en activité jusqu’à la mort de Tapscott en 1999.

Même si le 50e anniversaire du groupe était passé pratiquement inaperçu, les membres de la formation étaient déterminés à ce que la célébration de ses soixante années d’existence ne connaîtraient pas le même sort. À l’occasion de son 60e anniversaire de fondation en 2021, le groupe avait fait l’objet d’une compilation intitulée “60 Years’’ qui comprenait essentiellement des enregistrements inédits étalés sur les six décennies d’existence du groupe. Le saxophoniste Michel Session avait expliqué: ‘’We were like, ‘We’re going to make a product that will introduce a bunch of people to this band in a way that’s comprehensive and concise. This is for us, by us. We wanted to present something to the people from the band that can directly pay the band and support the band, and then be turned into other projects. It’s the first time the Ark has been able to do that, really.” 

La pièce "The Golden Pearl’’, qui avait été écrite en hommage à la grand-mère de Tapscott, mettait en vedette le jeune Arthur Blythe ainsi que le tromboniste Lester Robertson (aussi connu sous le surnom de Lately) et le bassiste David Bryant, un vétéran qui était toujours avec le groupe après avoir joint ses rangs trente ans plus tôt. L’album était également un hommage à un ex-membre du groupe, Herbert Baker, qui était décédé dans un accident automobile à l’âge de seulement vingt ans.

Six décennies après sa fondation, Session croyait que la mission du groupe n’avait pas vraiment changé et qu’il devait continuer d’innover et d’aller de l’avant. Session avait précisé: “I want to get weirder. I want to get back to how Horace did shows at prisons and high schools and colleges for free. We could sell out Carnegie Hall and then come home and do the same set for 50, 60 cats. I want that balance. It sounds impossible, but we can do it.”

Lorsqu’il s’était joint au groupe, le chanteur Dwight Trible faisait partie d’une autre formation, mais il désirait absolument faire partie de l’Arkestra. Deux semaines après s’être produit avec le chanteur dans le cadre du même festival, Tapscott avait invité Trible à se joindre au groupe. Trible racontait: “He said, ‘I want you to come to my house tomorrow at 3 o’clock,’ and he hung up the phone. And just about every concert that Horace played from that time on, I sang with him in some capacity.” Le saxophoniste Michael Session s’était joint à l’Arkestra durant son adolescence. Il poursuivait: “I’m 13 and my first gig with the Ark is with Azar Lawrence. It’s actually a very humbling thing to be a medium, a conduit for the ancestors trying to spread this vibration as far and as hard as possible.” Session avait fait partie plus tard des groupes de Miles Davis, McCoy Tyner et Freddie Hubbard.

Même s’il avait enregistré un premier album intitulé “The Giant Is Awakened’’ avec un quintet en 1969, Tapscott il n’avait publié un premier album avec l’Arkestra qu’en 1978. Intitulé ‘’The Call’’, l’album était un mélange de bebop, de free jazz, de ballades très influencées par le blues et d’arrangements orchestraux. Comprenant le grand succès ‘’Flight 17’’, l’album mettait notamment en vedette le légendaire contrebassiste Red Callender.

DERNIÈRES ANNÉES

En 1995, l’Arkestra s’était produit dans le cadre du festival de Moers en Allemagne où il avait remporté un grand succès. Tapscott était sur le point s’obtenir enfin la reconnaissance qu’il méritait lorsqu’il était mort d’un double cancer du cerveau et des poumons le 27 février 1999 à l’âge de soixante-quatre ans.

Le lendemain de sa mort, Tapscott devait faire l’objet d’un concert en son honneur au parc Leimart de Los Angeles. Une plaque en hommage à Tapscott a d’ailleurs été érigée dans le parc sur laquelle on pouvait lire: "Horace Tapscott, the local pianist and organizer whose ensemble, the Pan Afrikan Peoples Arkestra, gave many musicians their first gigs and helped heal a community impacted by racism." Les archives, arrangements et enregistrements de Tapscott ont été légués en 2003 par sa veuve Cecilia Tapscott à la bibliothèque de l’Université de Californie à Los Angeles (UCLA) sous le nom de UCLA Horace Tapscott Jazz Collection. Les admirateurs de Tapscott avaient fondé deux compagnies de disques en son honneur dans les années 1970 et 1980, Interplay et Nimbus, avec lesquelles il avait enregistré.

Un an avant la mort de Tapscott en 1999, l’Arkestra avait enregistré un album live intitulé Why Don’t You Listen ? Enregistré au Los Angeles County Museum of Art, l’album comprenait en exergue le leitmotiv caractéristique: ‘’Notre musique est contributive plutôt que compétitive.’’ Sur la pièce ‘’Little Africa’’, on retrouvait également une citation du Black National Anthem qui stipulait: ‘’Que notre joie s’élève haut dans les cieux qui écoutent.’’

Le site Allmusic.com. décrivait ainsi le style de Tapscott: "His pianistic technique was hard and percussive, likened by some to that of Thelonious Monk and Herbie Nichols and every bit as distinctive. In contexts ranging from freely improvised duos to highly arranged big bands, Tapscott exhibited a solo and compositional voice that was his own." De son côté, le saxophoniste Michael Session avait commenté: “He was way more interested in feeling and sounding like himself with his friends, who were also really unique.’’

Très peu connu en dehors de Los Angeles, Tapscott avait fait très peu de tournées et n’avait pas enregistré avec des compagnies de disques majeures. Reconnaissant le rôle de pionnier de Tapscott, le chanteur Dwight Trible, qui se produisait avec le groupe depuis 1987, avait ajouté:  “He saved Los Angeles when it comes to progressive music. Because if you were going to get involved in that, you had to come through Horace Tapscott.” 

Au cours des dernières années, des musiciens comme le rappeur vedette Kendrick Lamar, le saxophoniste Kamasi Washington, le bassiste Thundercat et le producteur et multi-instrumentiste Terrace Martin avaient contribué à raviver l’intérêt pour la musique de Tapscott. À la même époque, plusieurs compagnies de disques avaient également réédité les albums de Tapscott. Comme Washington l’avait expliqué en 2015:  ’’J'aime sa musique, sa philosophie et tout ce qu'il a fait pour la communauté dans laquelle j'ai grandi’’. Quant à la clarinettiste de Chicago, Angel Bat Dawid, elle avait commenté: ’’Je suis bénie de pouvoir jouer la musique d'Horace Tapscott, l'un de mes héros.’’ Une dizaine d’années auparavant, le rappeur Madblib avait également rendu hommage à Tapscott dans le cadre de l’album Horace enregistré avec le Last Electro-Acoustic Space Jazz & Percussion Ensemble.

©-2024, tous droits réservés, Les Productions de l’Imaginaire historique

SOURCES:

DENIS, Jacques. ‘’Horace Tapscott, figure free jazz ressuscitée.’’ Libération, 15 août 2019.

‘’Horace Tapscott.’’ Wikipedia, 2024.

JOBE, Danen. ‘’ Horace Tapscott: 60 Years.’’ All About Jazz, 16 juillet 2023.

MOORE, Marcus J. ‘’Horace Tapscott Was a Force in L.A. Jazz. A New Set May Expand His Reach.’’ New York Times, 15 juin 2023.

[declanlikesmusic]

MusicDeclanLikes: Feb 2024

The second instalment of my monthly favourites playlist is here, with much more songs and much more time spent in preparation due to what the end of the month has booked for me!

Billie Eilish – !!!!!!!

Jean Grae & Quelle Chris – My Contribution to This Scam

Moor Mother & billy woods – The Blues Remembers Everything the Country Forgot (feat. Wolf Weston)

Frank Ocean – Pink + White

christtt – jimmy

Ana Frango Eléctrico – Saudade

Prince – Raspberry Beret

Open Mike Eagle – Qualifiers

Everything Everything – The End of the Contender

Rob Thomas – Ever the Same

Olivia Rodrigo – bad idea right?

Powderfinger – (Baby I've Got You) On My Mind

Against Me! – Transgender Dysphoria Blues

Klaxons – Totam on the Timeline

OCT – Don't Touch My Clogs

Venetian Snares – Hajnal

Chelsea Wolfe – House of Self-Undoing

Squid – Narrator (feat. Martha Skye Murphy)

Deerhoof – To Fly or Not to Fly

The Chemical Brothers – Setting Sun

Tapir! – On a Grassy Knoll (We'll Bow Together)

The Smile – Bending Hectic

Future Islands – Corner of My Eye

Black Country, New Road – Track X

clipping. – Dream

Doss – Strawberry

Sophie Ellis-Bextor – Murder on the Dancefloor

Alexis Jordan – Happiness

The Knife – We Share Our Mother's Health

Shohei Animori – Stab/Text

ev.exi – Impulse (feat. UniBe@t)

clust.r – us pretenders

RiTchie – RiTchie Valens

Tirzah – Reach Hi

JPEGMAFIA – TIRED, NERVOUS & BROKE!

Quadeca – TEXAS BLUE (feat. Kevin Abstract)

[lostsneeze]

The Garden of Weston House

The life of any photographer can take them strange places, but even moreso the life of one who works the occasional contract for a paranormal activity magazine. She had taken some fairly eerie assignments in her time, but this one to photograph the exterior (and, unofficially for a considerable bonus, interior) of the Weston House had particularly bad vibes that might’ve even discouraged her from taking the gig were she not a truly consummate professional who enjoyed her work more the stranger it got. There had never before been a time when she’d been sent into the ass-end of a rural nowhere in search of an urban legend, haunt, or ghost where the near majority of the people she asked about the location a) had heard of it, of course, it’s been out in those woods since my pappy’s time, b) sure, could say the way to get there or at least thereabouts, AND c) really don’t think it’s a good idea to go traipsin’ up there, lil’ miss. Everywhere she went people discussed the house with a tangible but mundane fear, as if she’d been asking for directions to the closest patch of quicksand. It was a strange attitude to have towards a mansion supposedly still inhabited by some of the most ornery ghosts of the US’ deep south, lacking in reverence if not respect.

For her part, the intrepid photographer proceeded along her journey more in dread of the locals than of any ghosts. While she knew her light skin and blond curls would ward away any of the absolute worst attitudes towards race the inhabitants of the south could infamously sometimes hold (with the right dress and makeup she could pull off a striking imitation of a model stereotypical 50s housewife), she’d reached her early 30s having learned most people picked up on her having mixed parentage one way or another pretty quickly. She was definitely…something, it just wasn’t clear exactly what, they’d think. And from traveling the States she was well aware that being perceived to be the wrong “something”, even by mistake, in the wrong neighborhood could mean serious trouble.

So she did not linger long even among the perfectly pleasant communities she stopped in along the way, and soon she had driven her only slightly beat-up and very dirty robin’s egg blue volkswagen to the end of a long dirt road in the woods that came to a run-down plantation house sitting in the middle of about a quarter-acre of brilliantly-colored flowers in full bloom.

It was an absolutely breathtaking sight, which might’ve stunned anyone into a pause of admiration and wonder, but as was noted, this photographer was a true professional. The first order of business was to turn around and park the car facing back down the road, just in case a quick departure was necessitated by anything both ornery AND corporeal inhabiting the supposedly abandoned house, such as a bear or axe-wielding vagrant. The next was to step out, in her flattering white top and jean shorts attractive to the attentions of otherwise tight-lipped locals but not so attractive as to be uncomfortable, and set up the tripod. She moved about, taking numerous pictures at different angles, slowly and deliberately, working to recapture that sense of astonishment when she’d first come on the strange and beautiful sight for the first time by trying to maintain the emotions for as long as possible.

By the end of this process, her nose had only started to itch pretty badly and run here and there. She’d taken her allergy medication that morning, but she didn’t have prescription-strength stuff and Ol’ Madame Weston’s legendary garden was an industrial-strength threat to her allergies. She pulled a fresh red and white polka-dot handkerchief from the car and stuffed it into her back pocket, grabbed her portable camera, steadied her breathing, and approached the property.

Walking on the overgrown dirt path through the garden felt like moving through a wonderland, despite the allergies. Snapdragons of what seemed like every color grew to her waist, while sunflowers towered over her. A rainbow of azaleas, chrysanthemums, daffodils, daisies, and plenty more grew wild all around the grassy ground, sharing the space without any apparent competition for light or water. Butterflies and bees lazily flew this way and that. She smiled with satisfaction as she snapped photo after photo; this part of the house’s legend would earn her commission by itself no matter how little of the rest of it turned out to be true. Plus, it was an incredible sight to see, even if walking through it did turn the back of her throat scratchy and set her eyes lightly stinging and start her little round nose’s broad nostrils flaring…

“Hhha’tshuuh!”

She did not have what anyone would call a feminine sneeze, and she squeezed her nose into her hands to prevent any more out of reflexive habit than of a genuine concern anyone might hear her. But there was in fact a startled rustling somewhere amidst the flowers, which made her jump and sent a small strand of snot flying off her face. Of course, she realized almost immediately it was probably just some rodent or other small animal, just as startled as she was and sent bounding away by the sudden noise.

After digging her handkerchief out of her pocket to blow and wipe her nose, she blinked away an itchy feeling growing in her eyes and continued her tour of the yard a little more hurriedly, approaching the front door in an eager prospect of getting inside and at least briefly away from the pollen-heavy air (though she wasn’t sure the inside would be much better, if it was as dusty as an abandoned haunted house should warrant).

The door was of course locked, but there was of course a spare key hidden nearby; a thorough search of the front porch revealed it cleverly tucked between the arm and seat of the old porch swing, the rusting chains of which had been forlornly creaking in the breeze through her entire visit so far. She gave a cursory knock and called out a forceful (if somewhat stuffy) “hello” before entering, just for the sake of some plausible deniability if she came across an ill-tempered host, and went inside.

Inside, the house was actually very unremarkable. The furnishings had largely been sold off by whatever former inhabitants were still sane, or stolen by other daring trespassers like herself, or turned into smoke, or whatever happens to the furniture of haunted houses in the rural countryside. There was enough dead plant debris scattered about to make her suspect a window must be open in the house somewhere, although she hadn’t seen one on the ground floor and didn’t feel any draft except from the front door that she’d left open (just in case). It was also certainly dusty, and there was an odor which the photographer couldn’t immediately place but was distinctly unpleasant and lit a tingly fire at the tip of her nose, and made her throat slightly constrict in protest.

As the sound of scurrying somewhere just out of view reached her ears, she realized what the smell was: cat. The house had probably become a home for at least one feral stray, which she would have to be careful of both for the sake of her dander allergies and to avoid needing the first aid kit in her car. She kept her ears alert as she moved throughout the house, treading carefully in an effort to avoid startling any more lurking animals.

However, the aggravating air of the house made it impossible for her to move with anything that could be considered stealth. Her nose had started constantly dripping, being equally overburdened in the musky, dusty air of the house’s interior as it was in the pollen-saturated exterior. She paused to sniff or wipe her nose after taking a picture more often than not,  frequently with a soft throat-clearing to try and quell the tickle that was growing in her throat. She was constantly blinking and breathing like a sneeze (or five) might be building, but she would quell the feeling by aggressively plowing a knuckle into the side of her nose and rubbing until the feeling became manageable. Despite being certain she wasn’t sharing the house with anyone else, she felt a distinct sensation of not only being watched but being leered at, and her cheeks flushed with misplaced embarrassment each time she snuffled or coughed particularly loudly or wetly, which was happening more and more frequently as she skulked through the house.

After finishing a cursory round of photographing all the empty and standard rooms of the ground floor, she blew her nose as quietly as she could manage, then a second time more quietly and less wetly, before moving with only a small amount of trepidation up the tall staircase to the second floor. Up here was the bedroom of Ol’ Madame Weston, where most of the sightings of hauntings had been reported. The air was stiflingly hot up here rather than merely unpleasantly warm, and she found herself starting to sweat from what she told herself was purely the heat, feeling silly that she was at all spooked by an old abandoned house in broad daylight. After briefing considering looking through the other rooms first, she decided there was little point in saving the main attraction for last and headed straight to the second door on the right after the landing where she knew the master bedroom to be. As she walked quickly to fling open the door with the enthusiasm of a child determined to prove to themselves they’re not afraid of anything in their closet, she vaguely noted that this door was the only one in the house fully closed.

Upon opening it, she was met with the sight of yet another room that appeared to be completely empty, until she blinked a single time and out of the corner of her vision (or maybe out of nowhere) there appeared one of the most luxurious-looking lounge chairs she’d ever seen, in which sat the hunched-over, hollow-eyed, partially see-through form of an absolutely menacing old woman in a long rumpled floral-patterned nightgown, with a wooly black cat sitting on her lap. The glare she gave the photographer was one that she was surprised to find she recognized; it was the look of someone who had immediately seen that she was…something, and something that was not welcome around here. 

In that moment of recognition, an unnaturally foul wind blew into the room from the open window behind this contemptuous visage and blasted the photographer full in the face. It was molten-hot, choking, and polluted, as if it had picked up all the filth of that room and had hurled it at her along with all the malice of that seated figure. In an instant the photographer felt the back of her throat become coated with pollen, her eyes caked over with dust, her nose plugged with cat hairs, and her soul stained by spite. She reeled backwards out of the room in shock, fright, and repulsion. As she did so she snapped a single picture with the camera still mostly held in the direction of the room (she was, after all, a professional) before turning and slamming into the hallway wall, placing one hand on it to steady herself as she stumblingly ran to the stairs. With one hand following the wall and then the railing, and the other gripping her camera like it was the only thing keeping her alive, she had no way of reaching her handkerchief and half-sneezed, half-choked freely, spraying her front as her nose flooded down her face and her burning eyes overflowed with tears.

“Ah-Huchh! Huhht’shuuh Ha’kshh Huh’kshh Huuhh’KSHH! Hhahk’shh! Haah-Utchh-shhh!

Half-blinded and barely able to keep her balance, she somehow made it down the house stairs and back out the front door without falling. However, she overreached for the railing of the porch, grabbing air where she’d hoped there’d be a support and sending herself careening forward down the porch stairs with all the momentum of her mad dash out of the house. As she tripped somewhere on the last few, she kept that one hand out in front of her while the other held out her camera tightly, ready to take the impact of the fall on her elbow and forearm if that’s what was needed to protect it. With one hand to brace her fall she was only barely scuffed from it, but she landed face-first into the massive flowerbed, and as the wind was knocked out of her she breathed in a massive whiff of their perfume followed by the irritating, vaguely phlegmy smell that accompanies a major allergic reaction.

Not wanting to slow her escape, the photographer crawled forward straight into the flowers as she scrambled to her feet, and continued her run through the garden in the vague direction of her car, sneezing thickly the whole way. “Ehh-Huchh! Huchh'shuh! Heeug’shuh!” Only when she no longer felt plantlife clinging to her calves did she slow to brush tears and snot from her face enough to see more clearly, knowing then that she was at the property line border. “Ahh-Huchh! Huhh’tschuuh!” Breathing heavily, she sprinted to her car and practically dove inside as she flung the door open. “Heeuh’tschuuh!” Then followed the natural priorities: lock the door, stow the camera safely in the glove compartment, start the engine, and finally splash the contents of her water bottle into her face.

After pulling out her messy handkerchief to hurriedly clear (or at least smear) her face free enough of tears to see, she stepped on the gas and began driving away from the house as fast as she dared. Even if she’d felt temptation to look back, her rapid tearful blinking and gasping as she strained to fight back her sneezing long enough to drive away would’ve prevented her from doing so. Only once she had struggled around a bend in the road did she dare pull over again and let her sneezing fit continue fully uninterrupted, hoping to get it all out of her system. Her handkerchief was already soaked to the point of uselessness, and in desperation as snot and tears poured down her chin she pulled her top up to her face to blow and wipe into, not realizing just how much pollen and dust was still clinging to it.

“Heeaug’shuhh! Ah-huchh! Huchh'tshuuh! Huchh'shuh Huh-huhhhHH’KSHH! Ehuhh…Huhh-etsch Ah’tschh-Ah’tschh-Ah’tschh-Ah’tschh Ahh’tschh Atshuuh! Hahhh…HAH’KSHH! Huh…uhh…Heeuh’tschuuh Heeuh’tshh Eeuhh-huchh Huhh’kshh Hahh-EH’Kshh Huhh’Kshuh! Eheh-heh…hehhhhh’tshuh! Ahh’Huchhshuh! Heeauh’TSHUUH!”

It went on like that, dying down at times but never truly stopping. The feeling of cat hairs tickling the tip of her nose simply refused to quite go away, as did the feeling of dust and pollen coating the inside of her throat and back of her sinuses, and all three pricking the undersides of her eyes. She rubbed viciously at the sides of her nose and beneath her eyes to try and drive out the itching without any noticeable impact whatsoever, and no matter how much she blew her nose into her top (or eventually her hands, wiping them on her shorts) it just clogged up full to bursting again in seconds.

Ultimately, she decided she wasn’t willing to wait here any longer. Even though she was already starting to misremember what she had seen in the Weston House (it was a trick of light, or a heat-induced hallucination, or some kind of side effect from her overstrained allergy medication, or some other rational explanation) the back of her mind was still screaming at her to get away from that place and not look back. She wouldn’t risk any further delay; the camera would have the final say about what she did or did not see in that room, and until she checked the film it was better safe than sorry. Still struggling to fight back her sneezes enough to keep her eyes at least half on the road, pollen clinging to her hair, clothes damp and sticky with snot and panic sweat, eyes bloodshot, and nose ruby-red and starting to chap, the photographer drove miserably away from the haunted Weston house and its luscious garden.

[skittlespizza]

ORIGINAL STATEMENT (THE MAGNUS ARCHIVES)

ARCHIVIST:

Statement of Wendy Humbert concerning their newest… novel?

WENDY:

Ha. No- it’s about a novel that I read.

I’ve always been afraid of writing a novel. I’m a published author, I have two anthology stories published! I only write short stories… not out of hate for the novel medium, no, I just don’t have the commitment needed to write a novel. But a few days ago, a week maybe? My editor suggested I should just try, and to write a rough outline for a hypothetical novel.

I… can’t focus on things easily. I get distracted and that’s why most things I write have to be short, it’s stressful! I needed to write, I needed something. So, um. Three days ago, I began to look for some inspiration. I had zero ideas for this novel. I was walking around downtown, music in my ears, watching the world around me go. I love people watching, it sounds creepy, but there’s a delight and joy in watching people do their everyday thing. Watching them talk about things I could ever know, or seeing their reactions when they get a text or watching them cry and break down. There’s something curious about watching humans, disconnected from my and their reality. I can write their story! Do you know, do you understand, just how great that is?

While walking down an alley, I stopped at this door. It was ancient, old, his bookstore was an odd one in the back alley of downtown. it was kind of… how do I put it? It looked shitty. The sign was so weathered away I couldn’t make out the name. The door was what got me, it was wooden, antique and ancient. This dark shade of red that seemed darker than blood. The weirdest, most peculiar part, was the large spider web engraving. Woven intricately into the grains of wood– it caught my eyes. The door handle was rusty and- well. You see a mysterious, creepy door with a sign that looks older than the building itself? You have to enter it. At the very least, you have to look inside.

I think part of me wanted to be a character in my short story.

Just a door, a door between me and what could be one of the best stories I could write. My hand wrapped around the handle, rust flaking off the metal. Turning the doorknob, I felt chills up my spine. I was being watched by someone, I know I was. Pushing open the door…

It was just a bookstore.

The floor was linoleum, black and white tiles, diamond shaped. It was a large room, and in the middle was this tree. Dead, withering, and around it, lines and lines and lines of bookshelves. I felt like I was in some story, like a fantasy where I would be the chosen one. I walked inside, the scent of books and mold filling my nose. It was almost pitch black, except where I was looking, just lit enough to see where I was going. Fucking creepy. I began to browse the books. Reading the spines, I couldn’t recognize a single author. I’m telling you! I’ve read thousands of books, I know so many authors, but no matter how much I searched, not a single author rang a bell. You don’t realize how abnormal that is, especially for a modern day book store! Well… abandoned?

Augustus Finch? Oliver Wilson? Gregory Weston? Not only do these names sound fake, but their books were empty. No words, just empty, crisp, pages of nothingness. Except this one- reading the spine, I stopped. I felt something deep inside me tell me I had to take it off the shelf. To read it.

Opening it, it was filled with text, no margins, no padding… just words. Not a single centimeter of page left empty. I needed this book.

So I left with it.

From the walk home, to riding the train, I felt like I was being watched. That feeling, once again, returning in full. I got home, sat down, and looked at the book in my hands. I stared at the cover, once again, the swirling kaleidoscope of a spider web. It was golden against the dark red of the cover. Tracing the engraving, I opened it.

“Wendy opened the book-” the book read. “Wendy opened the book and began to read. They tilted their head a bit, squinting at the small text of the book. ‘How did it know?” they asked, ‘How did the book know what I’m thinking? Even as I’m reading this- NO! NO! Stop it!’ they cried, opening their mouth in shock. They began to read the next line out loud: ‘How do you know this?’ they asked again. This wasn’t right, no. A book, written who knows how long ago, should not have all their actions on paper!

This is wrong, this is bad, this isn’t right! They wanted to put it down, but something magnetic kept them in place.”

I flipped ahead in the book. I thought, hey! Maybe I could tell my future. Ha! No- this book…

“Wendy flipped ahead in the book, wondering what exactly this book could do.” It said. It knew I would flip ahead to that one page, and I would read that specific line and it would listen to me. LISTEN TO ME. HOW DID IT KNOW THIS!? HOW DOES IT KNOW MY EVERY MOVE? Do you know the horror that’s your every action being written down on paper in this random book without an author, without a title, without any fucking margins! No! No you don’t! Except maybe you do now, because you’re written in that book now! I know it because I read it! Jonathan Sims, the book said, Head Archivist at the Magnus Institute.

I continued to read, I don’t know why I did, but I did! I couldn’t put it down, it was magnetic. It forced me to! God, and all it did was taunt me, Jonathan! It TAUNTED ME, LAUGHED AT ME. It told me how I was going to die, how my entire future would play out! I- I become nothing, I become nothing! I don’t have a future, no- this book. This book TOLD me how I would go insane, go mad, at the fact this book exists! That I would become nothing, that I am nothing, that I would quit my job and become a hermit. How does IT KNOW?

I’ve become a character- I’ve become a character and I don’t know what to do. I am a character in a novel! And the words I’m saying now, and I’m talking to you reader, are being read by a monster. By this person who KNOWS. By you reading this, I am hurting. I surely hope you are entertained by this! I hope you enjoy.

[Laughter]

Even- EVEN NOW. I am listening to the book, I am listening to what it told me to do. It gave me the address, it told me I would speak with you, that I would say these exact words while screaming, crying over how much… how broken I am after this. That no matter what I would say, the book would know. And do you know what the book told me?

ARCHIVIST:

Um… no.

WENDY:

It told me you would understand. YOU would get what I feel! You would know what this all means! What does the spider web mean! How does it know? Why I’m being controlled by some words on paper! I feel sick, I don’t-

ARCHIVIST:

Give me a moment…

WENDY:

The book said you’d say that too.

ARCHIVIST:

Do you have the book on you?

WENDY:

It said I would keep it home.

ARCHIVIST:

Why do you keep listening to it if you hate it so much?

WENDY:

Because it threatened me, Archivist. It said if I didn’t listen-

[Laughter].

ARCHIVIST:

…

Humbert-

WENDY:

Do not- do not say my name. Just tell me… why? Why, Archivist. What does this all mean? Why?!

ARCHIVIST:

I can’t do that.

WENDY:

That’s what the book said you’d do.

ARCHIVIST:

I-

[click.]

ARCHIVIST:

After that, Wendy had to be apprehended by security.

I know what that book was. I sent Martin to go and pick up the book from Wendy’s home. I don’t want her to have that.

It must be- it was the Web.

I know it.

Statement ends.

[colascriptura]

Perelandra

This is Book 2 of C.S. Lewis's space trilogy, written in 1943.

I started reading it about a year ago but found it rather tedious in its lengthy descriptions of everything. I'm a reader who wants action and dialogue, not descriptive walls of text. I eventually finished it out of a sense of duty (and besides, I want to get to the more famous Book 3).

The book again follows the adventures of Ransom, who this time is sent by God's angels to the planet Perelandra (a.k.a. Venus) to carry out a mission which he knows nothing about. He finds Venus to be a paradise, although the book suffers from the typical problem that it's hard for the human mind to conceive of paradise. The most I got from it was that the fruits there taste really good.

Ransom encounters one of the planet's permanent residents, a green lady who is the equivalent of Eve. Alas, they are soon joined by the villain Weston from Book 1, who has travelled to Venus by spaceship in order to... to... actually I can't remember what Weston's point was. It's irrelevant though, because Weston soon becomes literally-possessed by literally-Satan. Literally-Satan has two goals: (1) to disrupt God's plan by tempting Green Eve into sin, and (2) to torture the planet's frogs. The exact point of literally-Satan's bizarre side-quest is not really explained, he just does it. Some men chop wood, some men dig tunnels, literally-Satan tortures frogs.

Anyway, when he attends to his main purpose, literally-Satan engages Green Eve and Ransom in lengthy debate, in which he tries to get her to disobey the one command of God that doesn't really make sense -- to avoid sleeping on a certain island -- by suggesting to her that it's really God's will that she find some independence and disobey God in this one little thing. Ransom counters that the point of such a rule is precisely that she can find the value of obeying God for the sake of obedience itself.

This seems to last for days, and Ransom is losing the argument. So God speaks to Ransom in a vision and suggests to him that a better strategy would be to engage literally-Satan in hand-to-hand combat. Like the debate, the battle also lasts for days, but goes better than you might expect, and rather reminds one of Gandalf's fight against the Balrog: "From the lowest dungeon to the highest peak I fought with the Balrog of Morgoth. Until at last I threw down my enemy and smote his ruin upon the mountain side."

So Satan is defeated, Weston is incinerated in lava, Green Eve declines to sin, Venus is saved, blah blah blah.

5 out of 10 - honestly I think I've made it sound more fun than it was.

[theglizzardwizard]

Omarion arc one "fun" facts

Certified flower boy. He's a theurgist and he's really into the aesthetics of it. Being in Ravenwood is nice because nobody in his class makes fun of him for wearing flower crowns, ribbons, or the color pink.

Nervous wreck of a child, even before Malistare shows up to Golem Court. Omar flinches at hugs and apologizes too often for things that aren't his fault and cries at the drop of a hat. Sometimes for no reason at all. He's the savior of the spiral but he is sniffling and stuttering and fumbling his way through it all.

He really likes going to the pet pavilion, and he only has one pet. Well, more like three. They're charming stars, three of them, but they act more like one unit. He's named them Cosmo.

Related to that last thought, Omarion is deeply defensive about food. He won't take snacks from his classmates, he won't eat anything he didn't watch someone cook, and he doesn't eat in front of other people.

Sensitive hearing + light sleeper. The Ravenwood dorms have been terrible for his sleep schedule. Someone's always up working on a project or practicing an incantation. It keeps him up but he's too shy to confront his dorm neighbor about those loud, frequent get togethers. Trying to sleep on the road is a whole other beast. (Krokotopia was too hot to sleep comfortably. Marleybone was too loud and smelly. Mooshu and Dragonspyre made Omar too paranoid to sleep. Grizzleheim was too cold.)

Extremely self conscious about everything. Omar is really soft spoken but is always convinced that he's talking too loud. He doesn't eat in front of others because he's used to "eat fast or not at all", and he thinks he looks like a slob when he does. He jump scares other students a lot because he walks quiet on instinct (his mom's old place had some rickety ass old wood floors and he conditioned himself into moving silently to avoid her attention.)

He doesn't *get* Lenore, or just, the concept of being trans. But he doesn't need to. Omar understands that which many others who have known her did not. No matter what happens, not a stitch of clothing will come off. May she be burned, or soaked, or covered in Humungofrog vomit, it does not matter. She will rinse off in a river when they stop to, but she will be fully clothed. Omar observes this, doesn't understand why, but he respects it nonetheless. (When Weston explained it, Omar got the impression that Lenore's Thing is just something wizards do sometimes.)

His favorite place in Wizard City is unicorn way. He likes going to the arena to spectate with Weston and Lenore.

[selfshipping-shapeshifter]

so, my favourite trope - exchange student from Russia.

I very often use modern au for BB tho (just like Idia I'd die without my gadgets </3), since yk you can still see all these fancy shmancy private schools nowadays too.

but I'm not in the same college sadly, since it's an all-boys prestige school, but rather a student from a college not so far from Weston's - less fancy, less prestige but still a strong one.

I also have two OCs that migrated from TWST - a tgirl and her tboy-friend - Sarah and Rudolf. Sarah is czech and Rud is polish! so ye, we're the slavic trio. we basically study in one college but on different specialities: I'm a programmer (regarding my irl situation), Sarah is a psychologist and Rud is a wood carver (it's all "bober kurwa" untill you'll become a beaver yourself...)

so, since there are many strict rules in Weston's college, including ones regarding intruders, I'm acting a bit risky when visiting Gregory (in college timeline, there are events after he got dropped out), and other prefects and their henchmen - including Gregory's henchman Cheslock - just decided to play along, since they're all friends (at least the other prefects and Cheslock, and henchmen just have to play along since, well, senpais' decision) and they're happy their gloomy boy Gregory got a woman.

sorry it's kinda messy-

Ooo the exchange student trope is a fun one!! :O

Do you sneak into Gregory's dorm when you see him, or does he sneak into your dorm instead, or do you just sneak out together and go someplace else? :3

[squids-comics]

Expedition Log Three: The Knowing (Part Four)

Expedition log three, Chief Officer Gray speaking.

It has been almost four hours since Lieutenant Volkov took Dr. Weston into the cave in search of life. I have not had contact with either one since they entered. Dr. Magna was able to find a sizeable water table beneath the surface, showing that a settlement will be possible if Weston comes back with positive results. 

"Start the shuttle!"

Was that Volkov? It came from the cave... Magna! Get on the shuttle. Tell Mr. Winters to prepare for takeoff. 

"Right away Sir!"

If that was Volkov's voice, he's signaling an emergency extraction. They must have found some sort of hazard. Looks like this planet isn't habitable after all...

"We need to get back to the ship!"

(Volkov appears to be distressed. I still can't see him, but I can hear approaching footsteps. One set. Running.) We will Lieutenant! Mr. Winters is starting the shuttle engine now!

(Volkov has exited the cave. He is holding Dr. Weston in his arms. The Doctor is unresponsive.) What's wrong with Dr. Weston? What happened?

"We need to get him to sick bay! The sooner the better!"

What happened in there?

"We found life. He tried to investigate it and got attacked."

You let him investigate it before assessing risks? 

"I tried to stop him, but he ran off."

He ran off? He just... Ran off? And you couldn't stop him?

"Eugene's faster than he looks. He's hard to catch, like a deer in the woods."

This isn't a deer Lieutenant! This is a man! So help me, if another crewman died under your watch...

"Don't you dare bring Dr. Jones into this!"

Why not? You had a simple job to do, and you failed. What good is a security officer if they can't keep anyone safe? 

"We don't have time for this! The creature is inside him!"

What? 

"Some sort of worm jumped out of the flora. Burrowed it's way through his forehead."

Jesus... He doesn't have any wound on his forehead.

"No. It sealed itself shut while I was carrying him out."

It sealed itself shut? How does that happen?

"I don't know."

Of course you don't! And we can't ask our biologist because he's full of worms!

"You need to drop the attitude Sir. I may not have adequately performed my duties in your eyes today, but I am the most qualified security officer on the ship. I earned the rank of Lieutenant. I served-"

I don't care about your combat record Volkov. That's from Earth. The Earth is dead. And we'll all join it if you keep screwing up like this!

End of log.

[angelabryce]

May 11, 2023. The Bruce Trail reunion hike.

On a beautiful morning five of us gathered to revisit the Trail, reminisce and enjoy a day together again.

Mary Donnelly, Diana Barkly, Karen Weston, Karin Thomas and myself, Angela Boyd.

Starting at the charmingly named crossroads of Finnerty Sideroad and Innis Lake Road in the Albian Hills, we moved north along a minimalist road for about a kilometer and into the lush green spring woodland. Karin found trout lily, red and white trilliums, and she named a slew of probable emerging flowers. We have to take her word for it. A little stream crossing here--we all got soakers--a modest hill there, a cheerful group of five retired gentlemen fellow hikers and the freshness of the woods. It was lovely.

About four kilometers in all. That would have been a scant half day”s worth in our former outings. We finished six years ago. This time we were out for socializing and enjoying the moment.

Which also included a visit to a country restaurant. The Black Birch is a down home restaurant up a long country road with absolutely no pretensions except in the culinary field. The meal was beyond all expectations. A generouls delicate and light fish and chips served on a local pottery platter, meaty and moist pork hocks with crisp vegetables and a big hunk of country bread for the table. Gourmet can live in the country.

Speaking of pottery, we stopped by the local potter and found a quaint shop with lovely pottery run by people who obviously live for art. Not fancy but lovely.

We missed Marilyn on this hike very much. She was on all the previous ones. But we will do this again when she can come too. 

[mybookplacenet]

Featured Post: The Marriage Pact

About The Marriage Pact: Steam Level: He’s the one that got away. Now that I’m back in town, the jerk wants to offer me a job. This isn’t good for either of us. He feels like he’s got to make up for what happened when we were kids. And I have to restrain my hormones from doing the tango in front of him. Never a good working relationship. Or is it? See, here’s the deal. We made a pact when we were kids. If by some crazy reason we weren’t married by the time we were thirty, we’d marry each other. Well, time’s up. And the pact was never broken. Now what? Do I forgive the guy that ripped my heart out as a lovesick teenage girl? He wants a second chance, and honestly, no one is rooting harder for him than me. In our small town, this handsome, rich boy and I couldn’t have been more different, but they say opposites attract. Either way, our Marriage Pact is an interesting thought. Feels more like forever than a simple agreement, and with this boy? Forever is exactly what I’ve wished for. Buy the ebook: Buy the Book On Amazon Author Bio: After ten years of helping his wife, Ali Parker, and brother-in-law, Weston Parker develop love stories of their own, Jacob Parker has decided to take the plunge with a new twist on the romance story. He's a romantic guy in real life and wanted to bring the world of the Manhattan Men to life with his wife, Ali. He lives in Tennessee with his family, loves to golf, also writes as J Stark, and can be found working in his wood shop when he's not writing. Follow the author on social media: Learn more about the writer. Visit the Author's Website Facebook Fan Page Instagram Read the full article

[the-one-and-only-aroace]

Miss Taylor is married, and Emma is sad

mr Weston was poor, had a wife and son, lost both, got another wife

wood house company is good company

farmers are bad company, especially for bastards

I’ll do chapter summaries I guess