#West Coast Odyssey

[angstandhappiness]

OOOH, LOOKS FUN

West Coast Odyssey but like with a plot now

Trivia:

- The posters in Wukong’s apartment are God of High School, Monkey King: Hero is Back, and The Monkey King 3

- He’s reading Dragon Ball and playing Black Myth: Wukong

- the Chinese scroll says “The Great Sage Equal to Heaven Was Here”, the same thing he wrote on the Buddha’s hand. He probably wrote this wall scroll himself

- Sheralee is wearing orange because the Western Dragon King’s season is autumn (and turns out the teal color is more the Eastern Dragon King’s domain, oops. Kept the teal streaks to represent the water powers though.)

[seranavolkihars]

i want to again travel to USA for visiting in Fallout NV locations :( but very hot ova there

[simonh]

Trip to Space by Thomas Hawk

[possumdnp]

I've had such a fun year being a part of the phandom and wanted to make a compilation of my favorite moments of 2024 to celebrate the end of this wild year! <3

5. October 19th and the two weeks following it

These two weeks were So Much. October 19th was amazing, of course. I loved seeing everyone's gorgeous gifs, edits, and artwork while we waited anxiously for Dan and Phil to show signs of life (and they delivered by actually making the silly "no, but seriously imagine it" video).

And then they gave us the best two weeks ever? We got Spooky Week, and the Halloween mug cakes video, and them dressing up as Aziraphale and Crowley for Halloween! We got the west coast US tour photodump! Phil posted a picture of himself reflected in Dan's PVC-covered ass?? And to top it all off, a video of Phil set to 'Married Life' from Up?!

Those few weeks were legitimately some of the most memorable times I've ever had in phandom :')

4. The birthday livestreams

I'm so happy I was able to attend both birthday streams live because they were so much fun. Phil's was unhinged chaotic energy with all of the technical glitches, and Dan's livestream was just plain unhinged. We got so many good moments from these livestreams: eyebrow slits, the annual cake and Dan photos reveals, appearances by Sister Daniel and Father Philip, and Dan getting his Dune popcorn bucket!! Also, the "imagine that on top of you" kakuna moment lives rent free in my brain to this day. (Most importantly, they raised so much money for charity!)

3. Phlonde

What can I say? Phlonde Phil completely changed the timeline. (inserting a bonus photo of "yeehaw odyssey" Phil here because this look also changed me as a person)

2. Their couple's holiday photodump?!

Something in my brain broke the day they posted these photos. Like, what the fuck, they're actually just posting fully couple-y pictures like this now?! They posted these during the middle of my workday, and I remember just staring at them (and getting absolutely nothing done for the rest of the day).

1. Getting to see DnP live!

Seeing Dan and Phil live at TIT was legitimately one of the best things I did all year. Standing in the lobby before the preshow to swap photocards and bracelets, and just getting to chat with other phannies in real life was so much fun.

And of course, seeing Dan and Phil in person! They walked through the lobby before the preshow literally five feet away from where I was standing, and I'll always remember that stunned excitement I felt seeing them right up close for the first time. Like, they're actually real (and very tall!) :')

The preshow was so much fun (I’m somewhere in that picture above <3), and TIT itself was incredible. It was just one of the best nights of my life. <3

[literaryvein-reblogs]

I don’t know if you’ve answered something similar before, but I’m writing for a story including mermaids and sirens and was wondering if you had any information or advice?

Writing Notes: Mermaids & Sirens

Mermaid - a fabled marine creature with the head and upper body of a human being and the tail of a fish.

Siren - (in Greek mythology) a creature half bird and half woman who lured sailors to destruction by the sweetness of her song.

MERMAIDS

Similar divine or semidivine beings appear in ancient mythologies (e.g., the Chaldean sea god Ea, or Oannes).

In European folklore, mermaids (sometimes called sirens) and mermen were natural beings who, like fairies, had magical and prophetic powers. They loved music and often sang. Though very long-lived, they were mortal and had no souls.

Many folktales record marriages between mermaids (who might assume human form) and men. In most, the man steals the mermaid’s cap or belt, her comb or mirror. While the objects are hidden she lives with him; if she finds them she returns at once to the sea.

In some variants the marriage lasts while certain agreed-upon conditions are fulfilled, and it ends when the conditions are broken.

Though sometimes kindly, mermaids and mermen were usually dangerous to man.

Their gifts brought misfortune, and, if offended, the beings caused floods or other disasters.

To see one on a voyage was an omen of shipwreck.

They sometimes lured mortals to death by drowning, as did the Lorelei of the Rhine, or enticed young people to live with them underwater, as did the mermaid whose image is carved on a bench in the church of Zennor, Cornwall, England.

Aquatic mammals, such as the dugong and manatee, that suckle their young in human fashion above water are considered by some to underlie these legends.

SIRENS

According to Homer, there were two Sirens on an island in the western sea between Aeaea and the rocks of Scylla.

Later the number was usually increased to three, and they were located on the west coast of Italy, near Naples.

They were variously said to be the daughters of the sea god Phorcys or of the river god Achelous by one of the Muses.

In Homer’s Odyssey, Book XII, the Greek hero Odysseus, advised by the sorceress Circe, escaped the danger of their song by stopping the ears of his crew with wax so that they were deaf to the Sirens.

Odysseus himself wanted to hear their song but had himself tied to the mast so that he would not be able to steer the ship off its course.

Apollonius of Rhodes, in Argonautica, Book IV, relates that when the Argonauts sailed that way, Orpheus sang so divinely that only one of the Argonauts heard the Sirens’ song.

According to Argonautica, Butes alone was compelled by the Sirens’ voices to jump into the water, but his life was saved by the goddess Cypris, a cult name for Aphrodite.

In Hyginus’s Fabulae, no. 141, a mortal’s ability to resist them causes the Sirens to commit suicide.

Ovid (Metamorphoses, Book V) wrote that the Sirens were human companions of Persephone.

After she was carried off by Hades, they sought her everywhere and finally prayed for wings to fly across the sea. The gods granted their prayer.

In some versions Demeter turned them into birds to punish them for not guarding Persephone.

In art, the Sirens appeared first as birds with the heads of women and later as women, sometimes winged, with bird legs.

The Sirens seem to have evolved from an ancient tale of the perils of early exploration combined with an Asian image of a bird-woman. Anthropologists explain the Asian image as a soul-bird—i.e., a winged ghost that stole the living to share its fate. In that respect the Sirens had affinities with the Harpies.

Some Character Tropes

Alchemic Elementals. Merfolk and similar beings are sometimes portrayed as water elementals.

Bathtub Mermaid. Merfolk and other aquatic creatures kept in stationary tanks and other containers.

Inhumanly Beautiful Race. Merfolk, mermaids in particular, are often very beautiful beyond human standards.

Mermaid Arc Emergence. When mermaids surface, it is often with splendor.

Mermaid in a Wheelchair. Mermaids on land often use wheelchairs to get around.

Mobile Fishbowl. Merfolk who can't breathe air bring water with them to interact with land-dwellers.

Mute Mermaid. A mermaid who is unable to speak.

Selkies and Wereseals. Human-seal shapeshifters.

Sirens Are Mermaids. The Sirens of mythology portrayed as mermaids.

Unscaled Merfolk. Merfolk that are aren't scaled fish below the waist.

Sources: 1 2 3 ⚜ More: Notes ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Choose which of these notes you'd like to incorporate in your story, and do more research if you need to add more detail. Hope these help inspire your writing!

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from Smithsonian Magazine:

An ambitious humpback whale is making waves in the marine biology community after researchers discovered he undertook an incredible 8,106-mile swim across the globe, likely to be the longest distance traveled for the species on record.

This odyssey was “truly impressive and unusual, even for this highly migratory species,” Ekaterina Kalashnikova, a whale researcher at the Bazaruto Center for Scientific Studies and lead author of a study published Wednesday in Royal Society Open Science that tracked the whale’s movements, tells Helen Briggs of the BBC.

Humpback whales are by no means sedentary. According to the study, they “undertake one of the longest known seasonal migrations of all mammals.” However, their migration routes tend to go “between latitudes,” traversing north and south to seek out feeding grounds in colder climates and breeding grounds near the tropics. Rarely do groups of humpback whales go from east to west, preventing them from encroaching on other whales’ territories.

That made it all the more surprising when Kalashnikova and her fellow researchers determined that the same humpback whale was spotted off the Pacific coast of Colombia in 2013 and 2017 before reaching Zanzibar, in the Indian Ocean, in 2022. The whale’s exact route between these endpoints is unknown, but he might have dipped south to Antarctica before tracking back up Africa’s eastern coast, which would extend his route even longer than 8,106 miles.

The discovery was enabled by a citizen science website called Happywhale.com that allows professional biologists and casual whale watchers alike to upload photographs of a whale’s tale, also known as its fluke. Distinct marks, patterns, pigments and scars all contribute to making each whale’s fluke one of a kind. Modified facial recognition software using artificial intelligence matches up distinct features that form a “flukeprint,” as distinct and recognizable as a human fingerprint or face.

[sunlightmurdock]

The Odyssey | 0.8 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

Moodboard | Recommended Listening

Synopsis: Bradley keeps a close eye on the other students, nightly dinners become a regular occurrence. Malcolm feels further away than ever. A phone call in the middle of the night causes a swift change in plans.

Warnings: enemies to lovers, power imbalance (professor / student relationship), age gap (22 / 33), will be smut, virgin reader, swearing, infidelity. 18+ minors dni

…

Bradley wakes up with the sun. All of those West Coast mornings and thin, green floral curtains in his grandmother’s house. The sun spilling through them and alerting him to the Chordettes playing downstairs on grainy vinyl. That meant his mother was cleaning. Lemon-scented disinfectant, her sitting on her knees polishing the hardwood with a rag. The effortless warmth of her voice drifting through the walls.

He exhales. Sunlight seeps through his eyelids but there’s no Chordettes album today. No lemon scent. Just a dusty room and one of his students sleeping six feet away. His eyelids flutter, blinking through the early morning light. A slow turn of his neck allows him to check the clock on the nightstand and doesn’t affront the stiffness that these cheap mattresses give him either.

It’s early. About four hours before Luke would naturally rise, anyway. Bradley hits the alarm and pushes himself upright with a soft sigh. He doesn’t have to be quiet when he’s getting out of bed, that kid could sleep through a hurricane.

They have a lot in common. Lots of similarities in the way they were raised. Bradley likes him beyond just being his professor. In different circumstances, they would be friends. But, Bradley has always kept that line in the sand clear. Until now. Until you had kissed him.

Showered and dressed, Bradley’s up before most of Verona. The soles of his shoes are quiet against the cobble. Italian leather from almost a decade ago. A gift from an old friend that have held up well. The only dress shoes he’s got.

It’s bright out. Bright enough that Bradley’s squinting through his Ray-Ban caravans already, but it’s not too hot just yet. There’s a wind that makes the loose white of his button-up billow against his tanned skin, fighting to work free from being neatly tucked into his belt.

Enzo’s out on the steps by the time Bradley gets there, which means he is late. Teaching hasn’t ever been Bradley’s passion, but it makes way for him to study and — in theory — he gets his summers off. It allows him to write.

“Good morning.” Enzo greets him with a smile. Bradley’s not much for the business side of things — he would have better luck at counting the shades of blue in the sky than he would at figuring out schmoozing. Enzo knows this, and Bradley knows that he knows this. “How’s the book coming?”

“I’m not sure,” Bradley answers with a broad shrug. He tucks the gold frames of his sunglasses into the part of his shirt. “I’m not sure I’ll have it finished by the end of summer.”

Olive-skinned and about fifteen years Bradley’s senior, Enzo looks the part of a sleazy salesman even if he’s just a curator when his lips twist up into a smile. “Something’s got you a little distracted, hm?”

The straight ahead stare, the deep, slow breaths and the unwavering tight line that his lips are pressed into; Bradley’s reaction is easily readable — and Enzo’s close enough to get hit if he keeps it up. He knows that. Towing the line is his specialty.

“Just joking. Here, let’s go in.”

Three soft-sounding steps inside and Bradley’s back where he was this morning. Ten years old and laying on his back in the twin bed in the bedroom at the front of his grandmother’s house, smelling artificial lemon.

He turns his head just a little, his eyes lingering on the mop being pushed around the tile floor, as Enzo leads him further inside.

Being published is what professors dream of. Having someone decide that their little ramblings are interesting enough to publish. Bradley’s study focuses on two things that are inherently interesting to begin with — sex, and power.

His research may be tedious every now and again but the content is always rich. His morning spins by and before he knows it, it’s time to meet you again. You’re ready for him when he gets there, tugging open the door before he has knocked.

But, you don’t look excited to see him.

Cheeks flushed, your body language suggests to him that you would have a decent future as an offensive lineman. His gaze flickers up, over your head and into your seemingly innocent hotel room. Powerless as he scans the room, you just hope he can’t figure out what it is that has you so rattled.

You had aimed to finish before he had arrived but time had gotten away from you.

“So what are we doing today?” You try.

“What are you writing?” His eyes are already on it. The open stack of lined papers, torn out of the notebook already, sitting on the vanity by the wall. Your perfume is next to it and you’ve got the stationary set that your mother got you laid out neatly next to it.

“Nothing.”

He looks down. First, at your face. Wide eyes and baited breath. Then, at your hands suddenly resting against his chest like they’ll hold him in place. His lips twitch.

“Nothing?” He repeats to you. Enjoyment seeps through his words, amusement tugs at his lips and he lifts his right foot to take one step forwards. “Mind if I take a look?”

Instantly, your fingers are curling into his shirt and you’re throwing your weight at him to keep him where he is. Bradley huffs out a sound of amusement, passing you in one swift stride as you claw at his button up to slow him down.

“Don’t, Bradley, it’s stupid — I was just messing around. I don’t want you to read it.”

His fingers brush the top page as you plead with him, tugging at his sleeve, trying to change his mind. He lifts it nonetheless and shoots you a grin, making a show of clearing his throat.

“Dear Juliet,” He pronounces, turning his attention back to the page from you.

“Bradley, please don’t.” It’s not fun anymore. You’re quiet and resigned to him doing whatever he pleases. Embarrassment teems through you.

It’s a familiar kind of crushing feeling. It’s never just feeling small, it’s never that simple. It’s being made small. Every inch that you shrink, you’re squished down further until you’re nothing.

You can see it in his face, the exact moment that he reads his initials on the paper. It had seemed too personal to use his name. Back when this had seemed like a good idea at all.

He doesn’t read on. The paper sits still in his hand as he turns his head towards you. You stare back at him, preparing yourself. Tongue poised, ready to spit whatever venom he deserves after what he says next. Eyes wide, and sad.

“I’m sorry.”

He sets the paper back down as he had found it. It’s not his to discard, it wasn’t his to read. Bradley steps forwards and wraps his hands gently around both of your biceps.

“That wasn’t cool,” He tells you quietly. Bradley knows a couple of different languages, and he’s confident that he’s speaking English now, even if you’re staring at him like he isn’t. “I didn’t realize what it was. I was just trying to mess with you. I barely read any of it.”

Silent, you blink a few times. He’s still there with his big, heavy hands anchoring around your biceps. He’s waiting for you to say something back.

Slowly, your brows draw together. Your eyes flicker over every inch of his face, looking for some fault that will give up this little act.

Suddenly, your mind is made up. This is an act. He’s not sorry, men rarely are. You straighten your back and lift your chin, if you were a cat your claws would be out and ready. “You’re such an asshole.”

The clock beside your bed, the hands don’t move, and yet it feels like you can hear something ticking. Maybe your heartbeat. He’s staring back at you, not moving, but he’s going to have to soon — it’s his turn.

“I know, honey,” Bradley’s hands open and he releases your arms, only to open his and wrap you in them. Your face presses into his chest as he rubs a hand along the small of your back. “I didn’t mean to.”

You’ve received plenty of life lessons on what it means to be a woman. Your grandmother, your mother, your aunts and cousins, teachers and friends. Not one of them prepared you for this. In your scope, apologies come in the form of jewelry or luxury vacations.

No one had ever prepared you for a man to look into your eyes and tell you that he is truly sorry.

“I just wanted to put it on paper, get it out of my head,” You mumble into his shirt, inhaling the notes of wood and warm spice in his cologne. Your hand rests against his stomach now, unclenched. Your body is soft against his. You relax out of all of that tension and let him hold you. “Make some sense of it.”

His palm hugs the base of your skull, cradling you against his shoulder. His cheek rests against the top of your head. He gives you a slow nod.

“You should finish it.” Bradley tells you.

“Yeah. Maybe later.” You hum. It’s nice, to be held by him. He strokes a hand softly over your hair.

Within this city, within the walls of the first space that you have had to yourself in three weeks, in this brown hotel room — you have let yourself be his.

Tomorrow, you’ll move on to Venice. The decision is yours, to leave him and all of this insanity right here — forever between these four walls — or to let go.

Bradley’s thumb trails the nape of your neck. He can feel you deep in thought. Just once, he would like to know what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours. “Could be our activity for today. Write it in Latin, think of it as a translation activity. I won’t check it.”

Lifting your head, you stare up at him, lips pursed in distaste. “If you don’t check it then what’s the point?”

“Confidence.” Bradley tells you. You feel his open palms trail your back until they hit your belt. Then, they skim around to rest safely on your waist. “The more you practice—“

“Yeah, yeah…” Both hands push against his chest as you wriggle out of his arms and turn. “Okay, I’m in.”

“Let’s sit outside. It’s a nice day.”

The eighth of June. The day you sat in a public garden opposite a fountain, laying on your front in the grass while Bradley sat in front of you, propped up against a tree. It turns out that when Bradley says he knows a place, it’s usually worth listening.

“What’s this place called?”

“Giusti Garden.” He tells you, working on something of his own in his lap.

“And what is it?” You ask him, trailing the end of your pencil through the dictionary. He looks up at you, his own pencil stilling for a second.

“A palace, originally.” Blinking through the lenses of his sunglasses, Bradley glances down at the page in front of him and back to your lips, pursed in concentration. “Pretty popular. Mozart, Gorthe, Ruskin— they’ve all visited this place.”

“Huh.” You hum.

This time when his gaze flickers up, you have moved. Your lips are parted, you tap the rubber at the end of your pencil against your bottom lip.

Mid-sentence and stuck, you turn your head towards him and he’s already looking at you. He read what was on that paper the first time. He reads hundreds of essays a year, he has mastered the art of clearing a page quickly.

Admittedly, he hadn’t gotten through the whole page, but he’d noticed that you had stopped halfway through a word at the bottom.

He read all about it. How confused you are. The new feelings and the difficult thoughts. Malcolm and how much he loves you. How guilty you are. How furious with yourself you are.

Selfishly, Bradley wonders if you’re writing the same thing now. All of those biting looks and harsh words — Bradley feels like he’s just starting to understand, and he likes the person behind it all.

He’s grown up enough to know that you’ve got enough people messing with your head back home. Whatever that letter helps you realize, Bradley has already decided that he isn’t going to say a word about it.

It’s still bright out by the time that your letter is signed and sealed, tucked into your bag. You straighten up, brushing off your front as Bradley collects his things behind you.

“Here.”

Lifting your head, you almost miss it. He watches your eyes land on the folded piece of paper extended towards you. Your lips quirk softly as you reach out and take it from him.

Breeze catches your hair, you comb it off of your forehead with one hand as you open up the paper with the other. Three different pencil sketches sit on the paper.

The largest is in the centre. It’s of your face and your shoulders, elbows propped up against the grass and your lips pouted slightly as you study the book before you. The lashes, the slight misshape of your polo collar, the tip of your nose. He’s got it down to a science.

The other two are just sketches. One of your face, turned to the side like it is in the drawing of you laying down. The last is of you looking at him, smiling. You don’t even remember what he had said. Neither does he. But he remembers that look.

“What’s this?”

Bradley just slips the pencil into the pocket of his jeans and starts walking, nudging his elbow into yours as he passes by. “You asked me to draw you, didn’t you?”

In truth, he assumes that it’s going to be a parting gift. Call him sentimental, but Bradley always leaves something to remember him by.

When he closes his eyes, he doesn’t remember his father’s face. He has seen it in pictures before, but never in memories. No, he remembers hugging his father’s legs, and sitting on his knee. He remembers the smell of tobacco.

The replacement dog tags. The gold chain. The shoes in the box in his mother’s wardrobe. The suit that Bradley never grew into — one day it was too big and the very next, he had already outgrown it. Those are what he has to piece together parts of his father.

When you’re old and married, maybe you’ll find the drawing and piece together the parts of Bradley that made you smile like that.

You trail behind him, white tennis shoes in the trimmed green grass. A white polo shirt tucked into lemon yellow shorts, your sunglasses sweeping your hair back off of your forehead.

In another life, he’d reach back and you would wrap your palm around his index finger. He would smile at you and you would be all kinds of giddy about this date.

But this isn’t that — it doesn’t work like that this time around. Someone could see you. Bradley knows now how you’re feeling. He knows that your fiancé is on your mind. He chose once, took Natasha’s choice in her own future from her. He won’t do the same to you.

“The dinner thing,” You call out from behind him, watching your shoes travel from grass to stone pavers as you pass by an intricately carved fountain. He turns his head and peers at you over the top of his sunglasses, looking over his shoulder. “Is that really every night?”

Before you’re even done with your question Bradley’s looking ahead once again, and you’re left looking at the plain white of his cotton tee stretched pliantly over the swell of his shoulders. “Until you all start treating each other with a little respect, I guess so.”

“All of us? — Come on, Bradley, don’t act like you don’t know who the problem is.” An incredulous scoff, barely paying attention to your own words as your eyes wander around the flowered garden. “She’s just a slut, and—“

He stops and turns. Your gaze snaps from double early tulips and their puffed yellow petals to Bradley standing before you — the look in his eyes is scolding before his mouth has even moved.

“Do you listen to a single thing that I say? — Seriously?” He asks you, brows drawn together and his lips pressed into a frown. You simply blink at him.

“What?”

“She’s a slut because she has sex with her boyfriend?” He challenges you, shaking his head. The past week, Bradley has been spoon-feeding you content about the sexual culture through the history of Rome. You nod like you understand and yet, you come out with bullshit like that.

He’s the one who challenged you. You simply answer back.

“She’s a slut because he’s not her boyfriend. They’ll both tell you that.” You tell him, defiance coursing through your veins in lieu of anything that might have helped you make a stronger argument.

“What does that make me? — You listen to my stories with a smile on your face. It’s not dirty until it’s someone you don’t like, huh?” Bradley asks. He’s right, you know that much. Bradley has indubitably slept with far more people than Robin possibly could have.

Still, maybe it’s his tone that makes you need to bite back so quickly. Hands on your hips and a scowl on your face, you stand off against him before the fountain. “What does it matter to you if I think she’s a slut?”

“It matters —“ Bradley stops and takes a deep breath. He leans in by three inches and you’re met with that familiar woody smell that just makes you want him even closer. “Use your brain. Whatever your mommy and daddy taught you back home is bullshit — you’re the odd one out.”

With that, he turns and starts away from you. He won’t leave you to walk home alone, but he will walk six paces ahead so that you’re clear with the fact that you have once again stepped on his nerves.

“I’m the odd one out for respecting my body?” You call out to him.

“Respecting it, ignoring it… same difference, right? — It’s your call, honey,” Bradley walks slowly closer until the toe of his sneaker brushes yours. He lowers his voice, calm. “But choosing not to have sex doesn’t make you better than Robin.”

“I’m not your honey.” You bite back.

“Right,” Bradley nods at you. He lifts his arms and drops them back against his sides incredulously. “But here we are.”

It’s an eleven minute walk back to the hotel. You stroll behind him, sullen like a scolded child. The letter feels heavy in your bag. He might not have called you a slut, but you’ve been put in your place nonetheless. The words would never pass your lips — but he’s right. The comparison’s right there in front of you, all around you. You’re living it.

She can’t be a slut for sleeping with one boy if you’re not for whatever you’ve got going on with Bradley.

You would hold it against her, crushing like a weight, if she told your story back to you. If she was the one with a fiancé at home and a professor who spent afternoons in her hotel room.

Still, your face is hot and you’re not ready to speak to him. Halfway across the herati patterned rug that covers most of the reception area, Bradley turns and looks at you as he tucks the arm of his sunglasses into the collar of his t-shirt.

Chin high and shoulders squared, your clear path is to walk right by him. Just as you always have when a man in your life has embarrassed you.

One step ahead, Bradley catches your wrist loosely, stopping you mid-stride. “Dinner’s in five. Remember?”

“I’m not going to dinner with you.” Your answer is simple and biting. Childish. He wouldn’t be surprised if you crossed your arms and stomped your foot.

“It’s not up for discussion. Everyone’s going.” Bradley explains. Right on time, he lifts his gaze and spots Pasquale headed towards the two of you from across the lobby. It’s not like he won’t have seen the two of you argue before.

He reaches you with a smile and stands at Bradley’s side. His bald head has caught the sun, reddened slightly with head. The smile lines beside his eyes always crease when he beams at Bradley. He stands almost an entire foot shorter. Looking up at him and grinning like a kid, even though he’s older than Bradley.

“Hi, guys!” He pats Bradley’s arm jovially and turns that wide, cheesy grin to you. “How is the revision going?”

Your eyes land on the professor and suddenly there’s something dark about them that has simply nothing to do with eye colour, and everything to do with the mood he put you in.

Pasquale lives in ignorant bliss for the two seconds that it takes you to settle your hands into the shallow pockets of your lemon shorts and narrow your eyes at the professor. “Bradley’s a self-righteous asshole.”

“But what else is new!” Pasquale tries. The laugh is forced out of him and nerves shake through it. He shoots Bradley an apologetic look. Bradley’s looking at you anyway.

“She got a C minus yesterday. Still trying to figure out if it was a fluke.” Bradley bites. Your eyes widen.

Sitting on his lap, wrapped in his arms as he told you how hard you had worked — how proud he was. His hand trailing your spine. His mouth soft against yours. Butterflies tearing through your stomach.

“I think I got too much sun today. I’m going to lie down. Enjoy dinner.” Fuck mandatory. Fuck every single student on this trip. Fuck this class, and fuck him in particular. Pasquale swallows softly as you turn on your heel and head for the stairs.

Bradley turns his chin towards the ceiling. He wants to like you, he wants you to like him. In the moments that you do, everything feels so easy. Like the breeze in early June. But when you’re hell bent on arguing with him — those are like those scorching hot summers back in California. Surrounding and heavy. Pressing in on him until he bites.

“A C… that���s not so bad. Right?” Pasquale asks quietly. Bradley turns his head and looks at him, there isn’t really an answer to give. A B is the average in his class, so no — a C really isn’t bad.

The thing about old Italian hotels is that they tend to be marketed towards guests looking to lead quiet lives — romantic getaways and such. Not young women fuelled by anger. The door slams and teaches you a quick lesson in cause and effect. The painting hung on the wall to the right of the bed wobbles in complaint, then bumps to the floor. The glass frame promptly shatters across the floor.

There’s an almost calm silence that follows. A few slow blinks, and the glass is still there. The frame is still shattered. There are pieces all across the floor. Bradley still said what he said.

The soles of your tennis shoes are thin and pliant, excellent for movement but not designed to fend off glass shards. Crossing the floor at that exact moment seems like far too much of a challenge. So, you press your back to the door and slide down it. Cupping your hands tight over your mouth, you clamp your eyes tightly shut and let it go.

The scream is muffled by your palms, but probably still enough to alarm other guests.

Your bag clatters haphazardly to the floor and you lift your face from your hands just long enough to examine the mess once again. Huffing out a sadder sound than you had intended, you push weakly to your feet once again.

Until today, Verona had been your favourite stop so far. Even with that spoiled, at least you have an en-suite here. You’re more careful with that door. You tug it closed and lock it behind you, toeing off each of your shoes as you go.

These old hotels have old water heaters too. You lean across to turn the shower on first and wriggle out of your shorts, dropping your polo onto the ground with them. Facing straight ahead, you stare into the little round mirror above the sink. It’s got molding all around it that was supposed to look gold once, but the peeling paint reveals brass underneath.

Your reflection stares back at you, sullen. It’s a portrait, just your head, shoulders and chest. Swallowing doesn’t make the thickness in your throat fade. You just blink at your reflection in the mirror. The cotton t-shirt bra hugged to your chest is modest and does it’s job — nothing more.

You’ve seen lingerie — you own lingerie. You have a white teddy with matching panties reserved especially for your wedding night. Bradley has most definitely seen lingerie.

A swift inhale is followed by a baited exhale.

The memory is so distinct, standing in a mall with your mother at the ripe age of twelve, watching her soured expression as she searched through the rack.

“Lace, lace, lace.” She had tutted. Back then, you had been more concerned about someone you knew seeing you here, shopping for your first bra. You hadn’t understood.

“Mom, just grab one. I want to go home. I don’t care what I wear.” You had whined, fidgeting on your feet and brushing awkwardly at the pleats of your dress. You’ll always remember the way that she had rounded on you, eyes wide like you had asked her to buy you a thong.

“Well you should, young lady!” Her voice always sounded scarier when you were younger, even though it had always been hushed and poised.

You have been a grown up for a while now. Lived outside of her home. Had your own bank account, car, clothes — and that voice still circles in your head.

The nightdress she had gotten you last Christmas is hanging on the back of the door. Malcolm hates it. He says it reminds him of his grandmother.

You look down at the thread scissors from your sewing kit resting on the shelf beside the sink. Anger has often led you to some of your best DIYs.

“So, we all have to be here… except not actually all of us.” Robin points out, leaning back in her seat and crossing her arms over her striped t-shirt. Elbow resting on the table, Bradley turns his head to look at her.

“She’s sick, Robin, leave her alone.” Abigail mutters from beside her, pushing her fork around the plate of roasted vegetables.

“No, but I heard Bradley say mandatory. So, mandatory for everyone except—“

“Robin.” Bradley sighs, sitting back in his seat and frowning at her. The restaurant is dimly lit, almost ten of them are cramped around a table in the corner, and after your argument today, Bradley just doesn’t want to hear it. “I don’t want to hear another damn word.”

This is what Bradley hates most about education. Half of the time a punishment for his students is more of a punishment for himself, which this dinner just so happens to be. He wants them to like you. He doesn’t want to hear the bitter comments and the arguing.

Everyone’s eager to get it wrapped up and over with. It’s still early by the time that he heads back to the hotel — everyone else decides to go out for drinks again, without you. Making the entire thing pointless.

The knock at your door startles you. You wince as the pin slips into the tip of your finger, inhaling sharply. Abandoning the project on the bed, you push yourself to your feet and walk over to the door. You already know who it is.

Bradley’s gaze flickers down at the sweat shorts and T-shirt you’re wearing first, then back up to your face.

“How was dinner?” You’re already turning away from him again, stepping onto the bed and tiptoeing back across the sheets. Bradley glances behind him, then steps inside and closes the door.

“Are you done sulking?” He rests his hands on the leather belt wrapped around his hips. Sewing needle in hand, you lift your head and stare, silent. “I’m allowed to disagree—“

“Fuck you,” This time, you don’t give him a chance to finish. You turn your head and continue to thread the new hem. “What you said was cruel and you know it, this isn’t about a disagreement.”

His gaze turns towards the ceiling, hands still sitting atop his belt.

“It was. I’m sorry.” He mutters with an exhale and a shake of his head. Bradley looks back at you finally. His brows draw together and he takes a step into the room. “What are you doing?”

“Hemming.” Your answer is short.

Briefly, Bradley presses his tongue into his cheek and considers just saying goodnight. Then, he notices exactly what it is that you’re working on.

“Did you cut that in half?” He’s already crossing the room and craning his neck to get a better look. Unluckily for him, you’re finished. He watches you look up at him through your lashes and lift the nightdress, then stand up from the bed. “Oh, you’re ignoring me now?”

The door to the bathroom swings shut behind you, the thin wood does nothing to muffle your voice. “I’m not ignoring you.”

Bradley’s attention has already waned. He’s looking at the paper on your nightstand. His drawing from earlier is uncurled and illuminated in the light of the lamp, below that is your address book — opened to a page with Malcolm’s name. Dotted around are little pink hearts, his number neatly written along the line.

“Are you snooping?”

Bradley flinches, turning back towards you with a swift inhale. He remains silent, lips parted as you march from the bathroom to the wood-framed mirror about three feet from where he’s standing.

Aware of his eyes on you, you study the new garment. It sits a few inches above your knee, just above mid-thigh. The sweetheart neckline keeps it sweet. Bradley’s eyes flicker briefly downwards in the reflection. With the window open, he can’t help but notice your nipples peaked against the light cotton blend.

“What’s this?” He asks quietly.

“I wanted a change.” You answer him.

He lifts his gaze to your face, just in time for you to turn and face him. Half an hour ago, you were talking to your fiancé — and yet, you’ve got no shame in searching for Bradley’s approval like this. Maybe you aren’t as pure as you had once thought, or as your mother would like you to be. But for now, standing in front of him, you aren’t ashamed.

Malcolm had called you today from his office. He was eating a sub that one of the interns had grabbed from him and he was telling you about his week. Numbers and figures.

You had thought of everything you could tell him. Juliet and the views of the city, sitting under the tree in that garden this afternoon. Bradley.

“I’m sorry that I said what I said.” Bradley tells you. Maybe it’s just because he’s desperate to get the conversation off of the light fabric you’re wearing, but something tells you that he means it. “It was childish, and you’re right, I was being cruel.

Barefoot, you take four short steps forwards until you’re standing right in front of him.

“I’m not saying you’re right — but I shouldn’t have called Robin a slut.” The admission comes with a small, lip-twitching smile. Bradley’s hands reach forwards and curl around your hips.

“She is annoying. I’ll give you that much.” Bradley concedes. Your mouth twists into an eager grin as you press closer and shift up onto your tiptoes. Bradley steadies your hips and follows you in until your mouth is on his. Slowly, sweetly. His hands skim along the yellow fabric experimentally. He hums as he pulls away from you. “So, what’s with this?”

“You’re right. I was ignoring my body — I like the way I look in this. I like my shape. I can still respect myself without covering up so much. Right?”

Fuck. Bradley stares at you for just a split-second too long. He wrestles with the realisation of what he has just done to himself. Sure, you listened to him for once and it was a decent lesson to learn — but his summer just got considerably harder.

“Do you like it?”

He trails his fingers lightly along the fabric, careful not to touch too hard and press it against your skin. Quietly, he hums. “Sure. It’s cute.”

Bradley’s mind is swimming as he is walking back to his room. Fine, he resolved the issue that he went up there to resolve. Now, he has presented himself with a much bigger one.

His hands press into the pockets of his jeans as he starts to contextualize how deep he actually is into this mess. He hasn’t ever thought about fucking a student before — not once. He detests the men he knows that fantasize of it. And yet, here he is, picturing his fingers bunching up that stupid nightdress.

“Hey, Bradley.” Luke grins, sprawled out across his bed in the dark, reading a magazine with a flashlight. Bradley flinches. The door shuts behind him and they’re in there together. “Natasha called from Turin! She told you that she’s going to be in Venice this weekend too, she asked you to call her back.”

…

Tags: @thedroneranger @batdanceq @cassiemitchell @himbos-on-ice @wkndwlff @bradshawsbaby @damrlova @fudge13 @xoxabs88xox @mak-32 @sihtricswife @callsignvenus @callsign-joyride @harper1666 @krismdavis @sheisanangell @thecitysgraveyard @sugarcoated-lame @kmc1989 @cherrycola27

[ghanatrails]

Unlocking Ghana's Cultural Tapestry: A Journey Beyond Accra.

When travelers think of Ghana, the bustling capital city of Accra often takes center stage. While Accra offers a glimpse into the nation's vibrant energy and diversity, the true essence of Ghanaian culture lies in the distinct regional identities that exist beyond the city limits. To unlock a deeper understanding of this West African gem, it's essential to venture out and immerse yourself in the captivating cultural landscapes that make Ghana so remarkable.

Start your cultural odyssey in the Ashanti Region, the heartland of the prestigious Ashanti Kingdom. At the center of this cultural epicenter lies Kumasi, a city that pulses with history and tradition. Wander the halls of the magnificent Manhyia Palace, the seat of the Asantehene, the revered Ashanti monarch, and witness the grandeur of the Akwasidae Festival. This spectacular celebration honors the Ashanti's royal ancestors through mesmerizing dances, rhythmic drumming, and the intricate display of ornate kente cloth. Dive into the region's rich artisanal legacy by exploring the workshops of skilled kente weavers and gold jewelry makers, whose craftsmanship has been honed over generations.

Venture north to the captivating Northern Region, where the Dagomba, Gonja and other tribes have preserved their distinct cultural identity. In the bustling city of Tamale, marvel at the Sahelian-style architecture, with its mud-brick structures and striking silhouettes. Attend a traditional funeral ceremony or the vibrant Damba Festival, which commemorates the birth of the Prophet Muhammad through a dazzling display of music, dance, and religious rituals. Seek out the ancient mud-brick mosques, such as the Larabanga Mosque, one of the oldest in West Africa, and immerse yourself in the region's deep Islamic heritage.

Shifting your focus eastward, the Volta Region offers a glimpse into the unique Ewe culture. In towns like Ho and Keta, witness the mesmerizing traditional dances and learn about the Ewe's captivating language and culinary traditions. Explore the picturesque landscapes of the region, from the cascading Wli Waterfalls to the serene Kalakpa Resource Reserve, where you can connect with the rhythms of nature and the local communities.

Staying within the Greater Accra Region, venture to the fishing villages of Jamestown and Chorkor to experience the vibrant Ga culture. Observe the daily lives of the Ga people, their colorful architectural style, and their rich cultural celebrations, such as the Homowo Festival, which commemorates the victory over famine. Engage with the local artisans and learn about their time-honored crafts, from pottery to basket weaving.

Finally, make your way to the Central Region to immerse yourself in the Fante culture. Explore the historic towns of Cape Coast and Elmina, where the remnants of colonial-era forts and castles stand as silent witnesses to the region's complex past. Observe the traditional fishing practices and vibrant local markets, and attend the Oguaa Fetu Afahye, a captivating Fante cultural festival featuring music, dance, and mouthwatering cuisine.

By venturing beyond the confines of Accra, you'll unlock a deeper understanding of Ghana's diversity and the unique regional identities that make this country so captivating. Each region offers a distinct cultural experience, from the regal Ashanti heritage to the centuries-old Islamic influence in the north, the mesmerizing Ewe traditions in the east, the vibrant Ga community in the capital, and the maritime Fante culture in the center. Embrace the opportunity to connect with the local people, learn about their customs and beliefs, and leave with a newfound appreciation for the richness and complexity of Ghanaian culture.

So pack your bags, open your heart, and embark on a cultural odyssey that will leave you forever transformed by the diversity and beauty of Ghana, beyond the boundaries of its capital city. Unlock the true essence of this remarkable nation by venturing out and immersing yourself in the captivating regional identities that make Ghana a cultural tapestry worth exploring.

[allbeendonebefore]

Last Song: Together - Avril Lavigne

Favorite Color: blue-violet

Last Book: Things Not Seen - Andrew Clements

Last Movie: Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat

Last Show: Great Canadian Baking Show (finale waaah)

Sweet/Spicy/Savory: Savory

Last Google Search: what's the actual title of the above movie lol

Current Obsession: playing asscreed odyssey and working on @athensandspartaadventures, i say, thinly masking my internal crisis of "should i get a phd"

Looking Forward To: travelling to the west coast best coast (so i don't have to worry about the Travel Anxiety)

not technically tagged by @randomoranges but not not tagged. if you see this, go for it :)

[jethrocarmichael]

[cismale and he/him] Welcome to Aurora Bay, [JETHRO CARMICHAEL]! I couldn’t help but notice you look an awful lot like [DACRE MONTGOMERY]. You must be the [TWENTY EIGHT] year old [SOUS CHEF AT FIRE & ICE]. Word is you’re [MOTIVATED] but can also be a bit [RECKLESS] and your favorite song is [SUITCASE BY TEDDY SWIMS]. I also heard you’ll be staying in [AURORA BAY DRIVE]. I’m sure you’ll love it!

pinterest + spotify

@aurorabayaesthetic

tw: murder

stats

name: jethro carmichael

nicknames: jett, jed

age: twenty eight

faceclaim: dacre montgomery

occupation: sous chef at fire & ice

gender: cismale

pronouns: he/him

sexuality: heterosexual

birthday: august 18th 1996

sign: leo sun, libra moon, sagittarius rising

ethnicity: white

hometown: manhattan, new york

eye color: blue

hair color: dark blonde

height: 5'10"

tattoos: coming soon

piercings: coming soon

biography:

Jethro Carmichael grew up in the lap of luxury in Manhattan, the only son of two high-profile power players. His mother, Vivienne Carmichael, is a world-renowned interior architect whose firm designs opulent homes, high-end hotels, and private islands for billionaires. His father, James Carmichael, is a venture capitalist specializing in tech startups, known for turning fledgling apps into global empires.

From an early age, Jett had access to every privilege imaginable—exclusive private schools, designer wardrobes, and family vacations on their custom-built yacht, The Odyssey. Life for Jett was a playground of endless possibilities, and he made the most of it, indulging in the extravagant lifestyle his family’s wealth afforded.

Known for his magnetic personality and an affinity for the finer things, Jett was a regular on the Manhattan party scene and an infamous fixture at elite social clubs. He’s been spotted courtside at Knicks games, front row at fashion week, and sipping champagne at private rooftop soirées.

Jett’s larger-than-life personality quickly landed him a spot on the cast of Behind the Line, a wildly popular reality TV show following the chaotic lives of young restaurant employees at the buzzy New York hotspot Plume & Blade. The series, often described as “Vanderpump Rules meets Hell’s Kitchen,” turned Jett into an overnight sensation. Fans were drawn to his quick wit, knack for stirring up drama, and undeniable charm, making him one of the show’s breakout stars.

For six seasons, Jett was one of the show’s breakout stars, thanks to his charisma, flair for drama, and turbulent on-and-off relationship with co-star Mia Laurent. But the show came to a shocking and tragic halt when Mia was murdered, leaving the group shattered. The tragedy sent shockwaves through Jett’s life, compounded by the guilt and heartbreak of losing someone he deeply cared about. The cast disbanded, and Behind the Line ended abruptly.

Lost and grieving, Jett moved back into his parents’ opulent Manhattan penthouse, but the city he once thrived in had become a constant reminder of his pain. Desperate for a fresh start, Jett booked a one-way ticket to the West Coast, leaving behind the notoriety and chaos of his former life. After months of traveling and rediscovering himself, he settled in the quiet coastal town of Aurora Bay.

In Aurora Bay, Jett found solace in the simplicity of kitchen life, landing a job as a sous chef at Fire & Ice. Though far removed from the glitz and drama of New York, Jett is learning to rebuild his life, one dish at a time, and rediscovering the passion that first drew him to the culinary world. For now, he’s content to live in the shadows of the past, focusing on finding peace in his craft and the calm of his new surroundings.

[rabbitechoes]

this is incredibly late, november post in the middle of december!!! i was busy with all the work i had to do to complete this semester and haven't had the time nor the energy to write as much as i would like to. i just now finished all the reviews i wanted to write for this month so better late than never at all i suppose!! i'm also hard at work on my year-end list which will be up on my rym as i'm too tired to format it for medium or here. furthermore, i've decided that going into the new year these month-in-review posts will be no more. i feel like they create unnecessary mental deadlines for me and only contribute to stress and whatnot. i'll still be writing tho!!!

another thing, my second review for indieAnthro was published last week!! i reviewed the incredible new Floridian Homicide Unit album!! i highly encourage everyone, furry or not, to give the album a shot and also read my write-up on it :3 link to The Anxious Catharsis of I Love It Here, I Have Everything I Need, and All My Friends Love Me on indieAnthro also feel free to follow me on rate your music and twitter <3

Night Palace - Mount Eerie

🥇 BEST ALBUM OF THE MONTH

◇ released: Nov. 1, 2024 ◇ genres: slacker rock, avant-folk, post-rock

Phil Elverum’s amazing new album is a beautifully distorted odyssey that mythologizes the world around us. It’s even more proof that he’s one of the best songwriters we have.

my review of Night Palace

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Songs of a Lost World - The Cure

◇ released: Nov. 1, 2024 ◇ genres: gothic rock, alternative rock

The Cure’s first album in sixteen years sees the goth icons meditating on time and mortality, rekindling what made their music undeniably spellbinding in the process.

my review of Songs of a Lost World

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867 - This Is the Glasshouse

◇ released: Nov. 10, 2024 ◇ genres: indie rock, post-rock, art rock

A passion project in every sense of the term, This Is the Glasshouse’s third album sounds like it was born out of necessity. It also provides an emotional roadmap of Canada's Yukon territory.

my review of 867

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Mahashmashana - Father John Misty

◇ released: Nov. 22, 2024 ◇ genres: singer-songwriter, baroque pop, chamber pop

Josh Tillman’s existential new album is his eccentric attempt to grapple with his own identity through baroque psychedelia.

my review of Mahashmashana

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GNX - Kendrick Lamar

◇ released: Nov. 22, 2024 ◇ genre: west coast hip-hop

Kendrick Lamar seeks to create a watershed moment for West Coast hip-hop while continuing to wrestle with his distinction as hip-hop’s prophet on his abrupt new album.

my review of GNX

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ thanks for reading <3

hope everyone is having some happy holidays, pls spend time with the ones u love :3

[deathlessathanasia]

Do you have any sources on Andromeda's ethnicity?

I vaguely recall reblogging one post or two about this topic, and if so it should be in my Andromeda tag.

Here is an excerpt from Daniel Ogden's Perseus:

"Cepheus and his family seem to have started life adjacently to Perseus’ own Argos in Arcadian Tegea (Pausanias 8.47.5). However, landlocked Tegea could hardly have been threatened by a sea-monster, or have been a matter of concern to marine deities like Poseidon and the Nereids. … If Apollodorus’ account of the Andromeda episode reflects Pherecydes’ faithfully, then the mythographer will have located it in Ethiopia. As we have seen, iconography may suggest that Sophocles’ Andromeda was produced ca. 450 bc and had an African and therefore an Ethiopian setting. … We have explicit testimony to the fact, ‘As Euripides says, this king of the Ethiopians was the father of Andromeda’ (Scholiast to Germanicus’ Aratus p. 77 Breysig), and ‘Ethiopians’ are actually mentioned in a surviving, though admittedly corrupt, fragment (fr. 147 TrGF ). Ancillary indications are provided by the fact that Aristophanes’ parody of Euripides’ play was also set in Ethiopia (Thesmophoriazusae 1098), and that a fragment of Euripides’ Archelaus of 408/7 also locates Andromeda in Ethiopia (fr. 228a TrGF ). But what kind of Ethiopia are we talking about? As we have noted, another fragment of the Andromeda speaks of the ketos speeding from the Atlantic to devour the girl (fr. 145 TrGF ). This entails that the Ethiopians in question were those that lived in the extreme west of Africa on the Atlantic coast. Already Homer speaks of the Ethiopians as ‘the remotest of men, divided into two communities, one where the sun sets, the other where it rises’ (Odyssey 1.23–4; cf. Apollonius Argonautica 3.1191–2, Strabo C120). And indeed Palaephatus explicitly locates Perseus’ own Ethiopians in the extreme west beyond the Pillars of Hercules (FGH 44 fr. 31). Such Ethiopians of course are conveniently adjacent to the Hesperidean Gorgons. Henceforth Ethiopia was to remain the favoured setting for literary accounts of the Andromeda episode ([Eratosthenes] Catasterisms 1.15, Strabo C42–3, Ovid Metamorphoses 4.669, Pliny Natural History 6.182, Antiphilus at Greek Anthology 16.147, Lucian Dialogues in the Sea 14, The Hall 22, Philostratus imagines 1.29, Heliodorus 4.8, etc.).

Perseus had some sort of association with Persia at least from the period of the Persian wars, but we first hear that Andromeda and her family were based there from Herodotus (7.61, 150). He tells us that Andromeda bore Perseus his first son Perses in her homeland, that of the Cephenes, and left him there for Cepheus to rear and in due course give his name to ‘Persia’. Hellanicus, Herodotus’ rough contemporary, put the Cephenes visited by Perseus rather in Babylon (FGH 4 fr. 59). … We do not find Phoenician Joppa (Jaffa/Tel Aviv) identified as Andromeda’s home until the Periplus attributed to Scylax, which was composed in the late fourth century bc. Compatibly, the Augustan Strabo held that Ethiopa’s claim to the Andromeda story preceded Joppa’s: ‘And there are some who transfer Ethiopia to the Phoenicia near us and they say that the Andromeda story took place in Joppa’ (C42–3; cf. C759, Tacitus Histories 5.2.3). … In the third century bc the Argive historian Deinias embarked upon a patriotic project to resolve the conflicting claims of Ethiopia and Persia to Andromeda. He did this in three ways. First, he made Perseus travel on from one to the other. Secondly, he transferred the Cephenes from their traditional Persian location to Ethiopia. And thirdly, he gave an integral role in the Perseus myth to the sea system that linked (Eastern) Ethiopia with Persia, the Red (Erythra) Sea, by deriving its name from a (newly invented?) son of Perseus, Erythras. For the Greeks the Red Sea extended far beyond the boundaries of the sea which we now know by that name: the term covered the (modern) Red Sea, the Persian Gulf, and the Indian Ocean between. … In due course Phoenician Joppa too, with its own claim to Andromeda, also had to be brought to the Red Sea, and Conon, writing at the turn of the eras, found a way: ‘The kingdom of Cepheus was later renamed Phoenicia, but at that time it was called Joppa, taking its name from the seaboard city of Joppa. Its original borders stretched from our sea as far as the Arabs that live beside the Red Sea’ (FGH 26 fr. 1). But the fact that the ‘Red Sea’ also embraced the Indian Ocean allowed Andromeda to be re-sited in yet another exotic location. Philodemus, writing in the earlier first century bc, ends a rude epigram with the declaration that Perseus fell in love with the Indian Andromeda (at Greek Anthology 5.132)."

[culturecalypsosblog]

Circe, in Greek legend, a sorceress, the daughter of Helios, the sun god, and of the ocean nymph Perse. She was able by means of drugs and incantations to change humans into wolves, lions, and swine. The Greek hero Odysseus visited her island, Aeaea, with his companions, whom she changed into swine. But Odysseus, protected by the herb moly (a gift from Hermes), compelled her to restore them to their original shape. He stayed with her for one year before resuming his journey. The story is told by Homer in the Odyssey, Books X and XII. Greco-Roman tradition placed her island near Italy or located her on Mount Circeo. Circe was a goddess of magic, though she was sometimes depicted as a nymph (minor nature god), a witch or an enchantress.

In any case, she was associated with magic. She knew a lot about potions and herbs, and sometimes used this knowledge against her enemies and people who offended her, turning them into wild animals. She also had a wand or staff called the rhabdos which she also used to channel her magic. In fact, this was the earliest mention of a “magical wand or staff” in Western writings; it was referred to in Homer’s epic poem, the Odyssey, when Circe used it to turn Odysseus’s men into beasts.

Circe was the daughter of HELIOS, a TITAN who represented the Sun, and Perse, an ocean nymph. She was one of three thousand of her kind, daughters of TITANS OCEANUS and TETHYS. In another version, Circe was the daughter of HECATE, a goddess of sorcery.

She had two brothers. One was named Aeetes, and he looked after the GOLDEN FLEECE, a fleece that was the property of royalty. It was made from the wool of a golden ram with wings. Her second brother was PERSES.

PASIPHAE was her only sister, and she was the queen of the Greek island, CRETE, and also the wife of King Minos. It was also said that she gave birth to the MINOTAUR, a creature that was half man, half bull, with the head and horns of a cattle and the body of a man.

In some stories, Circe was exiled by her father Helios to live alone on AEAEA, a fictional island, as punishment for killing the prince of COLCHIS, who was her husband at the time.

She later had children with ODYSSEUS, the king of ITHACA from Homer’s writings. Her three sons were Ardeas, Latinus and Telegonus.

Kirke's name is derived from the Greek verb kirkoô meaning "to secure with rings" or "hoop around"--a reference to the binding power of magic.

Kirke's island of Aiaia (Aeaea) was located in the far west, near the earth-encircling River Okeanos (Oceanus). Her brother Aeetes' realm in the far east was similarly named Aia (Aea).

She was able by means of drugs and incantations to change humans into wolves, lions, and swine. The Greek hero Odysseus visited her island, Aeaea, with his companions, whom she changed into swine. But Odysseus, protected by the herb moly (a gift from Hermes), compelled her to restore them to their original shape. He stayed with her for one year before resuming his journey. Despite having no particular love for humankind, Circe famously found herself embroiled with the hero Odysseus after he and his men arrived on her island. She is also responsible for turning the beautiful nymph Scylla into a fearsome sea monster. In the Aeneid by Virgil (70-19 BCE), Aeneas sails right past her island after he had been warned to avoid her by Odysseus' men.

Circe was a fearsome but beautiful goddess, a witch who bewitched men with her voice. She was also talented at working the loom. She had a way with magical drugs and often turned men into beasts for her entertainment or as revenge.

Circe was taken to the island of Aeaea in Helios' chariot (some say as punishment for her husband's death). The island was described as wild with heavy woods. It was inhabited by lions and wolves who had once been men until Circe's magical drugs had taken effect. Classical writers identify the island with Cape Circeium on the western coast of Italy.

In his Odyssey, Homer (c. 750 BCE) describes Circe as a fearsome goddess with a human voice and describes her beautiful hair. Homer also gives her the epithet Polypharmakos ("knowing many drugs or charms"). In Ovid's (43 BCE to 17 CE) Metamorphoses, she is portrayed as seated regally on a throne, dressed in gold. In art, she is often portrayed as a beautiful woman with a cup raised high, a symbol of her magical potions and incantations.

Circe received divine honours in the ancient world and was said to have had a monument dedicated to her on one of the Pharmacussae islands near Salamis. Monte Cicero in Italy is also said to be named after her.

Circe inspired many artists, including Annibale Carracci (1560-1609), Edward Burne-Jones (1833-1898), and John William Waterhouse (1849-1917). She also has multiple operas, spanning from the 1600s to modern times, written about her. In addition, an asteroid discovered in 1855 was named after her.

In modern times, Circe is the name of Wonder Woman's enemy in the DC Comics, where she also has encounters with Batman and Superman. Circe (2018) is also a hugely popular book by author Madeline Miller and is set to be adapted into a TV series. In the book, she is portrayed as a much more sympathetic character than her ancient depictions, and true to changing times, Circe has become a feminist symbol and an example of a powerful woman.

I hope you enjoyed this blog more up soon,

Culture Calypso’s Blog 🏺🏛️🏺

[dirtanddistance]

West Coast Running Odyssey - Alternate Title, How to RunMaxx a Three Day Weekend/Bay to Breakers Race Recap and More

Some weekends were made for running, and for this BC runner, Victoria Day Weekend was without doubt that weekend for me. Saturday morning started with an early alarm drawing me groggily downstairs to make a cup of tea and grab a bagel. I could hear the ominous beating of the rain outside. Checking my messages, it quickly became apparent that the group planning a run up to Tunnel Bluffs would not be convening. I texted Elise to check if she wanted to bail, and thankfully, she was prepared to get out there still. We enjoyed the meandering drive up Sea to Sky and got to trekking. Calling this a run may have been a slight exaggeration, seeing as we were hoofing it uphill a good amount of the way up. However, the trek paid off as we reached the bluffs to a view out across the sound. Perhaps not as majestic as a truly clear day, but braving the rain on the sparsely traveled trail up was worth the extra care scrambling up the final rocky sections. We logged our names on the little message station and beheld a soggy plush dog stationed in a stump overlooking the water, pondering his role and how he reached this place. Is he meant to tell us something? On the way back, much faster and with higher spirits, we gleefully ignored the building fatigue in our quads as we pulled into the parking lot with jelly legs, feeling incredibly fortunate to have not gone back to bed. And, because I have no chill when it comes to maximizing my run opportunities, I hopped on a plane to San Francisco shortly after.

Bay to Breakers is an event without comparison in North America. I'd participated around ten years ago, and would describe the event as a 12k long party rather than a 'race'. Between the costumes, the absurd spectators, the flying tortillas in the staring gate, the adult full frontal nudity, and the centipede category, you are guaranteed to see something you've never seen before. This year was no exception. We rocked up to the starting line as a party of three; two of us dressed in a rather obscure pop culture reference duo costume as Taylor and Matty for our best Tortured Poets Department impression. We'd ordered our race packets to be mailed to us, but when there was no hint of them the day before the race, I frantically emailed the help desk and was told I could pick our numbers up morning of. This went quite smoothly, if it was slightly disappointing to not have had the pre-event mailing work out. The starting corrals were well organized, but within moments the trademark ridiculousness took root with fajita size tortillas flying through the air. After being buffeted by a number of the delicious discs, I flung one back into the void, promptly striking someone in the face (sorry!) and earning a high five from my compatriots. As they released us into the streets through the starting gate, the real adventure began. I can confidently say that the sequined shorts were perfectly fine to run in with their protective nylons guarding them from my skin, which was possibly the largest surprise of the day. The first entertaining stop was a reverse piñata station, in which two rows of people dressed up like piñatas with inflatable sticks wallop runners passing through. After that, we encountered an entire crew dressed as crabs. This would turn out to be the most resilient and entertaining group of the day. The swarm of crabs would later be seen partying long into the afternoon in the park, absolutely in sync and on some kind of divine crab wavelength that the rest of us could only imagine existing within. As all three of us were originally from Florida, Hayes Hill was the most fretted portion of the event, and where we began walking. The amount of concentrated hype attached to this portion of the course is understandable given the mild elevation profile of the rest of the course. I quickly discovered as I forced us back to running on the downhill that my legs were not particularly pleased to be doing another downhill run after yesterday's blitz back from Tunnel Bluffs, but I ignored this inconvenient fact in favor of pressing onwards. We passed a Pit Stop in which a crew of spectators dressed in race car pit crew outfits slammed runners into camp chairs, poured some beer down their throats, and then shoved them back onto the course in a brutally efficient demonstration of debauchery. We walk/ran the remainder of the trek out to the Pacific, and even had someone recognize our costume along the way. Finally, the finish line and the breaking waves beckoned, and we collected our pretty sick finisher medals and oodles of snacks. 10/10 event, did 0/10 serious racing.

Why stop at two back to back days of iconic running destinations when you can stack up three? Only someone without a searing ambition to add a trail run to their San Francisco weekend would leave their Monday bereft of more miles. That, and I really didn't want to do another long run on my usual home route. Desperation leads to curious destinations, and that curious destination for me was the top of Hawk Hill via foot from Haight Ashbury. Like any sensible person who never drinks coffee, I decided that morning was the perfect one for my caffeine sensitive self to slam a soy latte before taking the 7 bus with my husband into town proper. After he picked up a bike and we picked out some waypoints, I was off and running. I have to say, I was running up inclines I would never even consider runnable during the first hour of this journey. I bounded up the stairs to Inspiration Point before bobbing down again to the start of the Golden Gate bridge. In my caffeinated stupor, I thought to myself that I might not be so pleased on the return route going back up, but decided that was a problem for mile 17 me and instead tackled the puzzle that was 'how to get onto the sidewalk that would take me across the bridge to the sweet sweet dirt and plants on the other side of it'. Now, I would understand if you were expecting me to have some kind of awe inspiring account of what it's like to run across this iconic piece of American engineering. This instantly recognizable more-orange-than-red bridge is the default bridge emoji. It links a storied American city with a massive national recreation area. Running across it, therefore, must be a religious experience. Perhaps it is, given that most of what I hear of religious experiences in America are filled with rage, inefficiency, and lack of consideration of anyone other than oneself. It was an infuriating experience. First of all, it's loud. Many cars and big water means much sound. Second, it's packed. This was a non-holiday Monday and it was packed. That's enough of a challenge, but I've been to Tokyo and seen that humans are capable of being very concentrated and also very orderly. This bridge traffic did not get this memo. Not a soul on this sidewalk had ever conceived of a single file line. The existence of pull-off areas for photos and pausing was completely ignored in favor of random stopping in the most congested sections. As someone who very minimally experiences what one might consider 'road rage,' I was shocked at the internal frustration building within me. Thankfully I refrained from externalizing that experience and made it to the other side, where I again had to go full Dora The Explorer to find the way to the other side of the bridge and finally get to the promised land - TRAILS.

The trails did not disappoint. As a friend pointed out to me later, Marin was the location of the North Face Endurance 50k years back, and understandable why they chose this location. Although most of my journey out was uphill, it was gradual enough to be fully runnable, leaving my cycle-bound husband in my dust. At the top of Hawk Hill, I enjoyed a fresh jam sandwich I'd bought with my coffee and ferried all the way up with me, in true trail run fashion. The trek back down became a bit more interesting as I took a different trail back along the ridge instead of along the road. I spotted a couple ahead of me, and then promptly tripped on almost nothing and ate dirt, in front of the only other humans I would end up seeing on the trail that day. I quickly waved them off in my embarrassment so I could cry quietly about it for a few minutes, and then hobbled along with the sad acknowledgement that I would not be flinging myself back down the hill with the ache in my knee now gnawing away. Each time I stopped it got a bit stiff, so I quit doing that and dragged my dusty, bleeding carcass back into town to meet my husband back at the Whole Foods, which seems like the only appropriate post-run meet point in San Francisco, for a post run kombucha (I kinda would have done anything for a classic Red Dye 40 packed Gatorade, but I was also not willing to expend any more effort than necessary seeking one out in my condition). While I felt bad for myself in my sticky and bloody state, I have to say I've been pretty fortunate to have made it about a year since my last dirt-eating debacle. I can't even mitigate it by saying it was super technical, or a dicey downhill. I was going uphill. There was probably some tiny rock. I'm going to take it as a good omen that I completed my mandatory knee scrape early in the season and that it will again bless the remainder of hot trail runner summer.

Looking back on the absurd trifecta of runs I was lucky enough to get to do, I was reminded of just how awe inspiring running can be - from the bonds we form with those we run with and friends we make along the way, to the absurdity one can witness from the vantage point of the street, to the majesty of the places our feet can take us. No matter the place, no matter the pace, going for a run is always a good idea.

[jojotier]

not to get really weird about coffee but the thing that wigs me out the most about the guy in the folgers incest commercial coming back and being like "ahh real coffee" is that 1) folgers is a brand that tends to use robusta beans 2) robusta beans are known for being the most bitter of the three main types used in coffee 3) while places like the ivory coast export a fair amount of robusta africa is largely known for its various arabica varieties since they tend to be sweeter and more floral and 4) whatever notes you might get out of a robusta bean are being shot to all hell by being roasted to the cusp of being fucking burnt like vjhbkjn it's implied this cunt went on an entire coffee odyssey, likely looking for the place where coffee originated (which isn't even the right place! he went to the west coast! coffee is thought to originate in EAST africa, in ethiopia!) had so many kinds of coffee straight from the source and declared them all shit compared to his shitass coal powder

[beatrice-otter]

Here's the thing about the Grapes of Wrath. It is based on stolen research.

Sanora Babb was a worker with the Farm Security Administration, and spent years working with migrant farm workers in California to help them get better living and working conditions. She herself was from Oklahoma, so she had a lot of cultural insight into the Okies she was working with. She did a lot of research, made a lot of notes for the government, and also wrote a novel about their lives called Whose Names Are Unknown.

Babb sent it the manuscript and notes to a publisher. Publisher goes, "this is great stuff!" and gives the notes to Steinbeck. Who writes his own novel with her research plus a bit of his own. Babb's novel wasn't published, and Steinbeck got a Pulitzer. The publisher claimed Steinbeck never got Babb's book, just the notes, but there are a number of passages or events in the two books that are ... very similar.

Here's the other thing about the Grapes of Wrath. My grandma was an Arky (like an Okie, but from Arkansas). And she hated the Grapes of Wrath. It felt very exploitative to her, like it was using her family's pain (and the pain of families like hers) for someone else's gain and sensationalizing the whole thing for people who'd never gone through it. Like, it only took three days to drive from Arkansas or Oklahoma to the West Coast. In the novel, it's this long odyssey.

Hitting the California agricultural industry portion of The Grapes of Wrath and am bouncing off the walls and breathing fire