#bene tinte

[maream2636]

2024.14.6

I went with my family to eat and then shop for some things. I bought a tint, two bracelets, and nail dye. I had a lot of fun and laughed a lot with my siblings, and now I have to finish the work I started *⁠･⁠゜ﾟ⁠(⁠^⁠O⁠^⁠)⁠↝

[sinclqir]

Cardinal Copia Imagine

first greetings

—————————————

cardinal copia x female reader

warnings (nsfw)

masturbation

word count: idk

you walk down the lavish halls of the ministry, admiring the beautiful work around. as you walk you don’t see a the figure coming at you, walking very quickly. the two of you collide. “mia dispiace!” the figure says. you look up and see a timid man in a crimson cassock. “sorry, i didn’t see you.” you reply to the man. “i havent seen you around, what is your name?” he clasps his hands together, waiting for you answer.

“i’m y/n.” he nods quickly and reaches out for a handshake, reaching a little too far with his hand and accidentally grazes your breast. his hand recoils and his face turns as red as his cassock. “m-mia dispiace! i was going for a h-handshake…” he averts his eyes to the ground, almost dying from embarrassment. “it’s fine.” you reply and reach your own hand out for a handshake. as if he couldn’t feel more embarrassed, he reaches out again with the wrong hand. you giggle at his actions. “what’s your name?” his eyes widen for a moment before he reply’s with, “cardinal copia.”

“well nice to meet you cardinal copia.” you smile warmly. he enjoys the way his name comes out to your mouth. no, no you just met her! ,he thought. he felt butterflies in his belly whenever you talked. he felt stupid that he can’t even act normal when an attractive woman has small talk with him. no wonder why you’re still a virgin at the ripe age of 52, he was lost in his thoughts as you spoke. “cardinal?” you asked.

“si?” he looked up at your y/e/c eyes. “did you hear me?” you smile at him with a slight puzzled look. “oh…what did you say?” his face redden even more, the color tinting his ears as well. “i asked if you’re doing okay, you’re extremely red. are you sick?” he blushes harder, not helping his case. “no, no i’m fine. sto proprio bene.” he awkwardly itches the back of his neck. “well i have to meet with Sister, it was very nice meeting you. i hope i see you around more often copia.” the way his name lingers on your tongue drove him crazy. you reached and rubbed his shoulder slightly with your hand before leaving, sending pleasure through his body. his body shudders. he felt his pants tightening and body tense up at the slight touch. he scurried to his room.

once he enters his room he walks over to his mirror. “really? you really can’t handle a graze on your arm?” he scold himself, but feels his cock twitch in his pants. “cazzo.” he says through gritted teeth. his hand slowly trails to his hard on and he palms himself slowly through his pants. his breath quickens. he starts unbuttoning his cassock. it’s falls to the floor, his hand returns to its original place. “ah~” he whimpers slightly. he walks to the edge of his bed and continues. he feels a wet patch through his pants, precum practically leaking from his tip like a faucet. it’s noticeable through his white, tight suit. sweat beads at the top of his head as his face contorts in pleasure. “y/n…” he whines out your name.

he feels himself growing closer to his orgasm, but before he can cum, a knock is heard at his door. “sei fottutamente serio in questo momento?” he says through gritted teeth as he walks up to his door, annoyed his alone time had gotten cut just before his release. he opens his door and to his surprise, it’s you. the same person who he was imagining was pleasuring him. his face reddens quickly, eyes widen. “i heard you call out my name. is everything okay?” you ask sincerely, worried he is in distress. his hand flys to cover his throbbing erection. “si…si im fine…i’m okay…”he replies shyly. you cant help but think he’s cute whenever he looks down at the ground. “well, sister wanted me to give these to you, be careful , they’re quite heavy.”

“grazie..” he goes to grab the large binder but his hands fly back down to cover his large bulge. “uhm…could you put them on the table for me? per favore?”

“of course! where do you want me to set them?” he tells you to set them on the table. you start walking into his room, looking at the beautiful setting around you. it’s decorated with dark red and gold accents, being a mostly black room. you don’t notice his cassock lying on the ground as you trip on it. the binder goes flying and as do you. but before you reach the ground, he grabs your waist and pulls you close to him. your back is flushed against his front. you feel something poking your ass, eyes widening, realizing that it’s him.

he feels your body tense up, feeling like an absolute pervert at this moment. he lets go of you quickly, hand going back down to hide his dick. it’s throbs harder than ever now that it touched you in such a lewd way. his precum comes more heavily.

you try to be rational, assuming that the hard thing that pressed against your backside was just something in his pocket. you turn around to face him and take in his state. hands over his crotch area, face beet red, sweat dripping from his hairline. you look down at his pants, noticing how incredibly tight they were. there is definitely not anything his pocket, you would’ve seen it in his tight ahh pants.

you both stare at each other, not knowing what to say. “you must be huge.” your hand flys to your mouth. why the fuck did i just say that!?

his eyes bulge out of his head. “q-que?” he grips his crotch harder at your sudden boldness. you decide to keep up with the confidence, “you heard me.” voice wavering slightly, testing the waters.

is this really happening right now, or is my imagination extremely realistic? he’s asks himself. “move your hands.” he’s taken aback at the demand. you hold your ground, walking up to him slowly. “i don’t like repeating myself copia.” the two of you are face to face. he looks down at you and complies. you look down in between the two of you, taking in his erection. the precum in his pants shows prominently. his mouth opens slightly, breath fanning your face. “what were you doing before i knocked on your door?”

“i…i was just reading! si..si reading…” his voice is shaking slightly.

“don’t lie to me.” you hook your finger under his chin and make him look into your eyes. “were you pleasuring yourself?”

he nods.

“what were you thinking of?” you ask knowingly.

“you…” he says quietly. “hmm? i cant hear you.”

“you…i was thinking of you.”

“such a pervert… thinking of a woman half your age that you barely just met.” you say in a lower voice.

his eyes water in embarrassment. before he could say anything else, your hand slowly starts trailing down his chest. his breath hitches.

you meet his aching cock and squeeze slightly, his knees lock, “y/n….” he whimpers. you smirk at him, loving the way he reacts to your touch. you lean forward to his ear. “goodnight mi cardinale~” you give him one last squeeze and walk towards the door.

he stands still in his place as you leave. what just happened? he asks himself. before more thoughts could invade his head , his cock twitches in his pants. he decides to continue what he started.

he slides down his pants and boxers, and his cock springs free. he wraps his hand around his shaft and strokes himself, squeezing his tip every time he reaches the head. his pace goes quicker, thrusting his hips into his hand. “y/n…oh cazzo~!” he fucks his hand and cums quickly, sticky strings of semen coating his hand.

he can’t wait to see you tomorrow, wondering what you would do next. would you pretend it never happen or would you tease him about the situation. he hoped it was the second option, secretly living for the way you degraded him.

—————————————

this is my first imagine i’ve written, no criticism, my ego can’t handle it, i’m just playing, but i’m serious

hope u enjoy, lmk if you want a part two

[vanchovvy]

uoouwwwgghhhthis kinda suucks but its ok. Hey guuys do u still rememebr acohnm@..????(these doodles are a bit old)

this was originally supposed to be shown to like 2 people bur i NEED people to see my baby theyby April Squar…… rrhg

sorry 4 bad quality…..gyulp!😓😓😓

also for context….

"writers love nota bene" is a reference to the "winners love winning" thing (wlnb and wlw) and its just women love nonbinary ya ya does that make sense?📝📝📝📝

lithios is april squares husband that ill elaborate on a future post (i probably wont) (#procrastinationsquad)

francis is the hexagon character

jasper is the 4th dimensional "tesseract"(actually a rotated tesseract iirc(i forgot what i was thinking when i was designing xem(they use he/xey)))gyeah hes part of the yuri squad

the 3 humanlike fellers at the top are eiren, april, and dorian if u couldnt tell

çiğdem is the 5th dimensional. thing?? question mark..?????? i havent written about çiğdem yet but i need to dothat. Umm

on the bottom left. i split dorian into 2 characters for fun. theres d cuboid and dorian cuboid. d cuboid is dorian if i took him seriously.

ohgyeah also a little note about dorian,,,yes the flaltland fixation was so strong i went thru and looked at all of the details. yes i know z sphere exists and they were the uhh. the actual guy that sent the raid hyeah.

ok so dorian actually INDIRECTLY effd up the y axis by ticking off z sphere or something i dont relly know how i forgotr…..or maybe z sphere was on his spheriod🤫🤫🤫🤫🤫🤫(period)(sorry that was unfunny)

also some more doodles ^_^(these are more recent)

and this extra 2 bajillion year old squaresphere… sphuare……. quadsphWHATEVER YOU CALL IT THE A SPHERE X A SQUARE

ignore that its. tinted yellow/green??? not sure why it did that

and ybeah my a sphere headcanon design is different now cuz he just didnt give enough wacky iykwim

(he reminds me of teagan from dandys world here?)

somewhere in this post i have made a non deliberate mistake in an attempt to sound professional that i cannot fix and it will permanently stay in my head until the day i evaporate…… (cough coughthe first flatland post i made😓😓😓😓 sorry directed user….. *alternate* was NOT the right word)(also references under the ummmhh what do you call ittt the uhhh the keep readin g thing)

this post is too big and fat imo

sighssssss again with themistake. sorry i,mmmm still kinda nervous about posting on tumblr hahahahaaa…..(i say…loudly chewing on a cereal box)

Ok bye!

[of-tatooine]

DULCE PERICULUM. | CHAPTER IX - CALM

love, which quickly arrests the gentle heart.

(John Wick x Reader, Santino d'Antonio x Reader)

full work

It had all been a blur.

The marble under your hands as the hot water dripped down your skin, cleansing you from your troubles momentarily, turned into a browsing through wool and cashmere for the outfit of choice. Hunger slowly led itself into a shot of espresso and a light pastry warming your insides. Large tires gliding seamlessly against asphalt became heels gently sinking into the private jet’s carpet, the inviting leather seat your new bed for the upcoming travel.

Fingers managed to type a text to John before takeoff, letting him know that there was trouble back home and you had to reschedule the debrief.

He had said he was sorry to hear that.

Blunt corners, concrete mazes of blinking neon light and gray skies of New York City dissipated into endless eternal blue above, tall pine trees lined around unpaved roads, inescapable sunlight through the tinted windows. Sleek, modern edges a mere couple of years old formed themselves into the countryside mansion withstanding centuries, subdued peach pink and beige exteriors lined up with grand windows, a welcoming grand pathway into the courtyard, freckles of snow laid bare on the expansive lawn in the early colds of November.

It was not just this building, no, the estate had been a great compound composed of multiple buildings, each serving different purpose with their stone exteriors, wooden window panes and balconies adorned with ornate ironwork, chairs and outdoor loungers scattered around the gardens, potted plants that would otherwise be blooming in the summertime.

Yet there had been no fences in sight.

There was no need. An intruder would not dare come close.

The whole town knew who lived there.

“Dov'è lui?”

Finding him was the first priority as the SUVs door shut close, stepping down onto the pavement, hugging closer into your black wool coat to keep you warm. The wind up on the hills hit your cheeks in strong blows, waving the hair off of your face as men in suits escorted you towards the main mansion, even more men in suits scattered around the grounds, coming in an out of line of sight as they did their duty.

“In his chambers, signora.”

“E Gianna?”

“On the way, signora.”

“Bene. I will take it from here.”

The double wooden doors opened with their usual grandeur, leading you into the grand foyer of double-colored marble diamond tiles, a circular staircase traversing the towering beige walls adorned with the finest art, collected over decades. An elegant arrangement of teardrop crystals forming the beautiful chandelier hanging in the middle, emanating brightness at any hour of the day. Arches formed pathways leading into the various other rooms of the main building, opening up to the living room to your right - a short look to confirm his presence, or in this case, the lack thereof.

He had quite liked enjoying an afternoon coffee on the velvet couches in there, with you - natural light flowing in to enlighten the ornate carved ceilings with frescoes above, figures wrapped up in gold foil smiling down at you.

“All this art - and yet you shine brighter, amore,” he would utter lovingly at you, through his sips, green eyes getting the best of you.

You had wondered when would be the next time you could continue the tradition in the family estate.

The vivid memories flashing through your eyes, a quick blink would do the trick as you approached the marble spiraling staircase with intricate iron banisters, pieces of early Renaissance art adorning the accompanying wall, each step upwards taking you closer to him - your feet making the effects of constant travel known as sore as they were.

A mere two stories up, the doctors had been pardoned from their constant monitoring for a short amount of time as per Santino’s request to spend alone time with his father in his chambers. Leftover rays of the approaching sunset cast a sparkle into the vast suite through the slightly parted velvet curtains, one of the tall windows left ajar to let the brisk early winter air in. Tasteful furniture scattered around the room along with a lounge area, and a king bed fit for an emperor where his father laid.

Many times he had stepped into this room, sometimes as a troublemaker running around to cause all sorts of havoc, and sometimes as a grown man and a boss asking for sound advice from the man who had seen and done it all.

That day, he was neither. He was only a son, a concerned one, sitting at the edge of the bed close to where his knees rested under the silk blankets.

“Padre,” Santino’s voice trembled against his will, “- che è questo?”

He would ask the inevitable, the obvious, even though he had known exactly what it was. Even though he had glimpsed into his very near future for a split second, the moment his father began slipping the object out of his pocket with his frail hands.

The bronze hues of the marker could have never been bearer of good news.

“For her protection under Camorra.”

The glint of the ever so familiar bronze almost winked at him, his father holding it in his open palm in an undeniable invitation. Santino reached with his hand in an almost ceremonious fashion, hesitant yet accepting of what was to come.

“The High Table would void the marker when, when…”

The father let out a soft chuckle, waving his son off before he finished his sentence, which turned into a mild cough that passed thereafter. Increasing the worry in Santino’s watchful gaze for a moment.

Santino had taken his father’s eyes, he would always tell himself, the sage green mixed in with gray the same shade as his clouded ones. Even in this state of sickness, his father managed to pull off his usual charisma. The man who had been a sound voice of the High Table, ruthless when needed, and gentle when he had to be - dressed in a cashmere sweater, his face clean shaven, hints of pine aftershave in the air. Impressions mattered, no matter where you had been in life - something he had taught Santino repeatedly, and something he took to heart.

He had always thought they would have more time - more time to learn, more time to watch, more time to understand.

The much older d’Antonio had a stern yet worried gaze in his eyes, as if he had been merely stating the obvious. He could not blame his son for not knowing what he had done all these years ago, no. That had been his decision, to help a father in need, pleading to protect his daughter from harm’s way the best way a father had seen fit at the time.

He could not blame him either. Had the roles been reversed, father d’Antonio knew he would go through hell on earth to protect his own, the blood of his blood. He would do it over, and over again, until there was no breath left in his body.

“That is correct.”

It was something completely unheard of. In the world where an eye for an eye was the unspoken mantra across all minds, a marker voided before the beneficiary could pay the favor back would be a miracle come true, something that usually did not happen often. Every favor had a payback, and as far as Santino was concerned, nothing came for free. Even from the ones closest to the heart and soul.

“Perché?”

For a man like his father, who had been at the height of his power with the High Table and millions of Camorra men under his fingertips - unclaimed favors had not been something to wallow over, as there would always be yet another path for a man of his resources.

Then, why did this one seem to matter so much that Santino himself had to ensure redemption?

“Non è sangue della Camorra.”

Blood. The old tradition and the old ways that, for some reason, every single aspect of their lives had boiled down into. The unspoken rules, whispered amongst made men, unscripted guidance that every bound soul had to follow, one way or another. There was no denying the superiority of descent to obtain a rightful place in Camorra.

Camorra ran by blood. Whether it was taking blood or giving, the ruling lineage was sacred - it was the very lifeline that held the family together. A predestination that kept them ruling for decades, and many more to follow.

If not for the bloodline, what would Camorra be?

The old law aside, Santino knew one thing - what started in blood, always ended in blood.

Slowly yet surely, his fingers would find the clasp that held the medallion together, the lights of the crystal chandelier above reflecting on the bronze as it opened to reveal the dried, ages old blood stain on only one side. Santino’s gaze did not leave the sight for seconds, as if trying to make himself believe of the responsibility he then would hold, gauging if it had really been happening.

With every thought, he had to remind himself that there was no hurdle he could not jump over, no task he could not overcome as long as he had you by his side, as he twirled the marker in his hand. That was the way it had always been - yet, it was only a matter of time until he could not hide the truth from you any longer.

He was moving slowly through a tunnel of darkness to reach an everlasting fire far, far away - knowing he would get scorched at the end of it.

Yet, he had to keep walking.

The familiar rhythm of heels against marble could be heard even through the thick mahogany double doors sealing them into the suite, power echoing through the vaulted ceilings of the hallways as your presence could be felt. A kind, yet rushed Italian spoken to one of the guards passing through the hallways, voice resonating through the walls in a gentle echo, then proceeding on with your way onwards.

His father must have heard the same thing as well, knowing exactly who had been approaching them. In his haste, very quick for an old man who had been bedridden for some time, his hands grabbed onto Santino’s forearm to instruct him wordlessly to hide the marker in his pocket, his son nimbly slipping the object of interest out of sight, not out of mind just yet.

“Non deve sapere,” he would add in a hushed whisper, knowing their time was limited.

She must not know. She cannot know.

Not yet.

With a newfound understanding, Santino’s eyes found his father’s - almost an identical copy, staring deep into his soul, emanating knowledge, experience, and on the slightest tint of his gaze, adoration. His shoulders under the black tweed ever so slightly slumping given the pressure of the daunting future where he had to redeem the marker - yet he knew he would do it for you.

He would walk through the ends of the earth with you.

“Take it to him, figlio mio. When the time comes.”

All Santino could do at that very moment, was to give a gentle, reassuring squeeze to his father’s hands and nod in his promise, sealing in your fate moments before you stepped into the room.

[abatelunare]

Anni che passano

Sono rimasto impressionato. Nell'ultimo film di Van Damme - Darkness of man - fra gli interpreti figura anche Shannen Doherty. Massì, la gemella di Jason Priestly nella mitologica serie televisiva Beverly Hills 90120. E anche una delle tre sorelle Halliwell nell'altra serie culto Streghe. Be', ho faticato a riconoscerla. Ci sono riuscito dopo averla osservata con un minimo di attenzione. Mi spiace sempre constatare la decadenza fisica ed estetica di un attore che andava per la maggiore tempo fa. Anche Van Damme non è più un giovincello. Ma ha gestito il passare degli anni molto meglio di tanti suoi colleghi. A proposito di Darkness of man, è un film cupo in parecchi sensi. Intanto si svolge quasi tutto di notte. E anche di giorno le tinte sono decisamente fosche. Jean-Claude non è più invincibile e si vede bene. Ma lo sa e lo accetta in pieno. Ultimamente i suoi personaggi hanno un dato comune. Sono tutti creature dolenti, ciniche e disincantate. Rottami che però da qualche parte trovano ancora la forza di reagire. E di ricordare ciò che sono stati un tempo.

[soullessjack]

fave saw trap?

OOHH oh my god okay I have so many.

Obligatory reverse bear trap mention bc who doesn’t love her, she’s mother. she is the beginning with John and Amanda and she is the end with Jill and Mark, she brings the narrative to a full circle despite her mechanical function being the opposite.

THE BATHROOM TRAP!!!!!! Obsessed with it. The shades of blue and white and the fluorescent lights, the grimy browns and greens and reds, all so absolutely beautiful together. Really pulls you into the dampness and coldness and the filth of it. Obligatory chainshipping mention also. Love those guys. Very normal about them.

the angel trap and its’ fatality is so so visually beautiful to me. she mothers extremely hard (god rest Kerry tho). truly one of the artsiest of the traps. I love the warmish shade of green in the room, and in the acid, and of course I love it contrasting with the red shade of the ribcage gore.

glass coffin for obvious reasons.. mark is soooo delicious in it with his hair all messy and his nose bleeding and his tits propped up I mean what hahah who said that . and I absolutely love the cold shade of blue it gives off, very lovely contrast with marks nosebleed also. and the whole coffinshipping thing. like it’s such a trust-based trap ironically. like, “you know what I’ve done you know who I am you know I am guilty and cannot be trusted whatsoever but will you throw away all of that and trust me anyways, is your will to survive strong enough to trust someone who ostensibly does not deserve it.” so delicious

I don’t like Jigsaw but I will admit the hot wax trap looked pretty cool, definitely one of the scariest of the movie. if you’ve ever seen 2005’s House of Wax it gives the same literally suffocating and uncomfortable feeling as Jared Padalecki’s character’s wax coating (and the horrendous peeling of it) bc you’re watching someone in such a helpless horrible position and relegated only to watching it.

the death mask is another super cool visual trap, love the green tint, love the spikes, even Michael’s eye injury looked cool! the snapping kill at the end was definitely cool too.

the nerve gas house 100% fav. I love saw 2 very dearly, both for Daniel and Amanda and for Mudvayne’s Forget To Remember song in the credits. I didn’t enjoy most of the traps in the house, mostly bc I felt like they could’ve been easily avoided or thought out better (but in the victims’ defense they were actively being poisoned) and also bc I wasn’t very attached to anyone outside of Danny and Mandy. Love the atmosphere of the house, the grime and dim fluorescence and yellow-greens (as a graphic designer warm tints like that are very good at giving off a sense of humidity and feverishness, really adds to the nerve gas poisoning and the claustrophobia of the house, too).

the horsepower trap. quick bonus for the green and yellows tints, but also I’m personally very drawn to settings with mechanical clutter. I’m not mechanically inclined in any way but visually I love looking at them and figuring out what they do. based mark for putting nazis in an inescapable trap also! the kills are deliciously brutal. the skin ripping scene, the windshield crash, the face smashing, and my absolute favorite has to be the arm/jaw yanking (specifically the jaw, idk I just think it’s neat. maybe not neat , per se, but one of those extremely gruesome things that you just can’t look away from. no pun intended it’s like a car crash).

the Mausoleum Trap. love the setting, a trap in a fucking mausoleum is metal as fuck. more traps should have spooky settings like that I think (a morgue trap would go so fucking hard also). love the colors, basically I love the entire concept but the execution could’ve bene way better (which can be said about a lot of 3D’s themes, especially the See/Hear/Speak/Do No Evil ones).

[chic-beyond-the-wall-oc-acct]

WIP Music Monday Thursday 🎧

Got Tagged by @rainwingmarvel7 💜

So Evanora has two playlists, I'm still working on the second one but the first one is 3+ hours-- it's her actual vibes, she's a little back and forth, think if Anakin Skywalker was a cluber. That's basically the only way I can think to explain it. I'll give three songs to basically sum it up.

The second one is basically just how she's perceived. I struggle with describing how She's perceived but-- she's been in cryo for 10,000 years, and in that time she became deified, and basically everything about her other than "powerful, wise teacher" has just been looked over. I have done all instrumental for this one as well. The Bene Gesserit have the ability to look through the memories of their maternal line and since they look to Raquella Berto-Anirul's memory the most in terms of Evanora, and Raquella was young when Evanora "died" her memories of her elder cousin are very rose tinted. But she is technically the same age as Paul, I went with more movie age which I believe is 18-19. In the books I'm pretty sure he's 15 but 🤷‍♀️

I think I'll tag @huramuna and @selfproclaimedunicorn 💜

[fridagentileschi]

Ho pensato da subito che questa ventata di tendopoli studentesche che stanno sorgendo all'improvviso qua e la come forma di protesta verso il caro affitti, altro non poteva essere che l'ennesima ventata fuoriuscita da qualche deretano targato PD.

La nuova "scorreggia ideologica" trendy in odore di sinistrismo militante, ho sentito puzza di cialtronata piddina non appena ho visto l'ardore con il quale "Ella" si è precipitata con l'armocromista al fianco della protesta, così da fargli fare magari consulenze rateizzabili sulle tinte dei tendaggi, e quanto poco ci ha messo ad arrivare anche quelli del nuovo sindacato italiano della "PDELLE".

L'ennesima "sardinata" di una pletora di soggetti, che debitamente aizzati e "paghettati" dalla solita sinistra, stanno mettendo su un nuovo circo di saltimbanchi finalizzato a gettare un pò di discredito sulla Meloni come se non facesse parte della stessa massoneria e dello stesso gioco politico atto a far credere che in Italia esista una destra e una sinistra e non due facce della stessa medaglia.

SI, perchè gli affitti degli alloggi a questi 4 pagliacci con la tessera giovanile PIDDÌ in tasca, sono andati bene per quasi 11 anni di fila. Come no.

Poi qualcuno ha deciso di risvegliare le larve nelle culle di sospensione fisiologica delle cantine delle sedi PD stile Matrix, così da gettarle nell'agone della battaglia politica, nell'ambito di quella abitudine tipica della fossa bioideologica comunista che prevede l'utilizzo di ogni possibile espediente pur di distogliere l'attenzione e spegnere un qualsiasi risveglio dei propri diritti.

A costo di creare fantasmi, ed aizzarli ogni giorno nelle piazze, siano esse piene di risorse in ciabatte o di quei teneri virgulti debitamente indottrinati ogni giorno in quel feudo comunista ad esclusivo consumo della sinistra, che risulta essere oggi la scuola italiana di ogni ordine e grado.

Che se poi risultasse vero quello che ho letto stamani sulla leader di questo neo movimento, vale a dire che guida la tendomania a Milano quando vive a Bergamo, non potremo far altro che prendere atto della cialtronaggine che si cela dietro a questa ennesima mossa di "Marketting" da parte dei comunisti del PD.

Cialtroni e Ciabattoni. È stata la sinistra dal 68 ad uccidere questo paese: dalla famiglia alla scuola fino alla società con l'invasione dei peggiori della terra e dei peggiori della nostra terra: i comunisti, sia a destra che a sinistra, perché una opposizione vera in questi paese non c'è.

[elenascrive]

Si lo ammetto sono STRANISSIMA e FIERA DI ESSERLO! La Normalità degli altri non mi è mai piaciuta, non fa per Me! Del resto chi mi conosce bene lo sa, a questo tipo di Normalità, preferisco di gran lunga la FOLLIA, perché essa Ti colora la vita di tinte accese e di sfumature tutte quante da vivere e da scoprire! La Mia stessa Vita non sarà mai normale, sempre in salita, sempre sopra le righe, perché è così che le piace essere, mostrarsi, per non essere mai noiosa o banale! Per cui quando vi confrontate con Me non usate mai paragonarmi ad altri, perché Io sono un caso a parte. Io non sarò mai come la maggior parte delle persone. Io non voglio quello che vogliono gli altri. Io ho i Miei tempi, mi realizzerò in base a questi, anche se ciò significherà impiegarci una vita intera, non importa, purché non vada contro Me Stessa, contro i miei principi, contro la mia stessa follia che mi contraddistingue e mi dà forza!

@elenascrive

[multiverseofseries]

Wednesday: Essere un Addams oggi

Mercoledì, la serie tv firmata da Tim Burton che porta su Netflix i personaggi de La Famiglia Addams, costruendo un racconto Young Adult a tinte dark che diverte e convince.

Strano è chi lo strano fa. Con questa parafrasi della citazione cult di Forrest Gump viene spontaneo riferirsi a Mercoledì la serie fenomeno, del 2022, firmata da Tim Burton che ha portato la Famiglia Addams, su Netflix. Un outsider che racconta un'altra outsider, con la benevola accettazione che il ruolo richiede, con quel compiacimento inevitabile e sacrosanto per quell'anima dark che gli Addams incarnano da sempre.

Una scuola speciale

Mercoledì: una scena della serie Netflix

La chiave di accesso al mondo degli Addams per Tim Burton è Mercoledì, la figlia adolescente, un personaggio che permette al regista e agli autori della serie, Alfred Gough e Miles Millar, di declinare quello specifico mondo dark con un approccio narrativo originale e appetibile per il target primario della piattaforma streaming, virando verso il teen drama a sfondo soprannaturale, con tanto di mistero di fondo e toni da commedia nel condurci tra i corridoi e le aule delle Nevermore Academy, la scuola per studenti speciali in cui la protagonista viene dirottata dopo uno spiacevole incidente nella struttura scolastica che frequentava in precedenza. In questo nuovo ambiente Mercoledì deve imparare a padroneggiare i propri poteri psichici, ma anche far luce su eventi che hanno coinvolto la sua famiglia venticinque anni prima e su una serie di omicidi che sta mettendo in pericolo gli abitanti della cittadina in cui si trova la scuola.

Dentro e fuori il mondo Addams

Mercoledì: una scena della serie Netflix

Alfred Gough e Miles Millar sono noti per essere stati autori di Smallville e a pensarci bene non è tanto diversa l'operazione che hanno compiuto su Mercoledì: attingere a un popolare franchise per guardarlo da una prospettiva diversa. Se nel caso della serie WB (poi CW) avevano scelto di raccontare gli anni da liceale (almeno nelle prime stagioni) di Clark Kent, qui si fa qualcosa di simile nel mostrarci una Mercoledì a contatto con la quotidianità scolastica e con il relativo circondario, costringendola a confrontarsi con un mondo che vive secondo regole che fa fatica ad accettare e, soprattutto, capire. Mercoledì "vede il mondo in bianco e nero", a dirlo è Tim Burton stesso, nel corso della presentazione della serie al Lucca comics di due anni fa, ed è la stessa visione ch eporta avanti lui stesso al punto da renderlo un suo marchio di fabbrica, un impronta riconoscibilissima e caratterizzante. Tim Burton, regista dei primi quattro episodi della serie, fa suo il punto di vista di Mercoledì e ci propone il mondo attraverso i suoi occhi, ma si diverte a guardare anche al quotidiano della ragazza e della sua peculiare famiglia dall'esterno.

Sotto il segno di Edgar Allan Poe… e Tim Burton

Mercoledì: Jenna Ortega, protagonista della serie Netflix

E Tim Burton fa questa operazione divertendosi a giocare con la cultura popolare, soprattutto quella che è più vicina al mondo interiore della protagonista di Mercoledì: ci si muove così sotto il segno di Edgar Allan Poe, si ammicca al Carrie di Brian De Palma, si propongono cover al violoncello di canzoni popolari come Paint it Black o Nothing Else Matters dei Metallica. Gioca, Tim Burton, e quando si gioca si arriva in modo naturale a un traguardo importante: divertire. In questo Mercoledì funziona benissimo, perché ci immerge con gusto e con brio nel mondo in bianco e nero della giovane Addams, sintonizzandoci sulla sua particolare visione della vita, lasciandoci empatizzare con lei nel confronto/scontro con il mondo normale laddove ci si trova a muoversi, ma affascinati da quello fuori dal comune che la Nevermore accoglie, protegge e guida.

L'indagine di Mercoledì

Mercoledì: La protagonista al violoncello nella serie Netflix

Questo gioco e questa rivisitazione del mondo Addams funziona, diverte, intrattiene, ben sostenuto dalle spalle della protagonista Jenna Ortega, figura centrale di un casting ben costruito: la giovane attrice propone una versione originale, credibile e adeguatamente infastidita dal mondo di Mercoledì, ne incarna tristezza e disappunto, prontezza di spirito e brillante fastidio; la guida con sicurezza tra le maglie della storia, anche laddove l'intreccio si rivela un po' troppo esile sul fronte del mistero e dell'indagine che comporta. Non un peccato mortale, perché quello che conta nell'accoglierci e condurci nel triste mondo di Mercoledì è il tono, l'approccio che ci è sembrato quello giusto per rivisitare e raccontare in modo diverso questi personaggi, rendendo l'operazione sensata e riuscita.

In conclusione troviamo un Tim Burton giocoso e coerente con se stesso e che si dimostra capace di rivisitare con la serie Mercoledì il mondo de La famiglia Addams in modo originale e intrigante. Il regista è aiutato da una Jenna Ortega immensa calata perfettamente nel ruolo, efficacissima nel proporre un ritratto originale e coerente della protagonista, rendendosi motore del racconto e perno attorno a cui far ruotare un cast ben costruito.

👍🏻

La protagonista Jenna Ortega, una Mercoledì originale e coerente.

Il tono scelto da Tim Burton, che si diverte anche a giocare con la cultura popolare.

L’approccio scelto per rivisitare il mondo Addams in una chiave diversa.

👎🏻

Nulla.

[kseenefrega]

Diceva bene Montale, ne “Il Girasole” (dalla raccolta Ossi di seppia, 1925) in una poesia che a ragione viene detta “della ricomposizione”:

«Tendono alla chiarità le cose oscure/ si esauriscono i corpi in un fluire/ di tinte: queste in musiche. Svanire/ è dunque la ventura delle venture./ Portami tu la pianta che conduce/ dove sorgono bionde trasparenze/ e vapora la vita quale essenza;/ portami il girasole impazzito di luce.»

~Eugenio Montale~

[thornychairman]

When Lusamine Delacroix arrives in Wyndon, she is escorted by five Aether associates off of her helicopter, and into a private vehicle.

Public appearances from the President of the Aether Foundation are extraordinarily rare, and so it is no surprise that she garners quite a bit of attention as she exits her transportation in front of the tower that Macro Cosmos was incorporated in.

One thing is for certain, people are usually taken off guard by how tall she is in person, much to her subtle amusement. And there she waits to be greeted by either one Oleana, or the Macro Cosmos president himself. She glances around the lobby, staring rather plainly, occasionally nodding and offering brief smiles, but she does not engage with anybody directly.

After such a generous gift had been given to her, Lusamine found it suitable to deliver her own in person.

One does not keep a lady waiting, Rose thought to himself as he made his way to the special office at the top of the tower, where Madame Delacroix would be waiting to meet him. The president of Macro Cosmos was a rather pragmatic man and having a luxurious office wasn't in the best interest of doing work -- a desk, clean surroundings and all the needed comforts one needed to get a job done was suffice.

However, Spencer O. Rose did not get to where he was being a Plain Joe when addressing the populace at large. Special occasions meant one should create equally special circumstances.

The Other Office, as Rose liked to call it, was more like one would expect out of an observatory or a planetarium. The glass was made of special fiber optics, which could turn into a magnificent display as well as allow for a great view of the sky. Since it was business hours, a clear blue Wyndon sky was a little boring, so he'd asked Oleana to prepare the office to give it a night sky aesthetic, the glass tinting itself and creating artificial stars that twinkled.

Lusamine had gone through the trouble to come visit in person, so he would go through the proper song and dance to welcome her.

He stood in front of his desk, watching the holo-projected spinning of the universe around them, their little Milly Way just swirling around enticingly.

Rose sketched her a little bow, the greeting respectful, yet distant. They were not friends, but he would properly acknowledge her. His smile reached his eyes for once, as he made the inquiry surely everyone had bene thinking since the moment she first took step onto Galarian soil,

"To what do I owe this rare visit, Madame President?"

[omarfor-orchestra]

Anon di famosa, allora. La confusione era un'esagerazione, e comunque il film mi è piaciuto. solo che non capisco bene perché abbiano preso quella direzione in particolare. Cioè, perché ad esempio non ci è mai permesso di vederlo ballare? Io mi ero fatto l'idea che lui effettivamente fosse un incapace, quindi vedeva tutto con 'rose tinted glasses', e alla fine del film si sarebbe reso conto di questo. Però no...la fine del film mi sembra un po' troppo scollegata, cruda per nessun motivo. perché l'iconologia da martire? comunque in generale mi sembra un po' che tolga dal film, il fatto di non farcelo vedere felice quando balla. Cioè, se lui ha una vita di merda, almeno ha questa speranza no? E allora se lo vedo che è bravo dico wow, spero che riesca a vincere l'audizione, spero vivrà felice e che quella situasion ship si risolva. (Poi è impossibile non pensare a Billy Eliot) non so, non riesco a fare a meno di pensare a cosa sarebbe potuto essere. non tanto per la ship, proprio per lui come personaggio. Perché non farcelo vedere, come era "strano" da bambino, invece di raccontarlo? Perché si, magari lui non si rende conto, ma io da spettatore non riesco a conoscerlo, mi fermo a questa comprensione superficiale. Cioè ad esempio da subito la ragazza capisci subito che persona è. Ma pure luigi, o la zia. Perché lui deve essere così neutro, quando chiaramente non lo è?

Penso che il punto sia prevalentemente che non è un film sul ballo. L'obiettivo non era far vedere quanto Rocco fosse bravo e quanto a giudizio dello spettatore avesse modo o meno di farcela in quel mondo, quanto la realtà soffocante del paese di provincia così tanto retrogrado e bigotto possa troncarti le ali ancora prima di trovare la tua strada proprio perché ognuno ha un suo ruolo e il tuo è quello dello "strano", senza necessariamente un motivo solido. Secondo me non ci è stata mostrata questa "stranezza" perché non serve avere caratteristiche esagerate quando gli altri decidono a priori che sei diverso e per questo meriti di essere ridicolizzato ed escluso da ogni tipo di vita sociale

[abitudinidellamente]

i miei 17 e 18 anni li ho vissuti su un autobus che partiva alle 17:30 e si dirigeva in una città più grande, ignota. adesso palermo mi sta stretta e mi sembra meno poetica. in quel periodo eravamo in tre... o in quattro? non è importante; c'ero io. ero lì, poco prima di andarmene definitivamente. l'autobus lo raggiungevamo a stento e ci tiravamo dietro le ramanzine del conducente, la vita era frenetica e chiunque fosse intriso dalla mia essenza era perennemente sballottato, in ritardo, rinato. occupavamo i sedili in fondo, quelli del rumore, dell'esaltazione, eravamo trepidi di emozioni, belle e brutte. la scuola andava bene, i compagni componevano uno sfondo piacevole, passavamo le ore buca a cantare e giocare a poker, giovanni cominciava a perdersi in paradisi artificiali come un poeta maledetto e francesco strappava a tutti un sorriso, mi invitava alle feste in cui suonava. io, a loro insaputa, stavo in mezzo, in mezzo all'innocenza e la trasparenza di francesco e in mezzo alla caducità delle droghe come giovanni . i professori mi ritenevano esuberante ma affidabile, svogliata ma acuta. io non stavo molto bene, dentro di me qualcosa stava cambiando per sempre, forse proprio il mio entusiasmo. c'erano delle persone che erano dei porti sicuri e anche se nessuno lo diceva espressamente (nemmeno io), ero il punto di riferimento di tutta quella gente, in gruppo e singolarmente. mi chiedo, però, se mi volessero davvero bene. vittoria sì, vittoria che forse fa sociologia o forse è in francia. in psichiatria mi ha portato il tabacco e mi ha sorriso con sofferenza. alessio, invece, non mi ha mai voluto bene, mi ha sempre e solo voluta. ricordo le tinte rosse, le manic panic fatte contro il parere dei parrucchieri, le serate al cinema, le canne al bastione e gli skateboard sotto braccio. non eravamo ordinari, ma prendevamo la vita in mano. ora mi sembra di non farlo più e non solo palermo è diventata più piccola e austera, non solo io e il mio gruppo ci siamo allontanati, i nostri capelli sono tutti di colori normali e all'università non sono né esuberante né brava, ora tutto sa di languore e decadentismo, di fascismo. qualcosa si spegne irremediabilmente, non vedo che una fiaccola e mi chiedo se è abbastanza per ritornare ad ardere

[errantepagina69]

AMA

un mese dopo, a fine febbraio, l'Italia intera si sarebbe trovata in un film distopico a tinte horror. Quello che abbiamo vissuto è stato terribile, sul piano individuale e collettivo. Il Covid spazzò via tutta la felicità e i complimenti di quell'edizione. Nessuno sapeva bene come agisse e ci toccava assistere al solito ping-pong tra chi era già in allarme e chi sottovalutava il virus. Chi aveva ragione?

Lasciai Sanremo e tornai a Milano, e lì il Covid era già un argomento di conversazione molto serio, ne parlavano tutti. Se invece chiamavo gli amici di Roma, loro mi rassicuravano: «Qui non c'è nulla» mi dicevano. Io cominciavo a non capirci più un granché, perché l'epicentro con il <<paziente zero» fu a Codogno, in provincia di Lodi, quindi vicinissimo a Milano e, onestamente, non sapevo cosa fare. Credo che da quel momento in poi il destino mi sia venuto incontro ancora una volta, sia nella vita reale sia in quella professionale. Poco prima del mio primo Sanremo ero andato a trovare Gigi D'Alessio in una zona di Roma un po' lontana dal centro, un'area residenziale immersa nel verde che si chiama Olgiata. Mi piacque da subito, le villette sono immerse nella natura e si vive nella tranquillità. Lì, Gigi, ha una casa molto bella e mi disse: «Ma perché stai a Roma, in città è nu casin', vieni qua, hai l'occasione... Ora che tuo figlio cresce trova una casettina qui, anche in affitto, poi vedi, se ti piace magari la compri». Per fortuna mi feci convincere. Mi affascinava l'idea di una casetta carina con il giardino: ne trovai una perfetta e progettai di trasferirmi con Giovanna e José subito dopo il Festival. È incredibile quanto quella nuova casa ci abbia salvato dal Covid.

[roxan-world]

Quanto è grande il rischio di perdersi in un mondo che ci vuole perfetti e perfetto non lo è mai?

Troppo grassi, troppo magri, troppo alti, troppo bassi, con troppo cuore o troppo dolore...

...siamo sempre troppo o troppo poco...ma per chi?

Conosco bene il senso d’inadeguatezza: quella tagliente sensazione sottopelle di non essere mai abbastanza, mai giusta, sempre fuori posto e perennemente oltre il tempo.

Sempre davanti a quello specchio che riflette la tua immagine imprigionata nei “se fossi” e tutte quelle paure che affronti ogni giorno per camminare in una realtà di effimera perfezione in cui fluttuano anime insoddisfatte in cerca di assoluzione dai peccati e da se stessi.

Ormai viviamo in un’opprimente e perenne atmosfera di tolleranza che mai promuove a pieni voti e che ci tiene sadicamente sospesi in un letale limbo d’insicurezze.

Non ci amiamo mai abbastanza, non ci abbracciamo mai per rassicurarci e senza rendercene conto diventiamo i peggiori critici di noi stessi.

Nell’epoca dei social nati per annullare le distanze abbiamo scavato dei veri e inesplorati abissi tra noi e il nostro amor proprio in cui anneghiamo ad ogni foto postata, ad ogni like regalato per rubare un po’ d’attenzione, ad ogni filtro che scegliamo per raccontare realtà che gli altri vogliono parassitare...

Ma se un giorno decidi di “vivere contro”, senza maschere e con l’anima nuda vieni brutalmente scaraventato nel girone della stranezza, dell’incomprensibile, della ricercata ed elitaria solitudine di chi non vive le greggi del sabato sera e attende il silenzio dell’alba dei Lunedì mattina.

E ti ritrovi smarrita ad un bivio a scegliere se essere perfetta agli occhi del mondo o perfetta agli occhi di chi vedi riflessa ogni mattina in quello specchio che non perdona ne’ anima ne’ corpo.

Io ho scelto i miei occhi: loro sanno chi sono, loro conoscono l’irrivelabile ed hanno smesso di inchiodarmi alla mia imperfezione ormai da tempo.

Ho imparato ad amare le mie cicatrici, quelle che nessuno ha mai visto, ma che hanno così tanto da raccontare.

Ho imparato, lacrima dopo lacrima, ad amare il mio corpo.

Ho perdonato il mio carattere: sempre troppo strano e troppo sognante, troppo introverso o troppo aperto...sempre troppo e mai abbastanza. Ora è da migliorare, ma lo riconosco autentico e a suo modo perfetto così com’è... e non importa se non sarà mai apprezzato da tutti...non è per tutti che siamo nati.

Ho iniziato a sorridere quando ho deciso di piacere a me stessa, quando ho protetto la bambina che sono stata e quando ho delineato i tratti della donna che sono e che voglio essere.

Il sogno di noi stessi...comprenderlo e non lasciarlo morire.

Perché questo siamo: sogni da realizzare, abbracciando i sorrisi delle anime che hanno le nostre stesse paure e che le annientano con il sacrificio e con l’orgoglio di quella vulnerabilità che ci rende meravigliosamente imperfetti ed unici.

Non siamo tinte unite e banali destinate ad essere imprigionate in una confezione anonima in attesa di essere usati...

...Noi siamo colore puro, siamo sfumature e tratti nitidi sulle tele delle nostre vite: pittori e creatori della nostra opera più bella, quella del successo o della sconfitta, bramosi di libertà ed avidi d’ispirazione.

Siamo perle di sensazioni disinibite e selvagge...spiriti puri dai volti che non temono d’arrossire nella dolcezza di un complimento che ci sfiora o di una critica che distrugge per creare nuove vite.

Noi siamo opere d’arte incorniciate dal destino e dipinte dai sogni: possono ammirarci o criticarci, ma mai ignorarci.

In questi istanti di sfacciata verità mi affido umilmente ad un pensiero di Van Gogh: “Sogno di dipingere e poi dipingo il mio sogno”...

...perché noi, siamo questo...noi siamo sogni da dipingere.

#natascjadiberardino