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He’d very much like to savor the feeling of her body so close, in this room that he can only describe as home. It is, as they say, where the heart is. And this heart in his arms has stood by his side since the very beginning.

Of all the common rooms throughout the castle, the loungers in Slytherin’s must surely be among the most uncomfortable seatings. Remarkably, when one spends his time upon the emerald-green chaise whilst babbling with a classmate about the injustices of weekend assignments and scrolls – or perhaps whilst thumbing through a book plucked fresh from the deepest bowels of the restricted section – Sebastian Sallow finds the arrangement plenty plush and aptly accommodating to his needs for rest and respite. When lost in his mind and the thoughts confined within, which yearn to burst from his tongue during the frequent nights wherein sleep does not come to him, the lounger beneath him is a bed of nails; sharp, and twisting into the nerves of his spine.

In spite of the heaviness behind his eyes, his body positively throbs with an unspent energy that would have been welcomed greatly during this morning’s potion class. Sebastian counts the crackling of oak splinters in the fireplace. His face grows hotter with each passing moment spent before the blaze. A cacophony of girlish laughter reverberates from the dormitories up the stairs. A door opens moments thereafter, and a set of uneven footsteps echo from the tunnel-like walls, against the grating of the bridge. They do not belong to Imelda Reyes – she doesn’t wear those buckled heel shoes. It could be Nerida Roberts, Sebastian decides, or even Violet McDowell. Certainly not a first year. Whoever it is does not carry herself with such grace.

Oh, he had forgotten about Grace Pinch-Smedley.

“Sebastian?”

He turns quickly. While it goes against no rules nor prohibitions to invite members of the other houses into the common room (albeit a taboo to be sure), the sight of Daphne takes him by the upmost surprise. Her hair has, at some point during the night, fallen from its patented bun at the base of her neck; he never knew her mane was so long, so abundant. Parted down the center now – wild and creased from bondage – her blonde hair radiates in the fireplace’s glow and takes on a copper twinge. The red hue of her cheeks bleeds beneath the worn powder pressed upon her skin. Her white uniform blouse has been unbuttoned twice from the top and remains barely tucked into the belt of her pleated skirt – no necktie nor quilted vest to be seen. The buckles of her shoes are undone because she hastened to slip them on in making her escape from Imelda’s bed.

“Well, well,” Sebastian starts as he beckons her to join him. She takes the cushion without hesitation; she reeks heavily of wine, but not unpleasantly so.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

She beams brightly and reaches to pull him beside her. A pocket of dried burgundy pools in the cracks of her lower lip. He could very well wipe it away with the flesh of his thumb. As if she can feel his stare, Daphne brings the back of her hand to her mouth.

“Imelda and the girls invited me to spend the evening with them,” she explains.

She is trying far too hard to sound straight.

“To . . .” she trails off in some sphere of contemplation, “alleviate our compatriotic stress, you know.”

“I see. And does this ‘alleviation of compatriotic stress,’ as you put it, involve some forbidden indulgences?”

Only then does she shy away.

“I’m sorry,” she sighs. “I must look horrible, don’t I?”

“Not at all,” Sebastian insists. “You simply look like a young woman who has earned the right to some fun and frivolity.”

Satisfied with his answer, and a hum tickling her teeth, Daphne slackens against the backing of the lounger. There is a stain upon her bosom, and it matches the color of her lips. Her right knee bounces up and down, her heel abandoning its shoe underfoot; her skirt jostles and rides up her bloomer-clad thigh, inching closer and closer to the place where her legs meet. She must not realize what she is doing, and heavens, her garters are slipping. Beneath the odor of wine, there is an inkling of jasmine. She observes the fire and puffs her cheeks to stifle a belch. He knows he ought not marvel at her, and yet he finds that he cannot help himself. Never, Sebastian realizes, has he seen her in such a state. So pedestrian. So shambled.

So perfectly imperfect.

“I’ve not been sleeping,” she confesses suddenly, and her knee stills. There is a silence now, in the absence of her ruffling.

 “I’ve counted sheep and paced my dormitory for hours. Tried to think myself into exhaustion, held my breath, gorged myself . . . At this point, the only thing I’ve yet to try is a sleeping draught. Professor Sharp cautioned me, but what have I left to lose?”

Sebastian frowns.

“That’s why I came here tonight,” Daphne continues. “Imelda assured me that a bottle of wine would do the trick. Lull me right to sleep, she said.”

“But you’re wide awake,” Sebastian counters.

“Absolutely wired.”

A string of deep voices sound from the central stairwell. Sebastian reaches to pull her skirt back over her knee; she doesn’t protest, though she jolts when his pinkie grazes the hot flesh of her knee (truly, however, she cannot feel his touch through her stockings). A group of older boys, who come about as seemingly unaware of the pair (or they simply care little to bother acknowledging them), descend and make their way to the dormitories.

“For what it’s worth,” he says once the boys are no longer within earshot, “I’ve not been sleeping either.”

“I’m sorry, Sebastian.” And she means it – else, she wouldn’t say otherwise. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

“Don’t say that.”

It comes a bit terser than he intends. He takes a moment to collect himself as Daphne flinches; his belly falls, and suddenly, there are two fingers against his temples. Phantom limbs, but pressing all the same.

“You’ve likewise suffered demons,” Sebastian clarifies. “You needn’t make light of your situation. It isn’t good for the spirit.”

She nods.

Daphne has, for as long as he has known her, always been this sort of individual – the kind to toss her troubles beyond and below, as if nothing. Always the sort to drop anything, and quite possibly everything, if only to appease another. Why else would she delay her first sojourn beneath the clock tower for dueling practice (how restive he felt as he waited for her), if not to retrieve the tempestuous Zenobia Noke’s blasted gobstone collection? It had taken Imelda a fortnight to hide them all. What of the bells in the tower above the music classrooms? Or that damned over-sized tentacula leaf for Puffskein Dunskein? Yes, it was quite a clever nickname, thank you very much. There was the matter of that mermaid artifact for Nerida; the Slytherin girl was rather eager to present the necklace to her peers, and although not so keen on confessing her ineptitude for swimming, she spoke of Daphne’s altruistic propensity with the upmost regard. Never mind that the necklace would have looked much better draped around her neck, Sebastian thought, when Nerida dangled it before him. He shan’t forget the way the aquamarine pendant sparkled beneath the light.

He shan’t forget the time she dove into the lake to retrieve that wretched astrolabe for Grace, either. Daphne returned to the castle a soaking, shivering mess. And she hadn’t the decency to ask for a damned thing in return.

“Sebastian?” she calls, tearing her gaze from the fireplace and staring him down; intent, keen, and fully serious. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to show you. Or, somewhere, I should specify.”

There is a lump in his throat that he does not feel until he swallows.

“It’s getting late,” he says, atypically cautious and certainly unlike himself. “Wouldn’t want to get caught by a prefect in your current condition, would you?”

“In my current condition?” Daphne asks. “What about you? Are you sure you’re feeling alright? You sound a bit like Ominis, and it doesn’t suit you.”

The brunet boy gawks at her. Sounding like Ominis? Sebastian Sallow? Never.

“Besides . . .”

She pushes herself from the lounger, sways, and buckles forth into the tea table. Sebastian jumps to his feet as his arms move to brace her – one beneath the crook of her farthest, and the other falling upon the bent elbow that hovers above a ruined game of chess. The ceramic pieces knock against each other. Her blouse is soft and unpilled, and the flesh beneath blisters.

“There’s no time like the present.”

He must imagine the flash of green upon her eyes. A trick of the light, and nothing more. Daphne straightens herself and steps around the table.

“Give me your hand, will you?”

Wordless, Sebastian takes her waiting fingers, and his palm finds purchase with hers. The faintest of callouses mar the thickest parts of her hand (she wears her leather gloves for trysts of wand mastery); whatever balm she uses preserves her skin well, he thinks, for she is smooth like a fanciful of bed linens and lovely silk dresses. Their bearing is not quite enough until she traps his fingers with his own and tugs him forward. The stack of demitasses atop the table rattles.

Properly disillusioned, she leads him from the spiraling staircase of the Slytherin common room to the landing just below the highest peak of the astronomy tower, their hands only departing from the other when Sebastian hastened to flip his wand towards a poorly placed pile of books to distract a wayward prefect who was absolutely certain that he had caught a glimpse of blonde hair below the trickling of moonlight from the tower windows. Their excursion must have been sobering enough, if not for the practical drowning in the girls’ bathroom when Daphne insisted that she was simply too parched to carry on. Sebastian didn’t mind holding her hair back as she cupped her hands beneath the running faucets and lifted the spilled water to her stained lips. Her pomade smelled of bergamot and black tea. And, as always, jasmine.

Now, in the astronomy tower, Daphne ushers Sebastian to turn around to face the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, who proudly dons his robin’s egg ensemble and wields his ivory baton towards the trolls he means to teach ballet.

“This is what you wanted to show me?” Sebastian asks. “It’s quite silly, I suppose, but impossible to miss on your way to astronomy. It’s hardly much of a secret.”

“No, I didn’t drag you here to show you a tapestry,” Daphne huffs. “Just stay there for a moment, and don’t turn around.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And so, arms crossed and admittedly feeling a bit indignant, he stares at the tapestry. He memorizes the pattern because there is not much else for him to do. First, the troll in the back left attempts what Sebastian imagines is a plie, and then the plie-esque troll’s neighbor throws his weight forwards and his arms above his head. Not quite graceful, though not quite gauche, either. The third troll, the closest to Barnabas, scratches his chest before bringing his club down atop the man. Barnabas rises, unphased and hardly discouraged; only a moment later, however, and the fourth troll likewise crushes him with a bone that must have come from a dragon’s femur. In the background, just beyond the tree line and the mountain ridge, is Hogwarts.

Barnabas stands, conducting away, and the first troll plies again.

Stone grinds behind Sebastian. He isn’t surprised in the least bit to learn that Daphne has discovered the Room. It’s nothing more than a hovel for bits and pieces, and the ordinary rubbish of a well-spent domesticated life. He had fooled himself once in believing he might happen upon a cure for Anne inside. No matter of wailing, browbeating, nor cursing could persuade the ceaseless Room to grant him the answer that he so tirelessly chased; or, rather, the solution to the utterly inconceivable problem that has rendered his sister a shell. There were no tomes filled with lost tonic recipes to dispel a curse derivative of the darkest arts, and certainly he found no vials filled to save him the trouble of reading – as if anything came so easily in life. At least there is comfort in knowing where to find a spare chair.

Sebastian turns. Daphne smiles at him, absolutely giddy and still under the influence of whatever cursed wine Imelda procured for the girls. Stolen from the kitchens, no doubt. He doesn’t mind looking after the Hufflepuff girl in this state, not really.  Next time, he promises himself, he’ll join in her silly indulgence.

He could make a quip about the Room. However, when Daphne takes his hand for the hundredth time tonight and leads him to the door, he knows he won’t. He can’t bear to see that smile falter. Can’t bear to be the reason why.

“You and Ominis have your Undercroft,” she tells him, her fingers dancing just above the bronze door handle. “But this . . . This belongs to me.”

And it is nothing of a hovel at all, Sebastian realizes, as she pilots him into the moonlit aura of the great room. The floor is a brilliantly ornate marble – the walls a deep walnut and lacquered in gothic, emerald papering and filled with bookshelves and cabinets. The ceiling above is a glass dome and just beyond that is a reflection of the night sky – a perpetual full moon and its stars. White drapes cascade along the marble arches above their heads. He won’t ask her where those strange, illuminated doorways lead to; a coastal castle, or a swamp perhaps – they are but questions for another time.

“Well?” Daphne prompts. She falls upon a lounger tucked into a corner next to the entrance. Beneath the lounger is a botanical rug and above that, a tea table cluttered with a skull, a wayward tonic, and a set of quills.

“What do you think?”

“I think this reeks of favoritism,” Sebastian admits. “I had written this place off a while ago.”

He joins her now and finally, he has found somewhere to rest in earnest. The cushioning is soft and plush – well loved, unquestionably cared for, and tender.   

“You’re probably right about that,” she acquiesces. “Professor Weasley thought the Room would be a fine place to catch up on my schoolwork. I suppose she didn’t approve of my extracurriculars.”

“I’m not surprised that this was her doing. She speaks fondly of you. Not to mention, we have her to thank for our foray into Hogsmeade at the start of the year.”

“Yes, and if not for her, you’d have been stuck in detention with Madam Scribner that day instead.”

It is Sebastian’s turn to grin.

“Despite the mess with those trolls and Rookwood, it was a grand trip,” he says. “Aside from Ominis or Anne, I can’t imagine that I’d take a lout’s bludgeoning for anyone else. If it were Leander with me, I’d probably take up arms with the trolls.”

He pauses.

“I think this room is wonderful, Daphne. Not becoming for a Hufflepuff, per se, and yet it fits you all the same.”

She cups her own cheeks to hide her blush. It could be that their journey has worn him into a proper weariness, or it may be that the lounger is commanding it of him, but Sebastian knows that if he only closes his eyes right now, he might doze off – next to his confidant and charge, who gazes upon him in such a way that inspires his want to pull her close and let her sleep in his arms.

He won’t do either.

“Will you stay here with me?” Daphne asks. “I know you’ve your own bed, and it’s selfish of me to say. I just don’t want you to go.”

She tugs on his arm, her bottom lip pouting just so. There isn’t much wine left in the crack of it.

“Now, now,” Sebastian begins, “who said I was leaving?”

“Stay with me. Please.”

Against his better judgment – and all semblance of self-control, for however much of it is left – he leans forward and brushes his lips against the crown of her head. He doesn’t catch the way her eyes flutter shut, nor the soft peak of her smile. Her fingers curl into her palm, perhaps to keep herself from tethering them against the lapels of his sleeping robe.

“I’ll stay here forever, if that’s what you want,” he mumbles against her hair. “I’ll always be here for you. Always.”

As you have been for me, in the brief time I’ve known you.

Sebastian decides that he could very well stay here forever. In this degree that can only be peace, pressed against the nook of the lounger with a lovely girl molded against his chest at last and her hair tickling the hair of his nose. Anne used to pester him ceaselessly about his snoring. If the universe is a fair maiden after all, then Daphne won’t mind. The truth is one that he knows all too well – he’ll just have to make sure she falls asleep first.

Amidst his thoughts, the Room begins the quake. Sebastian sits upright, his grip around Daphne growing tighter.

“What’s happening?” Sebastian asks, hiding his panic all too well. “Should we leave?”

“No,” Daphne insists, wide-eyed and alert. “The Room  . . . It’s changing.”

The thunder comes from up the stairs, just past the windowed stretch of a reading nook.

“What do you mean, it’s ‘changing’?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” she confesses. “Shall we go find out? I’m almost certain it’s nothing dangerous.”

Though Sebastian insists he ought to take the lead, Daphne marches ahead and ascends to the balcony; helpless to do nothing more, Sebastian clammers after whilst gripping his wand terribly close. In an alcove nestled between the peaks of the twin stairs is a hallway and within that passage appears a doorway bearing the same adornments, engravings, and talismans as the entry.

“Unless you were thinking about inflicting pain on either of us,” Daphne says, arms crossed, “you ought to put your wand away.”

“Why does it matter what I was thinking?” Sebastian questions.

“I can manipulate the Room and shape it into the very design I wish, just by anticipating it hard enough. I made a loo appear once when I nearly . . . Well, I won’t finish that, but just take my word for it.”

Sebastian slips his wand away.

“You should do the honors,” she tells him. “Go ahead. Open the door.”

And so, he does. Beyond the creaking door is an oaken floor laden with a threadbare rug decorated with embroidered flowers. There is a fireplace against the furthest wall, and its orange hue casts the only light upon the furniture in the new room – a dresser with bronze knobs, a pair of mismatched nightstands (one yew and the other painted green), a porcelain wash sink with a ceramic carafe, and lastly, a wrought-iron bed topped with thick pillows and a diamond-crossed quilt. The glass of the windows is frosted around the panes, and he can see the quidditch pitch in the distance where it stands out brilliantly against the beating snow. A clever illusion to cure the springtime blues; it hasn’t snowed in nearly three weeks. He has always loved winter.

Daphne looms over his shoulder, a strange grin upon her face; as for Sebastian, he feels utter mortification. Implications be damned – she must think him to be a wretched fiend of the highest perversions.

“I wasn’t expecting this, Sebastian.” He can feel her jaw pop against his shoulder. “Dare I ask why you’ve summoned a bedroom in myRoom?”

If ever there was a moment more opportune to be choked by his own tongue, now would be the time.

“I was just thinking about how tired I was,” he confesses. “How easily I could have fallen asleep on the lounger out there. I promise, I . . .”

He rubs his neck and prays that she cannot see the blush of his cheeks in the firelight, or the ring of perspiration at his hairline.

“It’s not that I don’t find you attractive –” slow down, “but I really am exhausted.”

He can feel Daphne her firm hands against his shoulder blades just as she pushes herself backwards. She is fidgeting with the beds of her fingernails, and she refuses to look at him.

“Well, go on then,” she says. “The Room knows what you need.”

Sebastian gazes around the bedroom again. There are a few paintings along the walls: an aged woman cradling a niffler, which bats about at the golden pendant draped about her neck; a landscape of a village, which can only be Feldcroft, turned golden with the kiss of autumn; and, to his chagrin, a shrunken version of the tapestry of Barnabas, although this one has taken the medium of a framed canvas. Sebastian detects the smell of tobacco and balsam from the fireplace, and the fragrance of vanilla and patchouli from the steadfast candle above the mantle.

He swears it is what his mother and his father smelled of – an unmerciful reminder of what has been stolen from the brevity of the life he has. He hardly remembers their faces. He won’t confess it.

As he approaches the bed, he notices a set of two teacups atop the closest nightstand. Steam rises from the cups, and a bowl of sugar with a silver spoon has been set down between them. Chamomile, he realizes, when he lifts the first cup to his face. He wasn’t meant to drink both.

Holding the second saucer out to the girl standing in the doorway, he speaks: “Will you join me?”

“In the bed?” she asks.

He nods.

“It wouldn’t be proper, Sebastian.”

“I’m not asking you to lie with me because I wish to spoil your virtue. I’m asking you to share the bed with me because I do not wish to sleep alone. You’ve asked me to stay tonight – this is where you’ll find me.”

Without another word, she steps forward to take the chamomile; too bashful to say yes, and too galvanized to say no. Sebastian has the bowl of sugar ready before she has the chance to ask for it. He knows how she takes it; two teaspoons and a rigorous stir. She drinks the sweetened hot tea, and the sentiment lingers in her brain. Her shoulders fall as she hurries to finish it. Satisfied, she sets the emptied saucer back down, and Sebastian’s is soon to follow.

“I feel overdressed,” Daphne admits. “Would you mind if I made myself a bit more comfortable?”

Her shoes have already been tossed across the floor.

“Not at all.”

She slips out of her pleated skirt and slips her loosened blouse from her arms. Her garments lay precisely where they fall. She unfastens her garters next and rolls her stockings down. With a few frustrated tugs, the metal clasps along the front of her corset come undone. She stands now only in her bloomers and her chemise.

“I haven’t a gown,” she says.

“Then sleep as you are,” Sebastian insists.

He drapes his sleeping robe over the foot of the iron bedframe. A few bruises in various stages of healing mar the bare skin of her arms and her legs – some of them a deep purple, one yellow, and others brown. Along her clavicle is the worst one; it looks to be the size of an outstretched hand, and it is the darkest of them all. Sebastian’s palm lingers above it.

“What happened here?” he asks.

She watches his hand.

“An Ashwinder,” she says.

“Did it hurt?”

What a stupid thing to ask.

“Yes.”

“Did you kill him?”

There’s that flash of green again.

“I did.”

His arm falls back to his side. Of course, the Ashwinder was dead. Otherwise, she’d not be here to speak of him. Sebastian ought to feel anger towards the one who inflicted such injury upon her, and yet he takes solace in knowing her capabilities. He knows better than to fear for her – one more trouble to keep him up at night.

He knows better, because he taught her how to be brave.

“It looks worse than it feels,” she insists, wincing, as she traces the outline of the nasty bruise. “It’s tender.”

Just when he believes she is sobering again, her knees buckle.

“Here, sit down,” Sebastian tells her as he pulls her towards the bed; he yanks back the quilt for her to slip beneath.

“I’m just a bit dizzy is all,” Daphne claims whilst settling against the pillow. “I think it’s the wine.”

“All the more reason for you to rest.”

He tries not to acknowledge the sudden warmth pooling in his belly as he slides in next to her and casts the blanket atop their bodies – hers considerably less clad. He has no right, he thinks, to see her in such a way. Satisfied on his back, Sebastian turns his head to look to the window just past Daphne. The conditions of the blizzard have shrouded the quidditch pitch now. In the next room, the windows portray an unclouded, starry night sky. The bedroom may as well exist in its own realm.

Daphne shifts beside him. Her head falls upon his chest, and her left arm drapes over his torso. Unprompted, but absolutely sure that it is the right move, Sebastian lifts the leg closest to her. She threads both of hers around the appendage and pulls him close. His tongue sticks to the roof of his dry mouth – his ears ring and crackle when he tries to swallow the nothingness at the back of his throat. The heat is almost unbearable now; perhaps he ought to clamber through the window and burrow himself in the snow just outside and hibernate away forever.

He'd much rather tuck his arm beneath her head and rest his hand on her bare shoulder. His other hand, he decides, feels better threaded with the one across his stomach. She squeezes his fingers and sighs.

“Thank you,” she mumbles against the linen of his nightshirt. “You smell nice.”

“Do I?”

“Mm-hmm. Like the forest.”

She closes her eyes now, willing herself to drift off. Sebastian will not follow – not until she has first, just as he promised to no one other than himself. Truly, though, he doesn’t mind the wait. He’d very much like to savor the feeling of her body so close, in this room that he can only describe as home. It is, as they say, where the heart is. And this heart in his arms stood by his side from the very beginning, even when he feared that he had surely lost her for good. Just as he lost his sister (the grave of his uncle can attest to that) and now Ominis is becoming nothing more than a scent on the breeze and an occasional salutation.

Perhaps he can chalk it up to the dramatism of youth and the perpetual exaggeration of a boy’s emotions, or perhaps it is the sincerity of his spirit – Sebastian is not sure which it is – but he can say with absolute certainty that a life without Daphne is simply no longer one that he has any interest in. As friends, as lovers, it matters not; so long as she is a part of him for the remainder of his days. And this bedroom will only feel like home so long as she shares it too.

She shudders. Her breathing grows heavy and her lips part. Her grasp of his hand slackens. She is asleep at last. Sebastian closes his eyes now, with something of a smile frozen upon his face.

If only such a moment could last forever.

part one of four

[jdgo51]

Who Do You Say That I Am?

Today's inspiration comes from:

Set Adrift

by Sean McDowell and John Marriott

Editor’s note: Sean McDowell and John Marriott’s book Set Adrift is for those who are questioning their Christian faith but don’t want to lose it. People all around us are walking away from what they once believed because they’re facing cultural challenges that are truly difficult. McDowell and Marriott offer ways to approach those questions while hanging on to the faithfulness of Jesus Christ. Enjoy this excerpt.

"True Christianity is an all-out commitment to the Lord Jesus Christ. ~William MacDonald"

Why do you call Me, “Lord, Lord,” and do not do what I say? — Jesus, Luke 6:46 NIV

"'Imagine for a moment that you’re remodeling a building. Two steps are involved in any remodel. First, you must dismantle certain sections of the building. Second, you have to put them back together again differently than before. There are a lot of ways you can go about dismantling a building, but one thing is certain: if you stand on it while you tear it down, you’ll go crashing down with it. To dismantle a building, you need to stand back from it.

Deconstructing one’s faith is a lot like remodeling a building. It’s an exercise in taking apart and then reassembling a belief system. Both remodeling a building and deconstructing one’s faith have a set of tools to accomplish the task. Dismantling a building uses sledgehammers, crowbars, and jackhammers. Deconstructing your faith utilizes the tools of question-asking, reflection, and analysis to question beliefs taken for granted. Remodeling a building requires a solid place to stand; so too does deconstructing your personal faith. In other words, deconstructing your faith requires a foundational theological commitment that’s exempt from analysis, which is to say that deconstruction can’t even start without a belief that’s immune from suspicion. In matters of faith deconstruction, there must be at least one theological given. The question is, What could that theological bedrock be?

Is there one foundational, non-negotiable belief of Christianity that can’t be questioned, but from which all other beliefs can be? Yes, there is, and His name is Jesus.

What Do You Say?

Christianity isn’t first and foremost a set of beliefs. Christianity is first and foremost a Person. Jesus is Christianity. That’s why the first followers of Jesus were called “Christians” (Acts 11:26). The name Christianity literally means “the religion derived from Christ.”1 He’s the hinge on which the door of the religion hangs. He’s the foundation on which the entire house of faith is built. You can take off the roof, pull off the siding, remove the windows, and even take away the frame, but if you break apart the foundation, there’s nothing left to build on.

If you’re serious about rethinking your faith and you’re equally serious about remaining a Christian, then the deconstruction stops with Jesus. He’s the bedrock of Christianity.

Christianity begins and ends with Jesus.

That’s not to say you shouldn’t pursue refining your concept of Jesus. You can and you should. We never have a perfect understanding of Jesus. As his followers, we ought always to seek a clearer and more accurate picture of him. But Jesus Himself established boundaries that the refining process must stay within. Otherwise, you will have moved off the foundation and onto theological quicksand.

“Who Do You Say That I Am?” echoes a question Jesus once put to His disciples (Matthew 16:15). Impulsive as usual, Peter spoke up and declared, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God” (v. 16). Those who follow Jesus recognize that’s a good answer even though it requires some explanation and exploration. Getting a handle on what is meant by “Christ” and “Son of the living God” helps establish the foundation on which any authentic version of Christianity must be built. The term Christ comes from the Greek word meaning “anointed one” and is related to the Hebrew word translated as Messiah. Christ is a title, not a last name. It indicates that Jesus is God’s anointed representative, sent to be the Savior-King of the new Kingdom that God is building. The title Son of God indicates that Jesus is literally “of God,” which means even though He was human, He shared in God’s very nature, making Him divine. Now, we doubt Peter understood all the theological implications of his statement at the time, but his answer to Jesus’s question indicates that the man Jesus of Nazareth was (and is) the Messiah and the divine, sovereign authority over all creation. We believe affirming those two claims is crucial to having a solid foundation on which to rebuild your house of faith.

Jesus wasn’t just a rabbi. He wasn’t just a prophet. He wasn’t just a miracle worker. No, Jesus is the Christ who was prophesied in the Old Testament. As Christ, He is Lord, and as Lord He is God. As such, Jesus sets the rules for human beings. He calls the shots, and He says that those who love Him will obey Him (John 14:15). As you rethink Christianity, it’s important to appreciate that, according to Jesus Himself, He is the one who determines what it means to be a Christian.

Christianity begins and ends with Him. Therefore, to deconstruct what you believe without sinking your faith, it’s imperative to make sure you have at minimum a correct conception of who He is.

Jesus’s discussion with Peter reveals that there are at least two nonnegotiable aspects of Jesus. The first has to do with Jesus’s identity as Christ. Having a minimally correct concept of His identity is necessary to be a Christian. Without it, you’re not in the Kingdom. John says that the one who denies that Jesus is the Christ is a liar who does not have eternal life (1 John 2:22–25). The identity of Jesus is serious business.

The second nonnegotiable has to do with how we must respond to Him as Lord. Unless our posture toward Jesus is correct, we won’t be willing to let Him define what it means to be a Christian. We’ll take that prerogative for ourselves and, in doing so, create Christianity in our image, not His. Again, the demons correctly understood the identity of Jesus. When Jesus came to their town, the two demon-possessed men identified Jesus as the “Son of God” (Matthew 8:28–29). They had a good theological understanding of Jesus’s identity, but they rejected Him as Lord. Correct beliefs alone about Jesus are not enough. Jesus’s identity as the divine Son of God and our response to Him as Lord is the place where the dismantling aspect of deconstruction must end and from which the rebuilding begins."'

Excerpted with permission from Set Adrift by Sean McDowell and John Marriott, copyright Sean McDowell and John Marriott.

[dostoiivskii]

the house of mountfathom, nigel mcdowell / you are jeff, richard siken / barrio, mahmood / the house of mountfathom, nigel mcdowell / the brothers karamazov, fyodor dostoevsky / the song of achilles, madeline miller

[faecorpspublishing]

Spotlight Author Poet Andrew McDowell Andrew McDowell has been writing since he was a child. He has published poetry and creative nonfiction.

[brokehorrorfan]

Blu-ray Review: Tales from the Darkside: The Movie

Tales from the Darkside: The Movie is, of course, a feature film based on the horror anthology TV series, but many fans also recognize it as the true Creepshow 3. Unlike the eventual third installment, which was made years later to cash in on the title recognition, Tales from the Darkside involved many of the crew members behind the first two Creepshow films. George A. Romero served as a writer, bestowing directorial duties to frequent collaborator John Harrison (who served as first assistant director of Creepshow and Day of the Dead). Produced independently, the film was released by Paramount in 1990, just two years after the series wrapped its four-season run.

In lieu of repeating Creepshow's comic book inspirations, Tales from the Darkside: The Movie adopts a Grimm's fairy tale approach. The Hansel and Gretel-esque wraparound, written by Michael McDowell (Beetlejuice, The Nightmare Before Christmas), stars Debbie Harry (of Blondie fame) as a suburban housewife preparing for a dinner party. The main course? A young boy (Matthew Lawrence, Mrs. Doubtfire). In an attempt to prolong his life, the imprisoned child regales his captor with three spooky fables.

McDowell adapts Arthur Conan Doyle's "Lot 249" short story for the first segment. Steve Buscemi (Reservoir Dogs) plays Bellingham, a grad student who brings a 3,000-year-old Egyptian mummy back to life to exact revenge on his preppy classmates - Andy (Christian Slater, Interview with the Vampire), Lee (Robert Sedgwick, Die Hard with a Vengeance), and Susan (the big screen debut of Julianne Moore, The Lost World: Jurassic Park) - who conspired to cheat him out of a fellowship.

Originally planned for Creepshow 2, the middle segment sees Romero adapting Stephen King's "The Cat from Hell" short story (later collected in Just After Sunset). In it, a rich, wheelchair-bound old man, Drogan (William Hickey, Christmas Vacation), hires a hitman, Halston (David Johansen, of the New York Dolls fame), to eliminate an unlikely target: a black cat, which Drogan alleges already killed the manor's other three inhabitants.

The final story, "Lover's Vow," is the strongest. McDowell wrote it based on the Japanese legend of Yuki-onna. It centers on Preston (James Remar, The Warriors), a struggling artist whose life turns around after a run-in with a giant, talking gargoyle. Preston is sworn to secrecy in exchange for his life. 10 years later, he must face the consequences when he shares the secret with his wife, Carola (Rae Dawn Chong, Commando), who he met that fateful night.

With polished production values, a star-studded cast, and top-notch special effects, Tales from the Darkside: The Movie stands strong among the best horror anthologies. A rarity for the subgenre, it's fairly consistent in terms of quality among the segments - arguably even more so than either Creepshow film. While Tom Savini's handiwork is missed, there are no complaints about the special effects accomplished by KNB EFX Group (From Dusk Till Dawn, Scream), with the legendary Dick Smith (The Exorcist, Scanners) serving as consultant. The gargoyle is their most impressive feat, with an expensive animatronic head plus a gnarly transformation sequence, while "Cat from Hell" showcases the goriest scene.

The wraparound helps the film play as a cohesive piece, but Harrison worked with cinematographer Robert Draper (Halloween 5: The Revenge of Michael Myers) and the composers to give each segment a unique aesthetic. The wraparound offers a modern look and features music by Donald Rubinstein (Martin), including a reimagined, orchestral version of his theme from the TV series. "Lot 249" draws inspiration from 1940s adventure cinema with a warm color palette and an orchestral score by Jim Manzie & Pat Regan (Leatherface: Texas Chainsaw Massacre III). "Cat from Hell" embraces film noir with shadowy camerawork and blue-tinted flashbacks (with clever, in-camera transitions) and an atonal score by Chaz Jankel (D.O.A.). "Lover's Vow" features a cool color palette and soft lighting to reflect the romance, which is echoed in Harrison's own music.

Tales from the Darkside: The Movie has received a Collector's Edition Blu-ray from Scream Factory. The film’s existing high definition transfer is presented with DTS-HD Master 5.1 and 2.0 audio options, along with two audio commentaries. The first is a new track by co-producer David R. Kappes. Perhaps better suited for the documentary portion, his memory is understandably hazy after 30 years, but he looks back fondly on the film plus shares anecdotes about working on Jaws 3-D and Harrison's Dune. The second commentary is an archival track with Harrison and Romero recorded for a DVD release circa 2000. It's a warm chat between longtime friends.

The Blu-ray is worth the upgrade for Tales Behind the Darkside: The Making of Four Ghoulish Fables, a feature-length documentary featuring Harrison, Remar, Chong, and various crew members. It's broken up into six parts (one for each segment, pre-production, post-production, and the release/legacy), totaling over 100 minutes. It's a joy to see Scream Factory return to the cohesive, documentary format rather than individual interviews. Michael Felsher was the perfect candidate to pull it off; not only is his Red Shirt Pictures is responsible for many of the best Blu-ray extras, but he also helmed Just Desserts: The Making of Creepshow. The disc also includes 11 minutes of behind-the-scenes footage from KNB, the theatrical trailer, two TV spots, three radio spots, a still gallery, and a behind-the-scenes gallery.

Tales from the Darkside: The Movie will be released on Blu-ray on August 25 via Scream Factory.

[dustedmagazine]

Byron Westbrook — Distortion Hue (Hands in the Dark)

Distortion Hue by Byron Westbrook

While it’s tempting to paint Byron Westbrook’s latest as a raw transmission of emotion, a visceral expression of the traumas and wonders of 2020, Distortion Hue’s foundational sketches predate the COVID-19 pandemic by a good five years. Yes, the music’s slow-cresting drones, alien rhythms and elusive melodies quite powerfully evoke a world in turmoil. Yet as a product of retrospection, self-reflection and revision, the album may have as much to say about the act of perception as it does about the conditions of its own creation.

This is familiar territory for Westbrook, whose multichannel site-specific performances and complex mixed-media art installations turn perception into an act of participation. For just one example, consider the CORRIDORS series, in which Westbrook plays back highly processed instrumental recordings over custom speakers strategically stationed throughout the performance space in order to “shift the perceived size of the room over time and gradually envelope or release the listener.” Meanwhile, video projections serve to disorient the audience while rerouting its attention. 

Even in the relatively reduced environs of the LP, Westbrook is adept at centering his listener as the point of reference around which three-dimensional sound structures take (and shift) shape. On “Point of Saturation,” Distortion Hue’s cinematic opener, lush tones seem to sweep in all directions, clearing a space for contemplation and foreshadowing a pattern of masterful juxtaposition that continually redefines the contours of the album’s sonic world. Follow-up “Ricochet Waves” launches this technique into full effect, its synth heartbeat roaming amplitude, pitch and stereo field all while musical sound and white noise — clarity and distortion? — compete for preeminence. Elsewhere Westbrook plays with sensory tensions by smuggling in some ersatz synesthesia via a series of “colorful” titles: the psychedelic “Still Ringing Red,” the eerie “Grey Canyon Echo,” the gentle “Yellow Horizon Line.” Panning back, a compatible strategy of contrasts unfolds across the record’s 35-minute runtime, from the buzzsaw drones of “Heliocentricity” and “Refraction Haze” to the dystopian throb of “Tunnel Visioning” and the scrambled pitches of “Electric Blued.” 

If mapping the landscape suggested by these juxtapositions works up something of a perceptual sweat for the listener, the effect should be less to exhaust us than to strengthen our powers. If we sincerely attend to it, the type of art Westbrook makes (here and across his catalogue) can help us understand a thing — a space, a sound or, most importantly, our own positions as listeners — better than we could have before the experience. 

In one form or another, these sounds were in Westbrook before COVID-19 came and defamiliarized the world as we knew it; but through the pandemic’s mediating lens, those same shelved sounds gained new relevance, the power to connect with audiences in an urgent and cathartic way. “In revisiting this material and feeling its resonance with the moment,” says Westbrook, “I immediately had clarity for how to complete the recordings as a whole record.” In the context of a year that brought many of us face to face not just with the preexisting, systemic failures we so often ignore but also with our participation in those systems, distortion, when recognized as such, can become the starting point for profound clarity and the grounds for meaningful positive action if we’re willing to see it through. 

Eric McDowell

[jmjafrx]

Slavery and Genocide Have No Edges

I shared the following set of materials at the Walter Rodney Symposium at Johns Hopkins University last Friday. I am trying to work through something impossible–what it means to be Diaspora and witness to uprising, what it means to be Diaspora and witness to the calculated extermination of a people. A black spot on a map. A warehouse full of supplies, full of life, in the midst of compounded death. The screams of bones so loud multiple excavations and a generation later the bones still speak.

Next week in #BlackWorldSeminar we are reading Tiffany Lethabo King’s devastating (in the best, most important ways) text The Black Shoals: Offshore Formations of Black and Native Studies and her words (“slavery and genocide have no edges”) echoes a refrain along my spine.

There is line to be drawn from histories of Africa, histories of slavery and diaspora, and the opening of new possibilities for charting the world to come. The shoal offers something to all of us, Black and Native for certain, but for those of us in the Caribbean, where the water has so many meanings and so much power to remember histories of enslavement and washes away memories in the wake of empire, the shoal may be a node on this new world map that can bring us closer to freedom. This was the line I tried to draw to Rodney–not just a celebration of his life and work, but an acknowledgement that he was already mapping these ties, across the Caribbean, between the United States and the Caribbean, between both and the Global South–and he did it through history.

In other words, these borders mean nothing. And everything.

Current Set: Global Groundings – Walter Rodney Symposium, Johns Hopkins University, 2020 (Available at that link through March 1, 2020)

PHOTO: Puerto Rico is seen on July 24, in top image, and in darkness on September 24. (Twitter: National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration)

“Human catastrophe leaves a mark, a black spot in time and space. On 20 September 2017, when Hurricane María made landfall on the island, the site of Christopher Columbus’s second so-called discovery and the birthplace of the New World, it swept bridges off their supports, tore leaves off the trees in the rainforest, drove wildlife into migration or into hiding. The electrical grid, already a battered, colonial infrastructure, fell to pieces, as did the water and sewage systems and other public services. San Juan, the capital, el santo, the herald of Spanish empire, bowed and flailed in Guabancex’s onslaught until, finally, darkness reigned.2

“But blackness in the blackened spaces hit hardest by Hurricane María disappeared in the aftermath. In Carolina and Loíza, towns in the constellation near San Juan, that some one-fifth to three-quarters of the population (respectively) described itself as of African descent went without mention in the aftermath of the storm. In Poncé, which did not restore electricity to all its residents until August 2018—328 days after the storm—between 10 and 20 percent described themselves as black.3 Indigenous spaces suffered similar disappearances. Utuado, which for generations claimed indigenous patrimony on the island and is the home of Caguana Indigenous Ceremonial Park, barely rated a mention in mainstream news generated by the storm. Nor does Utuado, a region where even before the storm running water and electricity were privileges not rights, appear in the satellite image. “Memory,” poet Natasha Trethaway writes, “dulls the lash / for the master, sharpens it for the slave.”4 And few cared to remember that the chronic dispossession faced by black and indigenous spaces on the island would leave them most vulnerable and most in need after the storm.

“At the same time, somatic blackness and nonwhiteness saturated screens and devices as images of Puerto Ricans suffering under palm trees appeared on televisions and computers, spread by mainstream media. Blackness appeared in other ways as well, somewhere underneath the biopolitical and ocular. Tapping into a lexicon of Caribbean women, children, and men as both childlike and bestial, President Donald Trump derisively threw paper towels at relief workers on his visit to the island, treating them in the words of one observer, “like dogs.”6 On the island itself, the federal and local police-military-surveillance apparatus that preoccupied itself with the war on drugs justified harassment of black islanders, shifted after the storm. Police wasted no time implementing and enforcing a curfew, including breaking up gathering spaces of dance and play—the kind that inevitably erupt when there is one working generator in a neighborhood and the night is long, hot, and dark. And in breaking news about the storm’s impact, social media queries circulated desperately and especially among Puerto Ricans in the United States searching for incommunicado kin; blackness appeared in the loss and mourning of a diaspora for its people—for those lost beneath the sea…”

(Passage via Johnson, “Xroads Praxis: Black Diasporic Technologies for Remaking the New World” sx:archipelagos https://buff.ly/36Laf1m)

“Puerto Rico’s governor fired the US territory’s emergency management director and two high-ranking officials after viral footage of disaster relief aid sitting unused in a warehouse provoked angry residents to break into the facility and begin distributing it to people in need themselves.” Ricardo Arduengo / AFP via Getty Images

“After Delgado’s footage went viral on Saturday, he said on Twitter that Facebook had suspended his page “due to complaints.” — “On Sunday afternoon, Facebook reinstated the page, which has more than 180,000 followers.” Screenshot/ El Leon Fiscalizador

“Having obtained the contracts for the warehouses, the head of the national guard told Begnaud that Puerto Rico’s emergency management agency had been paying another state agency to rent these spaces for about three years.” Ricardo Arduengo / AFP via Getty Images

(Quotes via Sacks, “People In Puerto Rico Are Demanding Answers After A Warehouse Full Of Unused Emergency Supplies Was Discovered” https://buff.ly/2UoPB51)

“The records of the slaveowners are far more clear. The giant chemical complex, which Formosa is calling the Sunshine Project, is to be built on several former plantations, including Acadia, whose long series of white owners is traceable through land use records, and Buena Vista, where the number of hogs that Benjamin Winchester and his wife, Carmelite Constant Winchester, raised in the 1840s was carefully documented (between 600 and 700).” Sharon Lavigne, center, the director of RISE St. James, sits with her brother, Milton Cayette Jr., at Louisiana’s Department of Environmental Quality’s public hearing on whether to approve the 15 air permits for Taiwanese company Formosa Plastics in Vacherie, La., on July 9, 2019. Photo: Julie Dermansky

(Quotes from Lerner, “New Chemical Complex Would Displace Suspected Slave Burial Ground in Louisiana’s “Cancer Alley”” https://buff.ly/37GDUu5)

“When construction on the Bonnet Carré Spillway began in 1929, the Army Corps of Engineers demolished Montz to make room for the flood plain. Homes, churches, and the two former plantation cemeteries were plowed under. These churches—Good Hope Baptist Church in Norco and Providence Baptist Church in Montz—were relocated during spillway construction, and remain open today. As for the cemeteries, residents of Montz and Norco informed project administrators and non-local workers of the cemeteries and their locations during construction. One former USACE employee recounts that the USACE had purchased a small plot of land, the site of a present day playground, to re-inter the deceased. This was never done, and there is no government record of provisions for the cemeteries during construction.” Aerial view of Bonnet Carré Spillway flowing into Lake Ponchartrain, courtesy of The Historic New Orleans Collection, gift of Dode Platou, 1976.6.1

(Quotes from Robin McDowell, “SACRED GROUND: UNEARTHING BURIED HISTORY AT THE BONNET CARRÉ SPILLWAY” AntiGravity Mag https://buff.ly/2vEupxr)

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[madhattermoffits]

by Rhonda Moffit, Moffits-Mad Hatter Adventures  March, 2020

With such very busy lives, every so often we love to unwind with a weekend adventure. This recharges our batteries and allows us to find inspiration and appreciation that propels us into the forthcoming work week and beyond. Our most recent weekend adventure took us to Martin’s childhood, as his relatives lived in Hannibal, Missouri, when he was a boy. He, much like Tom Sawyer and creator Mark Twain, ran around this historic Mississippi River town as a youngster having fun and learning life’s early lessons. What many do not realize is the incredible history of this locale….so read on and see what we discovered.

One of the places that I, Rhonda, book for our clients that visit Hannibal that has had great reviews is the Garth Woodside Mansion Bed and Breakfast. We were anxious to check this place out for ourselves.

John Garth and Helen Kercheval were married on October 18, 1860. They had two children, John David and Annie. Sometime after the Civil War broke out, in 1862 or 1863, Garth moved his family to New York City. There he was engaged in banking, brokerage, and manufacturing. They returned to Hannibal in 1871, and Garth started a successful business career. Garth purchased a farm southwest of Hannibal and constructed his Italianate Second Empire summer residence about a mile outside of the hustling city in 1871,  which he named “Woodside”.  On the farm he raised and bred shorthorn and Jersey cattle.

As a businessman Garth entered many ventures. He was one of the organizers of the Farmers and Merchants Bank and served as its first vice-president. He became president in 1880, a position he held until near his death in 1899. He was also president of the Hannibal Lime Company, president of the Missouri Guarantee Savings and Building Association, and president of the Garth Lumber Company in Delta, Michigan. His wife and daughter funded several memorials to him, including the Garth Memorial Library Building, dedicated in 1902, and a tower and set of bells at the Trinity Episcopal Church.

Son John perished at the age of 21, sadly, while he was undergoing an appendectomy.  Family photos adorn the walls of Woodside.

Samuel Langhorne Clemens, better known by his pen name of Mark Twain, not only grew up in Hannibal but had multiple visits back to visit friends during his lifetime. One of his childhood friends was in fact John Garth.  Samuel Clemens visited Woodside on several occasions, preferring to stay with his friends. He had his own particular favorite bedroom in the house and spent many hours laughing with the family in the downstairs parlor. When he published Life on the Mississippi, Clemens sent the Garths a copy. John Garth replied, “Thanks for the book. Each and every one at Woodside has enjoyed it greatly.” A note from Clemens to his manager requested a copy of Huckleberry Finn to be sent to the Garths upon its release. John Garth died in 1899.

There have only been six owners of the mansion since it was built, and most all of the original furnishings are still used. This brings me to the beds. Oh, the beds! This particular bed is valued at $55,000, being one of the most valuable in the United States. It is said that Mark Twain slept in this bed and the hand carved craftsmanship is beautiful. Other furnishings are original to the house as well, and it is truly like stepping back in time. Because Woodside has changed owners so infrequently, many of the belongings of the Garth family remain. The current innkeepers/owners (very friendly!) allowed us to roam the entire house and grounds and we were able to see everything the house has to offer, which is a lot.

After exploring the mansion and visiting with the llamas (resident livestock), we ventured into downtown Hannibal and decided to eat at the Mark Twain Dinette. Martin regaled me with tales of when he was sent by family to the Dinette to buy and bring home a jug of their homemade root beer. They have made the root beer onsite since going into business over 76 years ago, and it does not disappoint! If you visit, you should try one of their pork tenderloin sandwiches- it is enormous and one of the main dishes that they are known for.

After dinner, Martin walked me around the Mark Twain historic buildings- my own private tour.

It was fantastic. We then journeyed the short drive back to Woodside and enjoyed the rest of the night with complimentary wine, a fireplace, and a large jetted tub that I really wish I could bring home with me.

The next morning, we were provided a yummy breakfast and had some wonderful conversation with other guests. There are cottages at the rear of the property and they provide a beautiful view and private hot tubs on their decks. These are quite popular, and from what I gleaned from conversation with the others many like to return a couple times a year just to rejuvenate.

The next part of our adventure took us to Lover’s Leap. The views from this historic location are remarkable, and it was a beautiful day to behold.

Next, we traversed to Mark Twain Cave.

Made famous in Mark Twain’s writing, this location is the real deal. They offer tours, so of course we were all in. We went 250 feet below ground and saw everything we could see in the miles of tunnels made of limestone. Samuel Clemens even signed the cave wall when he was young- if you look in the center of the following image you can see “Clemens“.

Many, many people have been to the cave over the years- here I am, wandering around trying to get a feel for it- and loving every minute.

There are over 260 passageways, and it is easy to get turned around in the labyrinth. There is also a “marriage rock” within that has a story. There was a woman who discovered one of her ancestors had signed the cave wall and she had her wedding in the cave under the signature as an homage to the relation. Also look carefully in the photos for the signature from 1865. There are so many echoes from the past.

The Mark Twain Cave was discovered in the winter of 1819 when Jack Sims tracked a panther into what appeared to be a small den. He later discovered it was an extensive underground network. Twain included a lot of the cave in his book “Tom Sawyer”, as he found it to be a true source of inspiration as a child. He and friends used to light candles and enter the cave to explore it. The “Discovery” entrance is the original entrance (green sign) that was used, as you can see in the image.

Also notable:

Joseph Nash McDowell – He bought the cave in 1848 and was the owner during Mark Twain’s childhood. He is infamous for putting his recently deceased daughter into a copper cylinder and placing the cylinder in the back of his cave hoping to further his theory of human petrification. When Hannibal residents learned of this act, they begged him to remove her and bury her as was deemed proper.

Here is an image of where both McDowell’s daughter’s corpse was stored and where Jesse James placed his signature in the cave.

Jesse James — After a botched robbery attempt he hid out in Tennessee. In 1879 he decided to head for Independence, MO to assemble a new gang. On his way through, he signed his name in the Mark Twain Cave which is dated September 22, 1879, sixteen days before he robbed a train in Independence with his new crew, and only three years before his death.

The cave was a remarkable adventure and we spent a lot of time exploring it.

Also in Hannibal is the home of the “Unsinkable” Molly Brown. Molly was born in this house just a few blocks away from the home of Mark Twain. Margaret Tobin Brown was an activist and survivor of the Titanic. Born in 1867, she was the daughter of Irish immigrants. In her lifetime, she and her husband rocketed to fame during the Gold Rush. In a lifeboat as the RMS Titanic sank, Molly shared layers of clothing and urged others to survive the disaster. She used her status to inspire others to fight for children’s and worker’s rights for the remainder of her life.

For all of us Disney fans, Hannibal is also a special place. It is the birthplace of voice actor and musician Cliff Edwards, better known as the voice of Pinnochio’s Jiminy Cricket. Edwards was born in Hannibal and left school at the age of 14 to move to St. Louis. He taught himself to play the ukulele, choosing it because he said it was the cheapest instrument in the music shop. He was nicknamed “Ukulele Ike” by a club owner that could never recall his actual name, and it stuck.

Hannibal has so many stories, and there is so much to do and to see. If you visit between April and November you can even take a riverboat cruise on the Mississippi courtesy of the Mark Twain- they even offer dinner cruises. We plan on returning again soon, and before we departed, we returned to the Mark Twain Dinette to grab a root beer for the road. OK, we actually bought a case to take home. What a wonderful getaway!

Hope you enjoy sharing our adventures- be sure to give us a like, a comment, or at least have a drink of this fabulous root beer next time you are in Hannibal for us!

******

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***

Are you visiting Disney in the future? We have some amazing packages available and can save you time and money so you and yours have the best time possible! After all, one of us is a former Cast Member.  Fill out our form HERE to receive your FREE quote. Our services are completely free for you to utilize and you will get YEARS of experience on your side when booking with Moffits: Mad Hatter Adventures.

Always consider booking with an Authorized Disney Vacation Planning agency, such as Mad Hatter Adventures. We will be available to assist you with everything from finding the best value for your travel party to getting dining reservations and Fastpass+ attractions lined up.  Just get in touch with us at moffits@madhatteradv.com or watch our adventures on Facebook. We don’t just book travel, we LIVE it!

Images copyright Moffits: Mad Hatter Adventures, 2020

      A $55,000 Bed, Mark Twain, Jiminy Cricket, Jesse James, Root Beer and Spelunking- It’s A Weekend Getaway Adventure to Hannibal, Missouri by Rhonda Moffit, Moffits-Mad Hatter Adventures  March, 2020 With such very busy lives, every so often we love to unwind with a weekend adventure.

[mightystargazer]

2018 Readinglist

Drew Hayes Bloody Acquisitions

Drew Hayes The Fangs of Freelance Fred

Drew Hayes Second Hand Curses

Gregg Hurwitz The Rains

Gregg Hurwitz Last Chance

Dean Koontz Oddkins

David Timson Ghost Stories of an Antiquary

Kay Hooper Stealing Shadows

Kay Hooper Hiding In Shadows

Kay Hooper Out of Shadows

Kay Hooper Touching Evil

Kay Hooper Whisper of Evil

Kay Hooper Sense of Evil

Kay Hooper Hunting Fear

Kay Hooper Chill of Fear

Kay Hooper Sleeping with Fear

Kay Hooper Blood Dream

Kay Hooper Blood Sins

Kay Hooper Blood Ties

Kay Hooper Haven

Kay Hooper Hostage

Kay Hooper Haunted

Kay Hooper Fear the Dark

Kay Hooper Wait for Dark

Hunter Shea The Jersey Devil

Matt Haig The Humans

Terry Goodkind Nest

John G. Hartness Cold as Ice

John G. Hartness Into the Mystic

John Conroe God Touched

John Conroe Demon Driven

John Conroe Brutal Asset

John Conroe Black Frost

John Conroe Duel Nature

John Conroe Fallen Stars

John Conroe Executable

John Conroe Forced Ascent

John Conroe College Arcane

John Conroe God Hammer 

John Conroe Rogues

John Conroe Snake Eyes

John Conroe Winterfall

Bentley Little The House

Terry Goodkind Nest

Stephen Blackmoore Dead Things

Stephen Blackmoore Broken Souls

Stephen Blackmoore Hungry Ghosts

Peter Cawdron Alien Space Tentacle Porn

A. American Hope

Dean Koonz Richochet Joe

Sarah Lyons Fleming Until the End of the World

Sarah Lyons Fleming So Long Lollipops

Sarah Lyons Fleming And After

Sarah Lyons Fleming All the Stars in the Sky

Robert Bevan Critical Failures V

Perrin Briar Genesis Flowers

Larry Correia The Adventures of Tom Stranger

Larry Correia A Murder of Manatees

J. R. Ward Covet 

J. R. Ward Crave

J. R. Ward Envy

J. R. Ward Rapture

J. R. Ward Possession

J. R. Ward Immortal

Milo James Fowler Captain Bartholomew Quasar

James Smythe The Echo

Ian Tregillis The Mechanical

Ian Tregillis The Rising

Ian Tregillis The Liberation

Harvard Lampoon Bored of the Rings

Barry J. Hutchison Return of the Dead Guy 

Mark Tufo Demon Fallout

Mark Tufo Defeat's Victory 

Morgan Hobbes The Totally True Adventures of Gustav Gustavson

Barry J. Hutchison Dial D for Deadman

Christopher Moore Practical Demonkeeping

Christopher Moore Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove

Christopher Moore The Stupidest Angel

Richard Johnson Weekend at Vidu's

Brian Keene The Rising

Brian Keene City of the Dead

Daniel Fite The Zombie Chapters

Edward Zajac A Swift Kick in the Asteroids

Donald E. Westlake The Busy Body

Dean Koontz The Whispering Room

Christopher Moore Bloodsucking Fiends

Christopher Moore You Suck

Christopher Moore Bite Me

Sue Perkins Zoopedia

Anthology Zombies, The Recent Dead 

Anthology Zombies, More Recent Dead 

Brett J. Talley That Which Should Not Be

Christopher Moore A Dirty Job

Christopher Moore Secondhand Souls

Christopher Moore Coyote Blue

Al K. Line Hidden Spark 

Al K. Line Dead Spark 

Al K. Line Wild Spark 

Kim Stanley Robinson Icehenge

Bentley Little The Mailman

Zach Bohannon Empty Bodies

James Peters Black Swan Planet

Peter Meredith The Edge of Hell

Peter Meredith The Edge of Temptation

Gerry Griffiths The Beasts of Stoneclad Mountain

Christopher Moore Fluke Or, I Know Why the Winged Whale Sings

C.G. Mosley The Island in the Mist

C.G. Mosley Monsters in the Mist

Russell James Cavern of the Damned

Mike Bockoven FantasticLand

Michael  McBride Snowblind

Michael  McBride The Killing Grounds

Kevin Hearne Scourged

E.F. Benson's Ghost Stories

Donnie Eichar Dead Mountain

Corey Taylor A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Heaven

Viktor Zarkov Megatooth

Steven Bird Erebus

Robert Bevan 5d6 Caverns and Creatures

Richard Kadrey Suspect Zero

Keith C. Blackmore Mountain Man Prequel

Dave Jeffery Frostbite

Christopher Moore Fool

Christopher Moore The Serpent of Venice

Seth Shostak Confessions of an Alien Hunter

P. K. Hawkins Titanoboa

Matt Serafini Island Red

Christopher Moore Island of the Sequined Love Nun

Ambrose Ibsen Asylum

Ambrose Ibsen Forest

Ambrose Ibsen The Occupant

Lucas Pederson Leviathan Ghost Rig

Kara Cooney The Woman Who Would Be King

Jonathan Maberry Mars One

John J. Rust Reptilian

Greig Beck Beneath the Dark Ice

Greig Beck Dark Rising

Greig Beck This Green Hell

Greig Beck Black Mountain

Greig Beck Gorgon

Greig Beck Hammer of God

Greig Beck Kraken Rising

Michelle McNamara Ill Be Gone in the Dark

Stephen R Donaldson The Kings Justice

Jerry Dubs Imhotep

Christopher Moore Lamb The Gospel

Barry J. Hutchison Planet of the Japes´

Bentley Little The ignored

Marty Essen Time Is Irreverent

Thomas Tryon Harvest Home

Dean Koontz The Bone Farm

Dean Koontz The Crooked Staircase

Christopher Moore Sacre Bleu

Benjamin Wallace Junkers

Alex Laybourne Terror from the Deep

Christopher Golden Ararat

Alice Hoffman The Museum of Extraordinary Things

Jim Butcher Storm Front

Jim Butcher Fool Moon

Jim Butcher Grave Peril

Jim Butcher Summer Knight

Jim Butcher Death Masks

Jim Butcher Blood Rites

Jim Butcher Bombshells

Jim Butcher Proven Guilty

Jim Butcher White Night

Jim Butcher Small Favor

Jim Butcher Backup

Jim Butcher Turn Coat

Jim Butcher Changes

Jim Butcher Ghost Story

Jim Butcher Cold Days

Jim Butcher Shadowed Souls

Jim Butcher Skin Game

Jim Butcher White Night

Jim Butcher Working for Bigfoot

Stephen King The Outsider

The World of Lore Wicked Mortals

Hugh Howey I, Zombie

C. Gockel Archangel Down

C. Gockel Noa's Ark

C. Gockel Heretic

Anthology Aliens Bug Hunt

Shea Ernshaw The Wicked Deep

John F.D. Taff The Bell Witch

Adrienne Lecter Incubation

Adrienne Lecter Outbreak

Adrienne Lecter Escalation

Adrienne Lecter Extinction

Adrienne Lecter Resurgence

Adrienne Lecter Unity

Adrienne Lecter Affliction

Adrienne Lecter Catharsis

Barry J. Hutchison The Time Titan of Tomorrow

The Cabin at the End of the World

Chuck Wendig The Blue Blazes

Larry Correia Saints 

Dirk Patton Voodoo Plague

Dirk Patton Crucifixion V Plague

John Connolly Every Dead Thing

John Connolly Dark Hollow

John Connolly The Killing Kind

John Connolly The White Road

John Connolly The Black Angel

John Connolly The Unquiet

John Connolly The Reapers

John Connolly The Lovers

John Connolly The Whisperers

John Connolly The Burning Soul

John Connolly The Wrath of Angels

John Connolly The Wolf In Winter

John Connolly A Song of Shadow

John Connolly A Time Of Torment

John Connolly A Game of Ghosts

Barry J. Hutchison The King of Space Must Die

Dave Itzkoff Robin

Greig Beck The Void

Jim Butcher Furies of Calderon

Jim Butcher Academs Fury

Jim Butcher Cursors Fury

Jim Butcher Captains Fury

Jim Butcher Princeps Fury

Jim Butcher First Lords Fury

Mark Tufo Etna Station

Bentley Little The Resort

Rebecca Roanhorse Trail of Lightning

Michael Rutger The Anomaly

Scott Smith The Ruins

Zach Bohannon Empty Bodies

Zach Bohannon Adaptation 

Zach Bohannon Deliverance

Zach Bohannon Open Roads

Zach Bohannon Damnation

Zach Bohannon Revelation

Stevens, Marc First of my Kind, 2nd Edition

Peter Clines The Eerie Adventures of the Lycanthrope Robinson Crusoe

Nathan Hystad The Event

Michael Crichton Next

Graeme Reynolds High Moor

Graeme Reynolds Moonstruck

Jim C. Hines Janitors Of The Post Apocalypse

Thomas Sweterlitsch The Gone World

Michael McBride Subhuman

Jeremy Robinson The Others

Jeremy Bishop The Sentinel

James D. Prescott Extinction Code

Alan Dean Foster Relic

Bobby Adair Dusty's Diary

Adam Cesare The Con Season

Richard Kadrey Hollywood Dead

Margaret Atwood Angel Catbird

Bethany Blake Death by Chocolate Lab

Bethany Blake Dial Meow for Murder

Bethany Blake Pawprints & Predicaments

Jeff Strand The Haunted Forest Tour

Adam Cesare Tribesmen

Adrienne Lecter Exodus

Ted Dekker The Bride Collector

T.W. Piperbrook The Last Survivors

T.W. Piperbrook The Last Escape

T.W. Piperbrook The Last Humanity

T.W. Piperbrook The Last Command

T.W. Piperbrook The Last Refuge

T.W. Piperbrook The Last Conquest

T.W. Piperbrook The Ruins 1

T.W. Piperbrook The Ruins 2

T.W. Piperbrook The Ruins 3

T.W. Piperbrook The Ruins 4

T.W. Piperbrook Outage 1

T.W. Piperbrook Outage 2

T.W. Piperbrook Outage 3

T.W. Piperbrook The Reckoning

Bobby Adair Zero Day

Bobby Adair Infected

Bobby Adair Destroyer

Bobby Adair Dead Fire

Bobby Adair Torrent

Bobby Adair Bleed

Bobby Adair City of Stin

Bobby Adair Grind

Bobby Adair Sanctum

Tony Peak Signal

Steven Brust Good Guys

Stephen King & Bev Vincent Flight or Fright

Myke Cole Control Point

Myke Cole Fortress Frontier

Myke Cole Breach Zone

Graeme Reynolds Blood Moon

Michael Hodges The Invasive

Jeff Strand Dead Clown Barbecue

Echoes of Evil

Dean Koontz The Forbidden Door

James D. Prescott Extinction Countdown

Sam Sykes Humane Killer

Dan Simmons Summer of Night

Dan Simmons Children of the Night

Dan Simmons A Winter Haunting

Myke Cole Gemini Cell

Myke Cole Javelin Rain

Myke Cole Siege Line

Adam Cesare Video Night 

Deborah Sheldon Devil Dragon

Peter Meredith Generation Z

Peter Meredith The Queen of the Dead

Peter Meredith The Queen of War

Tim Powers Alternate Routes

Richard Roberts I Did NOT Give That Spider Superhuman Intelligence!

Richard Roberts Please Dont Tell My Parents Im a Supervillain

Richard Roberts Please Don't Tell My Parents I Blew Up the Moon

Richard Roberts Please Don't Tell My Parents I've Got Henchmen

Richard Roberts Please Don't Tell My Parents I Have a Nemesis

Richard Roberts Please Don't Tell My Parents You Believe Her

Michael McDowell BlackWater

Hunter Shea Mail Order Massacres

Jeff Strand Dweller 

Adam Cesare Zero Lives Remaining

Ezekiel Boone Zero Day

Ted Kosmatka Prophet of Bones

Steven L. Kent 100 Fathoms Below

Keith C. Blackmore The Missing Boatman

John Connolly Bad Men

Jeremy Robinson Forbidden Island

Chuck Wendig Under the Empyrean Sky

Chuck Wendig Blightborn

Chuck Wendig The Harvest

Shingles Audio Collection

Robert E. Howard The Horror Stories of Robert E. Howard

Paul E. Cooley The Black

Paul E. Cooley Arrival

Paul E. Cooley Outbreak

M.R. Forbes Forgotten

M.R. Forbes Forsaken

M.R. Forbes Unforgiven

Jeremy  Robinson Kronos

Jeff Strand I Have a Bad Feeling about This

Mark Tufo Whistlers

Mark Tufo Atlantis

Mark Tufo Convergence

Mark Tufo Valhalla

Laurie Forest The Black Witch

Simon R. Green

Simon R. Green Man with the Golden Torc

Simon R. Green Daemons are Forever

Simon R. Green The Spy Who Haunted Me

Simon R. Green From Hell With Love

Simon R. Green For Heaven's Eyes Only

Simon R. Green Live and Let Drood

Simon R. Green Casino Infernale

Simon R. Green Property of a Lady Faire

Simon R. Green From a Drood to a Kill

Simon R. Green Dr. DOA

Simon R. Green Moonbreaker

Simon R. Green Night Fall

Rob Dircks You're Going to Mars!

Stephen King Elevation  

Drew Hayes Pears and Perils

Alma Katsu The Hunger 

Hunter Shea One Size Eats All

Joseph Fink Alice Isn't Dead

Jonathan Mayberry Glimpse

Jack Ketchum Off Season

Jack Ketchum Offspring

Jack Ketchum The Woman

Chuck Wendig The Blue Blazes

Bobby Akart Yellowstone Hellfire

Bobby Akart Yellowstone Inferno

Laurie Forest wandfasted

Greig Beck Abyss

Barry J. Hutchison Dial D for Deadman

Barry J. Hutchison Dead Inside

Barry J. Hutchison Dead in the Water

[nwdsc]

(Soft Spot | The California Honeydropsから)

Soft Spot by The California Honeydrops

FROM LECH WIERZYNSKI: This record is all about love and good lovin’ and other things that matter more than the dumb shit on your telephone. Make sure you love up on the people you love. Sing, Dance, Make love, and enjoy the beauty of your time in this world full of wonders. FROM BENJAMIN MALAMENT: The first thing many people say to us after watching the band perform on stage is “Man, you all LOVE to play together!”. That’s why ’Soft Spot’ is such an important album because we didn’t get to play and hunker down as a full band like this for almost two years! After a few of us recorded the ‘Covers from the Cave’ album, strictly from home for our quarantined fans, it was a pleasure and privilege to let loose all together in the beautiful Oakland studio, bouncing off each other with creativity, jokes, and sweat, with Thai food and donuts, day after day, night after night. The music on ‘Soft Spot’ speaks that joy and diligence. Sometimes we recorded when we were hella sick or had pulled back muscles (getting older is tough!). Sometimes we recorded on our birthdays and had cake next to the mics. When you get good sounds, you can’t stop! And all the sounds we were getting were good. Really good. And that’s when the recording is easy. We continued the Honeydrops album tradition of bringing many special musical guests to bless the studio with their magic. Sousaphones, strings, space echoes, it’s all here. Our engineer, Jacob LaCally’s, aka ‘Cubby's', fine ears and maybe finer patience kept the session rolling through the hours. Leon Cotter and Scott Messersmith have become staples of the Honeydrop sound, filling the room with the full band sensation we could lean back on. We enlisted the Kid Wonder and Oakland native, Oliver Tuttle, with his beautiful energy and ideas. The 'Ponchatoula Powerhouse, Miles Lyons, dropping in from Louisiana to add a whole new low end to our music! And the core Drops were in full form: Beaumont displaying what a badass drummer he is. Yanos’s arranging prowess, giving you those luscious horns and melodic movement! Lorenzo’s multi-instrumental spirit and soul just shining so bright. Lolo! Benjamin’s feel and groove to keep that sweet Honeydrop flavor dripping into your heart. And Lech, knocking it out the damn park once again, with his legendary voice, and endless song-writing visions. This album has our unique Honeydrop take on many styles of music, all under a cohesive production style so there’s no confusion. There’s no provin’. Only groovin’. ’Soft Spot’ is a special one. We can’t tell you how happy we are to have made it and to give you these new songs. No more talkin’! Please listen & enjoy! All our love - The Drops クレジット2022年10月7日リリース Co-produced by Lech Wierzynski and Jacob LaCally Engineered and Mixed by Jacob LaCally Additional engineering on Nothing at All, Tumblin' and Sneakin' into Heaven by Scott McDowell Recorded at Survivor Sound (Oakland, CA) Additional recording at The Blues Cave (Oakland, CA) and Strange Manor (Richmond, CA) Mastered by JJ Golden at Golden Mastering (Ventura, CA) Artwork and Layout by Matt Goff Horn arrangements by Yanos "Johnny Bones" Lustig and Lech Wierzynski
 All songs written by Lech Wierzynski except Nothing at All by Wierzynski/Malament, Tumblin' by Wierzynski/Lustig, Sneakin' into Heaven by Wierzynski/Malament/Beaullieu
 (C) Tubtone Records 2022

[howkennafall]

Spilled Water

“Guys, I just want you to know that you are my friends whom I will treasure forever.“ I was teary-eyed while saying this and was already wiping the tears from my eyes. After the next second or two, I was already wiping my wet pants. Apparently, the waiter accidentally spilled a glass of water on the table and got my pants, bag, and conference kit/bag drenched. Inside my conference kit was my devotional notebook and my heart just broke when I saw it wet and its pages crumpled. It was a very special notebook that my dgroup leader gave me last Christmas. Now, it was almost ruined, together with the notes written on it. 

I stood up as the waiters wiped the table. Meanwhile, I am just standing there waiting for someone to apologize. My irritation just got worse and worse as they wipe the table, mop the floor, and ignoring me like nothing happened. EXCUSE ME?? If only I can shout and complain like a normal irate customer would do. I was very pissed, but also a part of me does not want to make it a big deal. The manager approached us, offered some tissues, and said, “Nabasa po ba lahat?” I honestly wanted to shoot him a sarcastic answer but I just gave him a short insincere laugh and said, “Actually, hindi ko nga alam kung anong nangyari eh. Bigla na lang akong nabuhusan ng tubig.” I can discern that he is clueless and might be thinking that I was the one who spilled the water on myself. Nonetheless, no apology was said. 

From what happened to me today, I got to reflect some things. So far, everytime something unpleasant happens to me, I try to immediately pray and ask the Lord what is He teaching me from it. 

I know I have all the reason to be pissed. I wanted to blame everything to that clumsy waiter. I wanted him to apologize, thinking that might have eased my raging emotions. In my mind, I paid more than three hundred bucks and all I get was 10% good food and 90% bad customer service. And the list will just pile up. In short, I was very very disappointed. 

After being comforted by my friends (which I super appreciated - you’re always awesome, guys!) and calmed down in a while, the Holy Spirit started speaking to me: Was I too self-entitled to expect the waiter to say sorry before forgiving him? Was I too proud not to accept the manager’s offered tissue as an apology already? Was I too ungrateful to realize that it was only water that spilled and not some smelly vinegar or soy sauce? that my notebook is still relatively whole and most pages are not totally wet? that I got to taste the restaurant’s lechon (yes, it was good!) and got to fellowship with my friends?

Then after a poof!, pow!, bam!, wapak!, the Lord revealed the true nature of my heart. I was self-entitled, proud, and ungrateful. OUCH. Even though I did not shout at the waiter/ the manager and made a scene, my mind and my heart wanted to. I was so angry for the wrong reasons and I know it was not pleasing to the Lord. 

“It’s not about you anymore.“ I often hear this statement from preachers, yet the way it echoed to me today struck me real hard. It is not easy to “die to yourself“ and let the Spirit control you. In fact, “Christianity is not difficult, it is impossible!” as Pastor Peter Tan-chi often says - which is why we need the power of the Holy Spirit. When we surrendered our life to Christ, we are ought to live not for ourselves anymore but to live for Jesus. The Spirit enable us to do this as we allow Him to fill us everyday and do His will in our lives.

If I was just Spirit-filled earlier today, maybe I could have done better than pouting and letting my pride take over. Maybe I could have taken the opportunity to minister to that waiter by showing forgiveness unconditionally. Maybe I could have comforted my heart with so many other good things instead of lingering to one bad incident. 

Today was actually IDC’s (Intentional Discipleship Conference) Day 2 and I was really overwhelmed by 4 sessions of intense messages from Francis Chan, Josh McDowell, and Sean McDowell. I have so many notes and takeaways. Yet one major thing I realized after everything that happened is that, listening/hearing is one thing but doing/applying it is another. 

“Let us be doers of the word and not hearers only, deceiving yourselves.” James 1:22. 

I know I could have done something better today and it was really a hard lesson for me. I am still a work-in-progress and I realized how I need to fully depend on God everyday of my life. Every step is a test and every trial is an opportunity to grow and improve. How I hope and pray that everyone of us, believers, would keep on walking in the Spirit each and every day.

#ChristianWalk #BeSpiritFilled #IDC2019 

[thesweetblossoms]

Floating Marigolds

🌵Today we hiked Tom Thumb trail, which is a beautiful and intoxicating walk on the McDowell Mountains, a half hour away from our apartment in Scottsdale. My memories of the walk are raw and ethereal, steeped in natural wonder and energy, as potent as the fresh snowy white, shimmering morsels of quartz stone, I found on the trail and as delicate as the many clementine orange, tiny, charming butterflies I saw flitting, gliding, rising and falling in gentle waves along the pink sandy earth, the butterflies, appearing like floating marigolds, twirling through jojobas, acacias, teddy bear chollas, prickly pear cactus and the gatherings of many dried scarlet, amethyst, bleached gold and chocolate tinted grasses. We walked along an uncultivated and wild desert with the shadows and sparkles dancing off the ridge of steely gray mountains, the light catapulting from wiry, needle embedded, hardy succulents and feathery clumps of grasses, trailing cautiously over the stumps of dried ocotillos, as the rushed breezes joined nature as it conducted the nimbus clouds, early October sunlight, far off late summer hurricane winds, nectar gathering bees and palpable dust into a beguiling symphony. Rattlesnakes, tarantulas, javelinas, scorpions and other desert dwellers are spotted on this trail. While, I was curious to see the natural inhabitants of such a cosmically and scenically charged terrain, I was grateful not to encounter any lethal fauna. While hiking along, I felt a slightly sinister energy, a nuance and awareness that the groves of chollas, slumbering mesquite trees, the serpentine and the web weaving habitué of the land, did not appreciate, humans ascending to their territory. Yet, being in uninimitable and unhindered natural manifestations, away from man made structures, traffic lights and manicured landscapes, in an open area, has a consciousness altering quality of change, or shifting borders between reality and illusions, of time moving and shaping the physical world, of the future cascading closer and of sudden insights and visions. As my husband trotted ahead, always a few stretches before me, yet close enough so we do not lose each other, I called out as he entreated me to hurry along. “I’m only a few steps behind.”, the words echoing through mystical, mysterious and impenetrable time and space.

Heretofore, my style has been predictable, often veering into the realm of slightly boring, thus, I am attempting to define it, such that it might inspire novel ways to translate my emotions, personality and subtle consciousness, into the way I present my self, with attire and jewelry. As I was born on the seventh of July, the number seven holds immense luck and possibility, and I consider it a charm and constant reminder of the magical nature of reality. The seven elements of my style would include romantic, feminine, mysterious, bohemian, poetic, classic and simple.

I tend to reach timelessly for white, nude or pale pink shirts, blouses and tops with skinny blue/black jeans, or black or navy shorts, I possess a cast of navy, emerald, white, camel, misty gray, mustard yellow, varied hues of pink and a few royal purple tinted dresses, I vary these, by sprinkling in a few petite floral patterned or striped pieces. My jewelry, consists of pearl, emerald or diamond studs or a pair of very thin gold hoops, I wear my engagement ring every day, with a combinations of a simple pearl ring I inherited from my grandmother, a minimal rose quartz band, or a ring with seven, small Zambian emeralds, I also wear my black Hermès watch, with pearl or brass bracelets. I tend to wear either nude high-heel sandals or pink, navy blue or leopard print ballet flats. In the mornings, dressing myself is a cherished ritual, I enjoy the unplanned nature and the momentous act of going through my collection of apparel, scarfs, shoes, belts and purses to help me gauge both the mood of the day and my own particular sensibility. I remind myself often, to look more carefully at the contents of my closet, rather then to miss details that might highlight a look, idea, or expression more powerfully and clearly, perhaps noting how one of my pink cardigans may be worn with thin spaghetti strapped dresses for work, or how a black piece with pearls would be both appealing and require scant thought on the days I am running late.

Here are a few insights into the elements of my style:

Romantic ambiances include, slowly opening cosmos petals, smoky Egyptian musk incense, a slow whirling fan and a window open with white curtains flapping softly, carrying notes of honeysuckle and jasmine. On days that I skew particularly romantic, I might leave my hair in loose waves, wear a pink dress as pale as a flushed cream rose and eat an almond croissant with dark vanilla coffee.

While, the feminine energies permeate my experience of reality, with attenuating garden blossoms, of noticing the golden light on miniature ivory roses, or of creating a handmade avocado toast with extra squeezes of lime and pink salt drifting like dawn mist on the pale green sea crowned with freshly torn basil, or of a tying a pleasingly floral patterned black and white silk scarf around a high ponytail.

The elements of mystery, heighten the charm and increase curiosity, such as when I deliberately button up my white cotton shirt, over a peach pink bralette, or when I move to reveal, the glimmering sparkles of minimal pearl or brass bracelets, under the long sleeves of a nude toned chiffon dress. The nuances of mystery linger especially poignantly, in the study of contrasts, of wearing a tight bun with a free, flowing, unrestricted dress or styling long, loose, tresses with a tight, caramel lacy blouse and charcoal skinny jeans. In evoking mystery, I try to imagine a poetess in a summer garden, listening to the songs of the pastel nectarine, dawn pink and blood orange stained dahlias that only she can hear, or of the perfume of blossoming foamy white roses, drifting quietly from the garden, on a night of a charged secret, rendezvous by a rollicking, capricious and lighthearted sea.

My bohemian temperament stems from my desire to grow wildflowers, to cut a few for a tiny vintage vase, to wear vibrant coral, burnt sienna, incanted jade green and white cotton dresses with gold hoops, to spray rose and jasmine mist, to burn palo santo, to light a few tea light candles to saturate darkened rooms with pools of starlight, to dwell among old books, houseplants and fairy lights, to read French literature, to dance on a frayed lilac and silver Persian carpet, write about light, memories, emotions and flowers, drink chamomile tea, remain awake dangerously late to read, do yoga, to traipse into reveries, of Paris in the rain, of picnics with artists in a field of poppies and of carelessly swimming in a painterly vanilla and frangipani grove by the sea.

A poetic nature stems from an inclination to glimpse at the heart rendering pain and beauty in any moment, of the perfume of the tuberose strung canopy on a wedding night on a lush hill overlooking a misty winter bay, of an accidental snapping on a beloved string of pearls on the road to California, of ink stained hands and gardeners nails, of rubbing coconut, jasmine and ylang ylang oil over freshly lavender soaped skin, of never having too many lace, silk or chiffon dresses, or of enthusiastically wearing scarfs and wraps during pumpkin spice latte season in the desert.

Classic elements evoke a timeless sensibility and appeal, it appears in my life when I choose objects and pieces that occur whimsically and beguilingly in nature, such as by wearing pearls, turquoise, or rose quartz, from wearing natural fabrics such as silk or cotton, or choosing the cuts of cloth that have yet to be rendered dated, such as shift dresses, pea coats, white button down shirts, shirt dresses accompanied with brightly hued ballet slippers or nude wedges. It translates into the style of my home in the faint whispers from my collection of old English literature books by M. Somerset Maugham, Oscar Wilde, Daphne Du Maurier and more, or in my curated blue and white china collections, or a massive hoard of natural linen napkins, in piles of soft, cashmere, kanthas or Turkish blankets, in botanical and seaside art and paintings, in natural, raw wood furniture, lambs wool rugs, hand made ceramics and more.

The charm of simplicity is noticing the details, so that one may curate and disregard extraneous elements that diminish the purest forms and shapes. Nature is often my muse when I attempt to simplify my thoughts, ideas, design, fashion or lifestyle; for nature reminds us that most beautiful things are generally free, indelible in our memories, is measured in joy rather than in time, yet often taken for granted, such as the unadorned blue and white of the sky, or the emerald light in a green forest, or the rows or ivory roses, mixed with pots of lavender and faded pink geraniums lining a driveway, or of the dual purposes of perfume and glow inherent in a single bottle of coconut oil, in pearl earrings and a blush pink silk dress, or of the wondrous ecstasy of a storm halfway between midnight and the first light, with the windows open, the hurried gales, intense strikes of lightning, lashing rain and felonious thunder, carrying us though the night like a ship in a tempest ridden sea, the earth rollicking and dancing through myriad reveries, while our souls are set adamantly free in way that only occurs while we sleep, the unexplainable darkness of reality, temporarily stayed, by the poetic grace and shimmering excitement of the desert during a rainstorm many hours before the sunrise. Very often, I try to renegotiate my desire for variety, complexity and maximalism with an equally painful inclination for those entities that exult in plainness, such as crisp toast with butter, or a French braid with red lips, or of seashell, poetry book and rose quartz collections, or of rosewater mist and candle lit yoga, or the tantalizing pairing of a cup of green tea and a blanket.

The most salient concern in armoring myself for date nights, errands, visiting garden stores, bookstores, coffee shops or to the law firm, is how a garment makes me feel; how a vivid peach dress with a lilac cardigan may help ameliorate anxiety on Monday, or how a midnight blue shirt dress might assist me on days, I need to refocus my energies on my ongoing projects or how a white peasant blouse, dangling earrings and faintly pink jeans, anoints a lighter mood and gypsy vibes to a mellow Wednesday. Yet, another lens to view my style is through the experiences I hope to have, so I might collect a scandalous amount of pale pink chiffon dresses, for dancing as the clock strikes midnight in a lantern scattered garden in Marrakech, dewy with the perfume of orange blossoms, thick groves of tuberose, calla lilies, cypresses and palms, or a camel sheath with pearls for investor meetings in steely fortresses, or a emerald silk mini dress for an afternoon of visiting art galleries and antique stores while visiting by husbands family home in Connecticut. But the truest way we adorn ourselves are through the little pinpricks of gathered light, accumulated fires and entrapped breezes that we patiently fasten, insert or slide on as final, lingering touches, maybe it is the the diamond tear shaped earrings given by your mothers best friend for your engagement, a delicate lavender rice pearl bracelet found on a trip to Sedona, opal stud earrings reminding you of the ones your parents gave you as a gift on your 12th birthday, the original opals likely in safe in a bank deposit box in Toronto or Dhaka, or the vintage emerald ring you brought for yourself to break the webs of ennui in those mind numbingly plebeian routines annotated by the music of tiny silver anklet bells. For, there is yet explained magic and deeply alchemical poetry impressed upon the gems, stones and minerals that we find along our journey, some inherited, others gifted and a few collected on our own, these are mesmerizing and solid reminders that we linger among stars, that we are as fragile as plum blossoms in the path of an impatient may gale, that the light entrances even the most sleeping entities, that the cracks make the gem even more beautiful, that strength arises from beauty and vice versa and that there are memories, whispers, passionate entreaties, unanswered prayers, surreptitious reveries, twinkling laughter and bespoke tears embedded in the earthly realm, translated so bewilderingly and delightfully into our bracelets and other charms.

I noticed that when a pillar candle burns down so that the wick dances incandescently in a hollow grove, flickering hypnotically in a cave of melted wax with the tower edged and traced by times retreat, the color of the candle is revealed through the fire, as it jumps, scales and tongues the darkened room, it pulses like heartbeats from another realm, it rhymes, riddles and casts the space with a forgotten memory, a distant wish, or an unknown song, it heightens the emotion, of the bitterness of our dwindling lease on time and of the sweetness of its term. The glow reminds us to notice the light impressions whenever we have a chance, for even when the moonlight hits the blossoming Texas sage it reveals further regarding beauty, magic, fragility, impermanence and joy. The candle flame is starlight lingering in our midst, intoxicating in its danger, eviscerating in its power and captivating as it burns the dust, the unheard music and the reality veiling air to offer us its light.

I realize that perhaps the small butterflies I mentioned at the beginning of this piece, written a week ago, may have already travelled along their wild desert mountain paths, imbibing honey from the prickliest-flowering succulents, seeping in the orchestra of sun light chased by the moon, having ecstatically ridden the autumnal breezes, on their way to appearing again far away as earthly marigolds. The same way every tear turns into a leaf and every joy into a flower. 🦋

[alisonsaim3]

FAQs National Drunk and Drugged Driving Prevention Month December 2020

National Drunk and Drugged Driving Prevention Month FAQs

When is National Drunk and Drugged Driving Prevention Month?

National Drunk and Drugged Driving Prevention Month occurs annually in the month of December, as it is the height of the holiday season.

What is blood alcohol content?

Blood Alcohol Content, or BAC, is the scale used to describe the level of alcohol in the bloodstream of a person. It can be used to determine the sobriety status of a person, as well as being of use in court as evidence for DUI charges

What other kinds of testing is used to determine BAC?

Besides blood and urine tests, the other most used method are Field Sobriety Tests, which are cognitive and balance tasks law enforcement uses to determine a person 19s well-being. Walking in a straight line or saying the alphabet backwards are an example of field sobriety tests.

Each December, we go out for fun, parties and drinks with family and friends. But we ask you to stop and think for a second about being responsible. December is National Drunk and Drugged Driving Prevention Month and since the holiday season has a higher accident rate than others on average, it is important to echo the message of consciousness of being in a proper state behind the wheel. According to the National Safety Council, over 40,000 people died in alcohol-related traffic accidents last year. So this year, stay safe during the holidays.

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[imsickoftheseshadows]

london, part 2, 1/27

The nightstand, adjacent to where his likeness was cast in the wrinkles of our sheets, was bare, with the exception of a pair of earbuds, an odd looking phone charger, and a nondescript hotel alarm clock. I studied the prongs of the European plug; I noted the socket beneath the bedside lamp  -- I had no practical use for his forgotten items, but I stowed them in my luggage anyway.

Vermilion veins were a living map, en route to black irises -- sleep had evaded me, though I was uncertain if jet lag was to blame. The totality of my fatigue was apparent, from my matted hair to wan lilac limbs, anemic from a lack of sunlight and a Californian necessity for warmth. It was mid-morning, and I was covered by a terrycloth bathrobe and remnants of once new lingerie.  

The walls of the room were paper thin -- I listened to a couple delicately argue; the soft sophistication of their accents blurring the resentment behind their words. I glanced at the empty bottle of wine in the rubbish bin, and our candy wrappers from two nights prior. I sensed a pang of hurt upon reflection of his sterile farewell. It was as though my room was deliberately placed in the center of love and lovelessness, and I was to decipher the time elapsed between fleeting emotions. 

I glanced at my phone. Sunday Morning. I envisioned my father on his way to St. Philip’s, hauling me off to confession to repent for the sins I had yet to commit (in my adolescence, my father had once forced me to inform a passing priest that I had returned home warmly intoxicated and past my curfew, but that’s a different tale). He was probably asleep, dreaming of how he would punish me upon my return home.

I scoffed at the irony as I tore the sheets from the bed, and flipped the comforter over to conceal the Tempranillo tears -- This is my blood, which will be given up for you. My Englishman had consumed me with such vigor, my broken bread and body, happily debauched; acquiescent and romantic. 

I opened the door and tore the Do Not Disturb sign from the handle. I took the soaps, shampoo, and conditioner from the bathroom. I even threw the hotel’s pen and pad of paper into one of my many bags, placing it between my postcards and unspoiled novels, because I felt nonsensically sentimental. It was half past eleven, and my check-out time was at noon. I phoned a cab, then tossed a room service menu into my handbag.

------------------------

The following entries would be best stated as a soliloquy, though I am not solely speaking to myself (this is a public blog, of course), and such reflections would further complicate my relations with those written about. Alas, I resort to the censorship so commonly obvious in my posts -- Take this, in its entirety, as a work of fiction, and a collection of strange coincidences between invention and reality. I’ve woven a web of fact and fabrication, to protect the feelings and fate of my friends and myself.

------------------------

Day 1, Caledonian Road:

You have quite the record collection.

I leaned back on his couch, allowing the plush leather to envelop me -- I had removed my parka, revealing a pair of black hot pants, thigh high socks, and a sleeveless sweater. I will not let cold weather compromise my style, I had protested, explaining to my friends that I refused to dress as a tourist in a foreign country.

My Airbnb host, a hospitable man who eagerly greeted me outside of his flat (it was a restored orphanage, and did not appear on Google Maps), worked in public relations, but moonlighted as a disc jockey in clubs I would have been too self-conscious to enter back home. An air of Echo Park pretension existed twofold in Islington, among the hipster elite, that made Los Angeles appear as the underbelly of European Cool -- I was uncool in America, so I knew I was certainly uncool in the UK, but I accepted my place and moved forward.

By one o’clock, we had visited three pubs.  At the final, “truly British” pub, with roaring flames licking the backs of our barstools, I asked the owner for an Old Fashioned. He stared at me, equally inquisitive and confused. 

What is that? We just have liquor, beer, and wine here.

I settled for another glass of Chardonnay.

----------------------------

R landed at London Gatwick after a lengthy layover in Iceland, where he had to actually walk from the tarmac to the airport -- it had been storming, and his San Franciscan suede coat could hardly withstand such exotic weather. He had a staunch budget, which he intended to stick to -- Thus, he selected the cheapest flight, on the most affordable airline, and took public transportation in a country he had only studied in his European history courses. 

I did not mention my numerous Ubers, my deluxe room at the Hilton, nor my Italian dinner the night prior. I was shamelessly unemployed, though spent money as though I had recently come into a large inheritance.

Our host, after having realized both R and I were massive music fans, invited us to meet his cousin for drinks during the week -- He opened for the Rolling Stones! I can get you on guest list. I was used to unfulfilled promises among men of the city, so I took it as him being polite. I was content with wine, and rain, and spontaneity, and he didn’t have to do that, I quickly uttered, but the pleasure was all his.

After R and I bade him farewell and drifted toward Piccadilly Circus, I found myself wandering toward the British Film Institute again (my sole intention being a subconscious revisiting of my English romance). I bought a book on Stanley Kubrick with a rather large spread of Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange, and thought of my room at the Hilton. My “tour guide” bore a slight resemblance to MM, I should note.

Have you seen Caligula?

R had, of course. R held an unreasonable amount of obscure knowledge in his boundless mind -- he then began to discuss Roman history, and asked me if I had heard of Messalina. She was the second-cousin of Caligula, and rumor has it, she would bed one-hundred guys per night.

He Googled her name, then scrolled to a portrait.

She even looks like you!

I sighed heavily, and retired to the bar.

[dustedmagazine]

Dust Vol. 3, Number 14

Aidan Baker & Claire Brentnall — Delirious Things (Gizeh/Pleasence)

Here Baker (Nadja, Caudal, WERL, several more) and Brentnall (Shield Patterns) team up in an homage to/exploration of various aspects of the dreampop/shoegaze/synth pop sound, specifically where those genres start blending together. Baker has mostly traded in his guitar for a vintage Casio but runs it through his customary array of pedals, leading to an intriguingly hybrid, sometimes droning sound. Brentnall often sounds like she’s attempting to find some ideal synthesis of Elizabeth Fraser and Kate Bush in her singing, which is just about perfect for these songs (five on this album, along with three instrumental interludes). At their best, like the gossamer “Wingless”, the stiff, formal beat and echoing waves of the open title track, and the coldly fuzzy “Shivering”, Baker and Brentnall create songs that can stand confidently alongside their influences, with a particularly compelling chill of their own. Not all of Delirious Things reach those heights, but the other tracks here are still pleasurable examples of the form.  

Ian Mathers

 Billington/Shippy/Wyche — Billington/Shippy/Wyche (Astral Spirits)

Billington / Shippy / Wyche by Billington / Shippy / Wyche

Some years back, The Ex got off a plane at O’Hare Airport, headed on down to the Empty Bottle, and surprised the attendees of a jazz festival that prominently featured members of the ICP Orchestra by hopping straight on stage unannounced and blazing through a loud, wild and did I say loud set with Han Bennink. It split the audience between rock heads who loved the brutality of the blast and certain jazz fans who covered their ears (not without cause, because that shit was LOUD) and muttered afterwards about the fascism of volume. Nowadays we have some real fascism to worry about, but Ben Billington (Tiger Hatchery, Quicksails, Ono), Mark Shippy (U.S. Maple, Miracle Condition), and Daniel Wyche (crucial Chicago show organizer and solo musician) are keeping the blammo improv flag flying high in a stiff breeze which issues from the two guitarists’ large, loud amplifiers and Billington’s gale force drums. This is wall of sound stuff, but the more you face the wall, the more you find differentiation in its blasted surfaces. Flip the tape over and you’ll hear that the trio’s not all about loudness, though. They can also leave plenty of space between the alien sounds and move them with the intuitive agility of old river pilots who navigate the currents by vibration and feel.

Bill Meyer

 Gunther’s Grass — Bastille Day & Other Lullabies (Titacacaman Records)

Bastille Day & Other Lullabies by Gunther's Grass

Four years after their 2013 debut, Gunther’s Grass is back with another set of hardy improvised drones. Built on the novel confluence of acoustic bass, hurdy gurdy and the Southeast Asian free-reed instruments khaen and pii jum, the West Coast trio’s music is slow, dark and overwhelmingly thick with timbral friction. While the ostensible project of Bastille Day & Other Lullabies is to explore “imaginary dreamscapes of lost cities, ancient battles and remote frontiers,” as usual the dream probably says less about its contents than it does about its dreamer. The trio does well, anyway, to resist appropriating global genres or programming narratives, producing instead six examples of its own unique blend of Eastern and Western influences. Whereas it’s not surprising to find drone pieces stretching whole album sides or more, the brevity of the tracks on Bastille Day (six minutes on average) serves to highlight the contrasts between pieces — and in doing so undermines some of their subtlety, along, most likely, with a bit of their power. Still, I’m not sure where else to find music with quite so tactile a layering of the keening, the grating and the groaning. My guess is that it only exists here, wherever that is.

Eric McDowell

 Philip Jeck — Iklectik (Touch Music)

Iklectik by Philip Jeck

Live performances by British sound artist Philip Jeck actually manage the impressive feat of being even more immersive than his studio albums. Maybe it’s the immediacy of hearing the sounds, created using faded and damaged vinyl records, synths and other instruments, as they come to life in front of you, conjured by an unassuming man who stares down at his devices, avoiding the eye. Maybe the unpredictability of using such a fragile tool as old vinyl adds a certain tension. Whatever the case, Iklectik, recorded at the London venue of the same name, is a welcome addition to Touch’s new series of live recordings. Evolving over 45 minutes, the solitary piece that makes up Iklectik develops gradually, from a blissful opening sequence of wobbly drones and warm bass through more unsettling tonal surges not that dissimilar to something you might hear on an industrial record and an all-consuming wall of synth bliss to a crackling final section driven by muted beats that fades into silence. At times, the audience can be heard rustling and crackling, adding to the intimacy of the recording. Where Jeck prefers to divide his studio albums up like suites, the single track flows more organically, following the emotional whims of its creator. Jeck is often compared to the hauntology scene, but in truth his music, especially live, is more introverted and contemplative, making Iklectik a sort of avant-garde sonic poem.

Joseph Burnett

 Niko Karlsson — Valosta valoon (Feeding Tube)

Coming out of the loose network of ensembles that comprise the so-called Finnish underground, Niko Karlsson makes his solo debut LP for Byron Coley’s label. The eight racks here feature multi-tracked layers of bowed and picked string instruments, voice, harmonica and other miscellany. Karlsson stakes out a not-unpleasant  territory at the confluence of various streams of modern psychedelia, from the loner psych of Dark Noontide-era Six Organs and the DIY ethos of Finland’s underground strains to the nocturnal explorations of Timo van Lujik’s various outsider projects. Throughout, he’s adept at crafting delicate, well-balanced arrangements: see the distorted guitar and droning bowed strings under the hypnotic acoustic guitar patterns on “Unen Oma,” or the hushed blending of voice, string drones and chiming on “Varjon Kantamana.” But Karlsson’s dedication to balance might be what holds this album back. Valosta valoon is entrancing when he hones in a single texture, such as the nest of interlocking, minimal string patterns, almost aleatoric, on “Linnoitus” or the ethereal choruses he conjures on “Surujen joki” and “Harhailijani.” Elsewhere, he wants to suggest an air of mystery but the transparency of his process and the often conventional treatment of his material means he ends up falling short and settling for something more prosaic.

Matt Wuethrich

  Felix Kubin — Takt der Arbeit (Editions Mego)

Conceived as a soundtrack to a series of 1960s educational videos about industry and work, Takt der Arbeit heavily wears its concept on its sleeve in the the artwork depicts an industrial machine.  Martial drum machine and acoustic beats clatter throughout opener “Musik für neue Büromaschinen”. But Felix Kubin’s sense of whimsy and fun also pierce through the intellectual rigor of the exercise.  Although “Musik für neue Büromaschinen” feels like it’s meant to represent the sound of heavy machinery, it’s actually throughout  tied to the more mundane office work that dominates the lives of so many in Western societies: mobile phones chime, a printer reels off paper, a dial-up tone rings out. Kubin cleverly takes the original concept of soundt-racking images of past work and aligns it into the present, drawing an intriguing parallel between grinding industry and the constant pressures of commute-work-sleep-repeat. “Musik für neue Büromaschinen” has an aggressive, relentless humor behind it, as do the ever-shifting, percussive musings on the digital age that are “Martial Arts” and “Uhren” (splendid use of vibes and xylophone). In between, “Geburt eines Schiffes” is a grinding industrial epic, a caustic exploration of how the capitalist system hammers into the ordinary people that get absorbed into its machinery just as much as it did to miners and factory workers of yesteryear.  

Joseph Burnett

 Magda Mayas/Jim Denley — Tempe Jetz (Relative Pitch)

 Tempe Jetz approaches time from several angles. It’s a document of one brief one-off encounter between Magda Mayas, a keyboard player based in Berlin, and Jim Denley, a woodwinds player based in Sydney. The track titles — “A Departure,” “Customs Declaration,” “In Transit” and “Arrival” — relate a passage that is clearly bounded but of sadly unpredictable length. The circumstances — a three-hour recording session in a moldering, shutdown sports club — sound like something that you would put behind you. But it is dedicated to the first Australians who sustained a way of life for tens of thousands of years before the ungentle hand of British colonization swept it away. The music, performed on alto sax, bass flute and a clavinet in less than perfect repair, was made in the moment, but the decaying materials at hand likely influence the antiquity of the sounds, which feel like they have been blowing around the Australian continent since before the first sailing ships punctured the horizon. Breaths wax, whistle and wane while mechanical parts thump, pop, and plink, and elements interact with nonverbal fluency. Ideally instant composition yields sounds that can be revisited and considered at length, and that’s certainly the case here.

Bill Meyer

 Mdou Moctar — Sousoume Tamachek (Sahel Sounds)

Sousoume Tamachek by Mdou Moctar

Mdou Moctar got his start nearly a decade ago waxing futuristic. While his first record received no official release in his native Niger, the sounds of his maximally auto-tuned voice and bouncy programmed beats were shared across the desert from phone to phone, and first made their leap out of the desert via Sahel Sounds’ Music For Saharan Cell Phones. But Moctar’s no one-trick pony. Subsequent albums and his performances on his recent US tour confirm that he’s a blazing guitarist who can hold his own against anyone on the Guitars From Agadez scene that Sublime Frequencies put out a few years back, and he played the Prince character in the first Tamachek (that’s what the Tuareg call their language and themselves) language film ever made — Akounak Tedalat TahaTazouhai, a desert remake of Purple Rain. Like Prince or David Bowie, he’s been a shrewd assessor of trends and opportunities. His computer music rode a new trend to places no one else making it could imagine, and his higher-octane guitar music fits right into the recent louder-faster rules of desert blues. Sousoume Tamachek embodies another artistic phenomenon. While Moctar recorded it thousands of miles from home in a Portland OR studio, it’s the most tradition-steeped thing he’s done. He picks electric and (mostly) acoustic guitars, plays hand percussion and sings songs he sang before he first dumped his voice into a hard drive. The result sounds reflective, although you won’t know for sure if you don’t know Tamachek. But you won’t need words to appreciate his loping grooves, lilting lines, yearning voice or the sense of commune with something vast and quiet that they evoke. Freed of the need to either blare or pixilate, he’s a calm and comforting troubadour.

Bill Meyer

  Schnellertollermeier – Rights (Cuneiform)

With their 2015 debut album X, Schnellertollermeier blended jazz, prog and metal. Those touchpoints remain for follow-up Rights, but the trio builds from a new center now. They give their sound, for the most part, more bright spots, though Manuel Troller's guitar still can reach some dark places. But the real change comes with the shift in focus to more minimalist composition. These four songs build around shifts in repetition. The prog isn't gone by any stretch, but if you look to the core of the songwriting, you'll find more Philip Glass than King Crimson.

The group holds to this approach, but they don't restrict themselves with it. The title track eventually chases the metal, and the dynamic sensibility might fit more into even a post-rock mode. The album builds throughout until the near chaos of “Round,” making the album feel, if not like a single suite, much like a set of related pieces. It's a strong accomplishment given the musician's unwillingness to settle into a single sound (I didn't even get to the Krautrock elements). Schnellertollermeier's ability to more with less (and occasional bits of more) builds on their previous success for a simultaneously constrained and adventurous exploration.  

Justin Cober-Lake

 Shobaleader One — Elektrac (Warp)

Thom Jenkinson hasn’t slowed down much since he started working as Squarepusher, whether it’s the ultrafast runs he’s capable of pulling on the bass, his relentless and often successful attempts to feed more genres into the maw of the Squarepusher project (drill’n’bass! musique concrete! krautrock! free jazz!) or, with Shobaleader one, recruiting other musicians to pull off his intricate, dense compositions live on (mostly) analog instruments. Last heard from circa 2010’s d’Demonstrator, here the quartet (including Jenkinson on bass, naturally) takes on 11 classic Squarepusher tracks and does a surprisingly credible/seamless job of performing them live (complete with approving crowd noise). The tracks are well selected for the process, even if the closing “Journey to Reedham” sounds like it came close to doing in the drummer. Perversely, aside from major Jenkinson fans, the best audience for Elektrac might actually be listeners who’ve never heard his work, because the live rendition of these highlights actually makes for a good introduction to the man’s music, whether it’s the twisty jazz-funk of “Coopers World”, the increasingly frenetic slap bass of “Deep Fried Pizza”, or the sighingly lovely “Iambic 5 Poetry.” The result is something that seems like a side project that’s actually more accessible than a lot of Squarepusher albums.  

Ian Mathers

 Tsinder Ash — Offerings (Bone Weapons Records)

Offerings by Tsinder Ash

Tsinder Ash are part of an often-overlooked but quietly assertive queer music scene that is providing more diverse voices than those offered by many of the mainstream LGBTQ+ pop stars currently hogging more than their fair share of the limelight. On Offerings’ opening track, “All My Sisters” a sampled voice talks about “a new form of human being,” indicating that Ash’s music and thought processes go beyond merely thinking about sexuality and into the more complex and enlightening areas of gender and self-identification. “All My Sisters” is a fascinating work, lurching ominously forwards on carpets of seething drone but guided by a sumptuous banjo melody as Ash intone fervently “All my sisters full of rage/stand outside that circle they drew in flames.” Their voice is high-pitched and androgynous, firm and sensual where needed, fragile and haunting elsewhere. “All My Sisters” resembles an early Woven Hand track, with a similar ritual feel and passionate delivery, whereas the more sparse “Cavebirds” travels through ambient cabaret, the focus on Tsinder Ash’s almost operatic vocal delivery. They play nearly all instruments on Offerings, displaying a disarming virtuosity at every turn, whether it’s the deft guitar finger-picking on “Garnets” or the crumbling electronics on “Cavebirds”. But their voice remains the key asset of this lush, haunting EP: they draw you into Tsinder Ash’s world, lay their soul at your feet and invite you lie with them as they sing about things that really matter.

Joseph Burnett

 Various Artists — Home Again Blues (Mamlish)

 Contemplating the current climate of musical plenty it can be difficult to recall earlier eras when paucity of access was much closer to the norm. A contemporary of Yazoo and progenitor of later purveyors like Document and Catfish, Don Kent’s New York-based Mamlish imprint was one of the only figurative games in town when it came to reliable reissues of pre- and immediately post-War blues during the decade of the 1970s. Sourced mainly from scavenged or borrowed 78s and pressed in vinyl limited editions, Kent’s compilations and single-artist surveys returned valuable time capsules to circulation. Home Again Blues is part of an initial trilogy of reissues released on compact disc and licensed through a Polish distributor. Kent originally cast his net wide, snaring rawboned and raucous singles by regional artists from Virginia (John Tinsley), Louisiana (James Bledsoe), Michigan (L.C. Green), Texas (Frankie Lee Sims) and of course Mississippi (Luther Huff & Bluesboy Bill). The crackle of bruised and weathered acetate is part of the aural bargain although never to the point of invasiveness. Sixteen tunes may seem comparatively slim pickings by today’s copious collection standards, but the curation and annotation by Kent and radio colleague Pat Conte are both aces.

 Derek Taylor