#but LO is certainly Exhibit A

[clown-cult]

Being a Greek myth lover nowadays is way harder than one would think, y’all…

[doomandgloomfromthetomb]

Jeff Parker - Institute of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles, California, October 20, 2020 / With Love From LA: Jeff Parker + Jamire Williams

Hard to believe, but I already turned in a "Best Albums of 2024" list to a publication a few weeks back. Forget it, the year's over! Except! There was an album announced last week that would certainly have made my roundup if I'd known about it. Jeff Parker's extraordinary ETA IVtet will release The Way Out of Easy on Nov. 22. The IVtet features saxophonist Josh Johnson (SML, Meshell Ndegeocello, Leon Bridges), bassist Anna Butterss (SML, Jason Isbell, Phoebe Bridgers), and drummer Jay Bellerose (Robert Plant, Allen Toussaint, Joe Henry) — and their first release a few years back was an absolute beauty of interlocking improvisational grooves. I've heard the new one via a promo and it does not disappoint in the least. Best of 2024!

As I'm sure I've noted in the past, Parker is on a tear lately, whether as a leader or a sideman. He's a veteran musician of course, but the guitarist continues to grow and expand his sound, finding an utterly unique voice, still curious, still adventurous. For proof, check out two pandemic era performances — one with solo improvs inspired by an exhibition from the visual artist Harold Mendez and the other with guitar/drums duets with Jamire Williams in the open air. The latter features a gorgeous rendering of Sony Sharrock's "Who Does She Hope To Be." You can hear Parker duetting on that song with another great musician, pedal steel genius Dave Easley on the recent Ballads — an album I just so happened to have penned the liner notes for.

[phrynefishersfrocks]

The eighth and final costume of "Unnatural Habits" (Season 2, Episode 12) is the triumphant return of Phryne's remarkable rooster kimono.

While it's impossible to tell which of her pajama sets Miss Fisher is wearing underneath, her rooster kimono serves as an elegant yet minimal outfit for her vulnerable talk with Jack late at night. The dressing gown itself is made of a black satin that serves as a backdrop to the intricate embroidery that adorn the shoulders and cover the back. A wide variety of threads paint a picture of a flowering tree branch going up from the hem of the kimono and reaching up to her shoulders, while two roosters battle it out in the air.

Essie Davis mentions the dressing gown specifically as her favorite item of clothing in both a video interview with Acorn TV as well as a written interview with NPR:

"I do have a favorite," she acknowledges. "Because I love the simplicity and the extraordinary detail of this beautiful black satin dressing gown that is in chinois embroidery, and on the back of it, are these two embroidered fighting cocks. And I think it is the most perfectly tongue-in-cheek piece of costume, and I love putting it on, 'cause I love the idea that there are fighting cocks." And then she cackles.

This is another item from costume designer Marion Boyce’s personal collection, and according to the Costume Exhibition Catalogue was “one of the last pieces that came out of China before they closed their trading borders in the 1920s”.

“I bought this years and years ago from a retro store, Gollyester in Los Angeles when I was doing Crocodile Dundee 3… it was the most beautiful thing I had seen. I’ve got a passion for Chinoiserie.” - Marion Boyce in the Series One Costume Exhibition Catalogue.

One of several robes designed for nightwear, this is certainly one of her most memorable ones, appearing in the very first episode, 1x01, and then showing up in 1x04, 1x06, 1x10, 2x08, before being bookended at the end of season two here.

Season 2, Episode 12 - "Unnatural Habits"

Screencaps from here, promotional photos from various sources (x, x, x, x), costume exhibition photos from Dayna's Blog and Bobbin & Baste.

[eyesaremosaics]

When Dora Maar died on 16 July 1997 at the age of 89, few people seemed to notice. It took the French newspaper Le Monde – in her home country – 10 days to publish anything. And when journalists did cotton on, they didn’t seem to think Maar was the story. The New York Times called her “a muse of Picasso” and the “principal model for many of his so-called weeping women portraits in the late 30s and early 40s”. The Independent, while admitting that Maar had been an artist in her own right, suggested that she would nonetheless be “remembered as the most poignant of Pablo Picasso’s mistresses”.

Forget that she’d also been a major surrealist photographer, one of the few women in that circle, and that she was still painting into her 80s. For critics, she was Picasso’s Weeping Woman – the eternally spurned mistress and muse. Maar herself bitterly resented being regarded as a sort of art-world Miss Havisham, the subject of someone else’s picture. “All [Picasso’s] portraits of me are lies,” she once said. “Not one is Dora Maar.”

Not before time, the Weeping Woman is having the last laugh. After a spell at the Pompidou in Paris, a major retrospective is heading to London’s Tate Modern then Los Angeles. The largest exhibition of its kind yet staged, it features nearly 300 objects: photographs, photomontages, advertising mock-ups, self-portraits, watercolours, oil landscapes and still lives. Few of these objects have been exhibited before, and certainly not on this scale. The sense is of a curtain being pulled back. Forget those Picasso portraits: here is how Dora Maar actually wanted to be seen.

Born Henriette Théodora Markovitch in Paris in 1907, to a French mother who owned a fashion boutique and a father who was a Croatian architect, her upbringing was multicultural. The family relocated to Buenos Aires when she was three, and she spent her childhood shuttling between Europe and South America, taking her first photographs on the sea journeys between. She trained as a painter in Paris, but found herself drawn to photography in the 1920s, becoming friendly with Henri Cartier-Bresson and Brassaï.

“She was very ambitious,” says her biographer, Victoria Combalia. “She wasn’t sure which direction she was going in, but she had such energy.”

In 1936 she met Picasso, and seems to have decided that the painter, nearly 30 years older, was her next project. The story of the encounter that turned them into lovers has been much mythologised. Legend has it that Maar sat in the famous literary watering hole, the Cafe les Deux Magots, playing a game where she stabbed a knife between her fingers to excite Picasso’s attention.

Whatever the truth, Combalia suggests that the striking thing is the way it suggests that she, not he, was in charge. “She wanted to seduce him, I’m sure. The whole scene with the knife is like a sadistic joke, almost a performance.”

Yet the balance soon tipped the other way. Picasso was also having a long-running affair with Marie-Thérèse Walter, which he refused to break off. He seems to have taken a perverse thrill in making Walter and Maar compete for his affections, describing a story where they came to blows in his studio as “one of my choicest memories”. Having initially painted Maar as a nymph or a bird, his portraits begin to show her in tears, notably the excruciating Weeping Woman (1937), now in Tate’s permanent collection, in which she seems to dissolve before our eyes.

Maar’s own artistic response is similarly hard to look at, though in quite different ways. A painting of hers from the same year, The Conversation, shows her and Walter sitting next to each other, almost in mirror image. Walter looks out, passive and inscrutable; Maar has her back to us, face hidden.

Yet while the relationship was emotionally punishing, it was productive. 1937 was also the year that Picasso painted Guernica, and Maar – as well as teaching him darkroom techniques – agreed to photograph the process of its creation. Indeed, it seems likely that his decision to depict that particular atrocity came from Maar, who was far more politically engaged. Not only does its style – severe black-and-white, almost photographic in its pitiless detail – borrow from her work, she actually painted a small section of it.

“He trusted her,” says Tate Modern director Frances Morris, who interviewed Maar when the latter was in her 80s. “As much as being a sexual or emotional relationship, it was a collaborative one.”

When their relationship finally fell apart in 1945, Maar was devastated and suffered a brief breakdown, intensified by the death of her mother. The guilt-stricken Picasso helped her buy a house in Provence, where she spent an increasing amount of her time. Catholicism began to occupy her life; rumours circulated – fanned by her former partner – that she’d gone mad, or become a recluse.

The truth is different, Combalia says: Maar kept making art, producing textile designs and devoted more time to painting. She also travelled, and continued to exhibit through the 50s and 60s. It’s also not true that she abandoned photography, as some claim. Though she made fewer photographs after the break with Picasso, she continued to experiment, crafting a late series of photograms (photographic prints made without a camera) in the 80s, as if reconnecting with her younger artistic self.

Maar never regained the profile she had experienced in her 20s, yet it’s wrong to say she disappeared. It was a slow withdrawal, and came about largely because Maar wanted to focus on her art. “In letters she writes, ‘Well, I don’t want to be social, I want to do my own thing. I have to paint,’” says Combalia

Morris, who visited Maar at her apartment in Paris in 1990, agrees. “It was an artist’s home. Every surface, every wall, spoke of that. There were easels and lots of canvases in her studio, covered in polythene. She was still working.”

What was Maar like to meet? Morris laughs: “When she answered the door, I thought at first it was the maid, this little old woman.” But she was soon struck by Maar’s forcefulness. “She was terrifically strong, you could see that. I think that’s what it was, in a way: making art was more important to her than how she was perceived.”

“She was very curious about the world,” Combalia adds. “She was always asking me what I was doing in Paris, what the name of my boyfriend at the time was. She loved gossip.”

Despite Maar’s talents being overlooked during her lifetime, Combalia believes we should be grateful that we can see so much work, and that so much of it is so good. “She really deserves to be known. We owe her that justice.”

[choccy-zefirka]

Okay fellas, the Githyanki Dragon-Blooded Sorcerer poll has closed, with the Illegal Egg backstory in the lead, followed by Por Que No Los Dos, so I have made a Legal + Illegal Egg combo!

Behold! Isk'Irthos (Secret Star in Draconic! That's important!)

Isk is the result of the forbidden love between a kith'rak and their dragon, who'd often take a smaller, Dragonborn-esque form to adventure with them. Isk's kith'rak parent obviously could not bear her egg, as this union had not been sanctioned by Vlaakith, so her dragon mother, Malsvir, laid the egg on the Material Plane instead, hiding away and awaiting the promised moment when her partner would rejoin them.

Their plans never came to be, though, as the kith'rak was executed by the Inquisition for possessing forbidden literature on Prince Orpheus. So as days of waiting turned into months, and months into years, and the skies still showed no sign of her beloved, Malsvir had no choice but to raise the child on her own.

In their secluded home, in a clearing surrounded by a thicket of brambles that a dragon would easily fly over but few wingless two-legged would trudge through unscathed, Malsvir trained little Isk in sorcery and told her stories of her past glorious battles with the kith'rak. Isk grew restless, however, leaving Malsvir at a loss: she had little frame of reference for raising children, save for the Githyanki youths she'd observed in creches. The one thing she did know was that, even with their strict upbringing, the hatchlings were always surrounded by their peers in the creche dormitories. She obviously would never allow Isk to venture out and make friends her age, so according to her dragon logic, the next best thing would be to fly to the next village over and abduct some kids for her daughter to play with.

That obviously did not end well. The horrified and distraught parents hired a band of adventurers to slay the dragon and rescue their children. The quest... appeared to be successful (Malsvir did survive, but at the moment, she was gravely wounded, and everyone assumed she was dead, not taking the time to check because there was a crowd of traumatized kids to deal with). A grief-stricken Isk lashed out at the adventurers, but the fear in the children's eyes stopped her from eviscerating them with her ever-growing sorcerer powers.

She fled into the wilderness and made do for a while, a feral thing always covered in burrs and brambles, until she was captured by a hunter, who, never having seen any creature like her, brought her to a wandering freak show. The show's legal status was as dubious as its quality, and most of the other "exhibits" were hapless Tieflings in heavy makeup masquerading as succubi, and dead animals bizarrely stitched together into vague imitations of beholders and chimeras.

Isk, though, was the real deal, and the ring master was delighted to parade her around... When she was not kicking and biting and trying to toss fire balls at him. The safest bet, he found, was to cast a simple sleep spell on her and prop her up in a chair or on a couch on the stage for people to come and gawk at.

It was from one of those spells that she awoke one day, face to face with the prettiest human boy she had ever seen. He said his name was Wyll; his father was in the Flaming Fist, and he had discovered the underground freak show (all by himself!) and tipped the Fist off, which resulted in the operation getting shut down and the ring master being arrested.

The hideous stuffed animals were disassembled, and the staff were finally free to go back home... Except Isk, who had no home. Wyll generously offered her to stay with him, and they spent a few blissful moments — like a happy dream — exploring the city together. But that did not last.

Wyll's father was an important man, rubbing shoulders with nobility, and the cream of the crop of Baldur's Gate certainly did not treat Isk like the princess Wyll insisted on seeing in her. Vile whispers abounded, exacerbating Isk's teenage angst (already bad enough, after the trauma of losing her mother and being forced into a freak show). She started to grow distant from Wyll, terrified that he'd reject her budding crush on him, and in the vacuum that formed in his absence, ominous figures were quick to step in. The cult of Tiamat recognized her as the child of a dragon, and offered what Isk, at the time, young and confused, mistook for succor and meaning.

Eventually, she stopped seeing Wyll entirely, quietly disappearing from his home; the cult groomed her to take part in some manner of grand ritual, and in just a couple of years, she was more than ready to welcome Tiamat herself, the one entity they said would understand her pain.

Then, along came Tiamat's rival Zariel, and Mizora, and the confrontation with Wyll. They briefly locked eyes as he was laying waste to the cult with his newfound powers, and it was at that moment that Isk realized what she had almost done. Once again, she stepped away from the carnage, hidden under an invisibility spell, and witnessed Wyll's father banish him. She wanted to chase after him, to explain that Wyll was telling the truth, that there really had been a cult in the city... But she was intercepted by Githyanki warriors.

By then, through the followers of her ally Tiamat, Vlaakith had learned of a curious child, half-Githyanki, half-dragon; and there was nothing she coveted more than the child's sorcery-imbued soul. She sent her scouts after her; and while Malsvir had told her daughter some stories of the Prince of the Comet, all of Isk's subsequent torment had turned them into hazy half-memories, and she was easy to persuade that with Vlaakith, at last, she'd find the truth and purpose and sense of belonging she'd failed to reach with Tiamat.

Once again, she turned away from Wyll — perhaps for the best; her heart ached too much when she thought of him — and was taken to a creche on a different planet, where she was rigorously reshaped into an obedient tool for Vlaakith. Her coming of age was somewhat delayed compared to other youths, as she was a late arrival, but after ten years of Githyanki discipline, she was deemed worthy of her rite of passage and eventual ascension... Until along came a very peculiar ghaik vessel.

[in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather]

[wedding at the museum] i

Intro

Summary: Mills is tasked with carrying out an Exhibition – a hit – on the Museum’s behalf before his day is complicated by the arrival of a new prospective recruit. In the midst of blood, gore, corpses, and plane crashes, his attention is firmly set on the young woman giving him the cold shoulder.

A/N: I didn’t want to shoehorn in references to the time period, but the story begins in the early 90s and stretches for about a decade, from the time RC is recruited into the Museum to the time of ruined wedding. Just because that’s my favorite era for camp, technology and action.

CW: murder, death, gallows humor, alcohol, injury, manipulation, general flippancy and shithead behavior, a grown man going positively gaga – all my favorite things :)

WC: ~5k

*

Leaning on his elbow, Mill’s long body rested against the bar as he swirled the remains of his cognac in a glass. The airport was a roiling mass of excited vacationers, grinning as they pulled along their luggage, zipping past stern faced men and women in suits catching short flights and striding towards their gates with determined focus and no excess of cheer. The change in Mills’  plans for the day gave him an opportunity to relax and people watch just for the pleasure of it, something he seldom got to do these days.

Peering over the rim of his sunglasses, he waited for his secondary target to appear. She was placed as equally important on his roster for the day, but he personally prioritized the hits on the men currently milling around the airport, set to converge on his flight, over the babysitting gig he was saddled with.

Since Provenance took such exceedingly great care in selecting both targets and prospective operatives, Mills didn’t see why they shouldn’t take care of their travel arrangements as well, and not dump them on him in the middle of an Exhibition, as if he was some taxi service. Granted, it was the first time he was ever asked to diverge so drastically from the carefully planned Exhibition, but wary as he was, his immediate concern was for occurrences like these to become a trend. Vaguely, he wondered if he should be proud that the Board of Directors at the Museum decided he was capable enough to wrangle in a prospective operative and carry out his Exhibition at the same time.

He recognized her easily from the photos provided. She had a conspicuous irreverence about her that would have caught his eye even without having to look out for her. Blowing a pink bubble with her chewing gum, she stopped to take a look at the large clock hanging from the ceiling. Dressed in sturdy boots and plain jeans, torn at the knees in a way that didn’t make it altogether clear if that was a fashion choice or just a tattered piece of clothing, and an oversized flannel, she hoisted her backpack higher and continued on her way. He didn’t need to have read the short file on her to know that all her worldly possessions were in that small backpack, or at least the ones she considered of import. Mills had sported a not dissimilar look and bag one day, in another life, as he too was walking into the unknown. He had an odd, queasy feeling watching the girl, knowing she was more than likely to step off a precipice before the day was done, the same one that he was currently on the bottom of.

For a brief moment, he considered what type of female operative archetype she was supposed to fit into at the Museum. The bombshell? He couldn’t see enough of her figure to say so, but her attitude was evident and it certainly did not exude coy sex kitten. More likely to serve a purpose as a dominatrix for the discerning arms dealer/pervert than anything else. Perhaps her talents were of the less obvious sort, and she was brought in to train up and become part of Restorations – god knows good medics were always needed at the Museum - or even Provenance, if her mind and instincts about people were keen enough.

Mills pushed off the counter and walked in her direction with long, confident strides. He kept at a safe distance, strategically staying outside her eyeline, ducking behind pillars and corners as needed, riding the escalator she was not on, and looking for an opening.

*

One hand shoved in his jeans pocket, the other holding his brown leather jacket hanging off his finger, tossed rakishly over his back, he stood in her path and waited. In her distracted haste, boots thudding a steady, but swift rhythm, she walked bodily into him and let out a humph, as if she’d just hit a wall. She lost her balance for a moment and he let his jacket fall, catching her by the arm to steady her.

She looked up, confused as to why the wall that had materialized out of nowhere seemed to be reaching out for her. Her eyes traveled up from his chest, slowly climbing up to his eyes, where she just saw her own face reflected back in his sunglasses, eyes wide and lips parted.

He flashed his million dollar grin and took off the glasses, hooking them into the collar of his white T-shirt. “Sorry about that,” he said without much compunction. “I was looking at the floor as I was walking,” he shook his head and felt some loose waves fall over his face, in that way that made romantic young women want to brush them away for him. “I hate when people do that, and here I am – doing it,” he concluded and smoothed his hair back into place.

“Uh, it’s okay,” she extricated herself from his grip without being rude about it. “I do it all the time.” Yes, I know, he thought as he let one corner of his mouth smile again.

“Ladies first,” he said with a light touch of flirty sarcasm and stepped aside for her. He was rewarded with a knowing eyeroll from the girl and a huff of laughter.

“Thanks,” she tossed over her shoulder and, to his slight surprise, did not look back over that same shoulder to give him the usual once over. Mills wondered if he should be offended by that. He had constructed the casual look for her – simple enough not to look like he was trying too hard, while at the same time including small pieces of flair, like the weathered leather jacket and the sunglasses that should appeal to the rebellious young girl he deemed her to be. And nothing. She was walking away as though he had not just tossed not one, but two of the most dazzling smiles in his arsenal at her, touched her, and made a flirty little joke. He picked up the jacket he had tossed on the ground for her, as if to let her cross a puddle untainted, and hurried in the direction she walked off in.

*

She was already in her seat by the time Mills entered the cabin. The final pre-flight arrangements for his Exhibition were made and he paused in the aisle long enough for her to look up at the long shadow he was casting. Her eyes smiled at him in recognition and he reached up for the overhead, peacocking his full height and letting his shirt ride up just enough to flash a stripe of creamy skin as he looked down and grinned. “Small world,” he raised a brow and shifted his weight to one leg, trying to coax her eyes to his body with the flex of his defined muscles when she didn’t take the bait immediately.

“Yeah,” she nodded and adjusted in her seat, reaching out for a dog-eared book in her backpack, leaving him to smooth his clothes back down in growing frustration.

How did women do this? All they needed to do was flutter their lashes and they had men wrapped around their fingers. When he’d seen the directive to keep the girl engaged and predisposed to stick around with him, he read between the lines. Dip into his Museum-approved bag of tricks, give her some of the ol’ razzle-dazzle and have her eating out the palm of his hand. Yet, for all his preening, she was more fascinated by some second or third hand copy of Henry V than his overtures.

When the obvious ploy failed, he stewed in his seat, directly to her right and kept looking out of the corner of his eye at her, checking if she was doing the same. Having assured himself she was not, he gnashed his teeth, deciding to veer off course and try a different approach.

“I don’t mean to bother you,” he cleared his throat subtly and leaned over the aisle, trying not to catch anyone else’s attention. There were only half a dozen other people on the flight, all dotted around the cabin out of earshot, but he still needed to be careful and not provoke their suspicions too early. “I’m a very nervous flier and I’ve been sweating bullets all day,” he chuckled nervously and saw her guarded expression soften. Bingo.

“I’m sure you’re engrossed in your book, and the last thing you wanna do is be a distraction for some stranger…”

“It’s alright,” her forced kindness was convincing enough and that was as much of a foothold he needed to really start working on her. Mills found he was charmed when she stuck the receipt she was using as a bookmarker into the paperback before stuffing the book back inside her backpack.

*

Their conversation started in hushed whispers as they leaned over the armrests of their seats, until Mills pretended to organically and innocently have the idea of sitting next to her – if she didn’t mind, of course – and talking more freely. He played the nervous wreck for a few minutes and made himself cozy in her patient reassurance before relaxing with the help of a few drinks. Mills downed one instantly as he encouraged her to do the same in solidarity, and two more were drunk in quick succession. He had decided eliciting sympathy and getting her boozed up would be the winning combination to keep her pliant, and it seemed to be working.

Mills turned on the charm full force; did all the cheesy things you’re supposed to do to get young girls to spawn butterflies in their bellies. He declared himself somewhat of a chiromancer, reading her palm so he could touch her freely. The hand is full of sensitive parts. The tips of the fingers are five quivering clitorises if you know what you’re doing. And they don’t call that succulent, fleshy part at the base of the thumb the Mount of Venus for nothing. You can see a woman shudder, nipples peaking and pupils blowing wide like a detonation went off inside of them when you run your coarse fingers over it, or knead it with carnal intent.

She chuckled as the combined effects of alcohol and altitude took effect, and he explained that the mount signified sensuality, beauty, enjoyment of melody and art, or their absence. He flexed his hand in the air, still holding hers with the other one, to show how his was thick and overdeveloped, potentially indicating an overindulgence in those things, a weakness for sin, women, wine – where hers was perfectly balanced. That part wasn’t even bullshit, if you take palmistry to be at all reputable. And they had him down pat where sensuality was concerned.

To illustrate those flaws she laughed off, he offered an embellished version of the story of him riding a hog down the Amalfi Coast with nothing but a backpack and a passport that was about to expire. Of course, he left out the part about only being there in the first place to take out a drug trafficker who used, of all things, live pigs to smuggle drugs all over Europe and fund all sorts of criminal activity with his earnings.

He was about to lie and say that nothing happened with the local girl he had given a ride to on his last night there – and he had the distinct feeling she would not believe him - when the whole cabin lurched, sending people pitching forward and several overhead bins yawning open. Her backpack, that he had obligingly stored above her seat so he could sidle in next to her, came hurtling down. She tried uselessly to shield herself from the impact as Mills snatched it out of the air, arms bolting out lightning fast to catch it. Her eyes were lazy with booze and her jaw was slack as she watched him spring into action, so at odds with the unimposing, nervous figure he cut until moments ago. Her drink was spilled down her shirt and she didn’t seem to notice until he put the bag down and took the empty glass from her hands.

“Oh, shit,” she shuddered as she registered the cold lick of spilled drink down her chest and inspected herself.

“I’ll let you go clean up,” Mills offered and maneuvered his long body out of the way, all but pushing her towards the toilet. He had work to do now and she needed to be out of the way for it.

*

Mills took out one man with a syringe full of pentobarbital. The man gasped sharply and clutched at the side of his neck as the poison immediately took effect. A rapid succession of comatose state, respiratory depression, bradycardia and death would ensue as he thrashed uselessly and stared with horror-filled eyes at his surroundings. Another one’s head snapped back to see what caused the odd sound and snapped forward again as Mills pressed the silencer of his gun to his forehead and let off a silent shot. Two more sprung out of their seats and he was grateful they didn’t do the annoying macho thing of screaming as they charged him. The less noise they made now, the less containing he would need to do with the girl.

The airplane dropped down suddenly, sending his guts floating to his throat. The pilot and copilot were conked out by now and Mills didn’t need his piloting license to tell him they were rapidly losing altitude.

The man closest to him wound up an amateurish punch and Mills easily ducked it, grabbing him by the back of the neck and smashing his face into the overhead compartments. Bone and tissue left a pulpy mess on the unyielding compartments and the man groaned painfully through what was left of his face as he slumped to the ground. Mills stepped over him and moved towards his next opponent. He was short and stocky and Mills jerked back to avoid the rather limited reach of his arms, but another pair wrapped themselves around his neck, trapping him in a merciless chokehold before he could blink. The shorter man wasted no time in landing a few gut shots on Mills as he desperately clawed at the arm crushing his windpipe, fighting for the smallest bit of purchase.

The cabin shook again and the four men were caught in a chaotic mêlée, getting tossed up and down, and side to side as they fought for their lives. The one holding Mills tripped over the writhing man with the smashed face and his grip loosened. With a brutal snap back, Mills felt his skull collide with his nose and shatter it. Blinded with pain and tears that accompany this kind of injury, the man let go of him altogether. With a gurgling breath, Mills straightened and both he and the shorter man reached for their guns. Mills was a fraction of a second faster, firing off a bullet at the center of his forehead. The shuddering cabin threw off his aim and the bullet shot right through the man’s throat and exited out the back in a bloody spray. Mills fired two more bullets in quick succession, putting two more holes into his neck and chest.

Mills whipped around, feeling the hurried steps of the one who was choking him moments ago rear up on him, and he stumbled back just in time to miss the man’s blade burying itself in his chest. Instead, it pierced his side, right under the ribs and he felt each of the teeth on its serrated edge tear through him on the way in and out. He bit down on a growl and felt like his teeth would shatter from the force of it. Like a linebacker, he lunged at his attacker and caught him around the middle, slamming him bodily against the toilet door. Twisting his wrist until he groaned and dropped the knife, Mills grabbed the short hair on top of his head, crusty with gel, and slammed it against the door several times until he saw the man’s eyes begin to cross and uncross.

“Occupied, dude. Can you read?” Mills heard the deadpan voice of his girl inside and smiled broadly.

“Yeah, can you read?” he snarled lowly at the man, exposing his teeth, and gave the guy’s head one last decisive slam right under the Occupied sign to punctuate his question before letting him slide limply down.

The last two came back from their inspection of the cockpit to find four dead or dying scumbags littering the cabin. Mills sucked in a deep breath and smoothed his hair back into place, facing the last two targets as they reached for their guns in a panic.

*

When she came out of the bathroom, nothing much seemed to be out of place. The cabin still shook, but to the uninitiated, it could have appeared as regular turbulence.

Mills was leaning against the seat with two drinks in his hands, offering her one glass as she approached. She narrowed her eyes at him curiously and groaned as the cabin tilted and sent her hip first into the corner of an armrest.

“You seem…much more calm. Now that the flight is actually getting hairy,” she looked around nervously. Whether she could subconsciously tell there was something eerie and off about the flight, or if it was just the increasingly rough ride they were having, he could not be sure.

“Well, the magic potion helped,” he swirled the cheap vodka and the ice in the glass clinked. “You should take a seat,” Mills announced calmly.

She took the glass obediently and sat, eyes bright and curious on him. No doubt expecting another dumb, entertaining anecdote, or some of that coy, but undisguised flirting.

“I need to tell you something,” he started slowly, almost apologetically. It was not his job to break it to the prospective operatives what exactly they’d gotten themselves involved in. The Curators were in charge of that and they had all sorts of soft language and persuasion and tailor-made platitudes designed to charm the morals off of anyone they set their sights on. He was never trained for that. Now he had to tell this kid that they’re on a plane full of corpses that’s about to crash-land, and then she would be shipped off to a guild of assassins for processing like a piece of meat in an abattoir. Good luck, Mills, you’re gonna need it, he thought, lips pressed into a line as she looked up at him with rather heartbreaking innocence.

Out of some apparent reverence for the moment, even the plane grew quiet, leveling out for the time being and quieting the racket of the last few minutes. The door of the cockpit yawned gradually open and the movement caught her eye. It swung shut just as quickly, preventing her from getting a good look at the two men slumped over in their seats.

“Are we landing?” she frowned, bringing the glass to her lips.

“No, erm, not yet,” he whispered slowly, starting to really feel the wound in his gut. “The situation I’m about to relay to you is mostly contained, so there’s no need to worry.”

She arched a brow at him and sipped. “Contained? What situation?” her words were slightly slurred.

“We lost the pilots.”

“Lost ‘em? Where’d they go?”

“No, I mean, they’re dead. So are the rest of the passengers. I killed them,” he added for extra clarity, finding her eyes void of understanding.

“It’s all in a day’s work for people like me. Maybe you too one day.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Killing people?”

“Yup,” he popped the P into his glass and sucked his teeth as the drink burnt pleasantly down his throat.

She nodded a few times, keeping her face neutral. Then her chin quivered and her eyes crinkled, and out came the laughter. He smiled back, out of basic human instinct, hoping she would get the shock and denial out of her system quickly. The first wave of laughter subsided when he didn’t join in and reassure her that he was just making a bizarre joke. Her expression faltered, eyes seeking, inviting him to give it up and just admit he was trying to trick her. When he didn’t, holding her gaze with an awkward sort of apology on his face, she laughed harder, doubling over and grabbing his thigh for support. It was drunken, gleeful sort of laugh and part of him wanted her to be right. Wanted them to really be just two people who hit it off on a weird flight to nowhere, had too many drinks and made some fun mistakes in a dingy hotel room somewhere. The jostling sent a fresh sting of pain to his wound and he winced, returning to the moment and to reality.

She straightened up, oblivious, and covered her mouth with her hand, mindful not to disturb the people Mills had propped back up into their seats, still not realizing they were dead or dying. Wheezing now, her eyes started to fill up with tears and the laughter lost all sound. It was just a spasm in her gut and a rictus on her face as she struggled to catch her breath.

“I’m thrilled you’re taking all of this in stride,” Mills said and pushed himself up to his feet with a groan. “Makes my job a lot easier.”

“Where are you going?” she managed to ask when he was halfway to the cockpit.

“I’m just gonna land the plane right quick.”

“Sure, you do that,” she nodded, dissolving into more drunken giggles. The chiming noises of her girlish laugh echoed behind him and Mills grinned all the way to the door.

“Would you mind putting your seatbelt on for me? It might get bumpy for a few seconds.”

As a lark, she did, saluting his back as she settled into her seat. She was still sipping what remained of her drink and stifling residual giggles when she felt the plane tilt to one side. Seeking purchase with her feet, she finally dropped the glass into the empty seat next to her as she pushed off the cabin wall, struggling to stay in her seat.

The six men that sat in the seats around her all gradually tipped and eventually rolled out of their seats. At first, they looked asleep or knocked out. Except that on closer inspection, some of them were bloody. One had something sticking out of his chest. Another was doing the full Exorcist with his broken neck turning his face, hideous in death and agony, 180 degrees.

Warning signs flashed and masks dropped down, and it startled her out of her stunned reverie.

Without knowing how, not feeling her legs or the floor beneath her, she stumbled into the cockpit.

Mills was in the pilot’s seat, speaking into a large headset. “Mayday, mayday,” he was repeating dispassionately, “this is US Midland Air 77 heavy. We’re experiencing—“

“What the – everyone’s dead over there!” She stopped suddenly, and he heard the wet squelch in her throat, heralding impending vomit. He paused and turned, looking at her questioningly. She held it in and pressed her back harder against the cockpit wall, knees shivering as they dropped sharply. Good girl, he thought and nodded at her. Most of them retch the first few times.

“Where are my manners?” he picked up the dead copilot off the seat by the scruff of his starched shirt and dropped him to the side, rolling him out of the way with his long leg. “Have a seat, please.” Someone responded to his distress call and he snapped forward, giving her not a moment’s consideration more. “I’m declaring an emergency…”

She looked stubbornly ahead of her, refusing to look down at the two dead bodies cramped into the small cabin, trying with all she had to keep it together. “Are we going down?”

“Well, yeah, technically, I guess,” he shrugged and then tightened his grip on the levers that were shuddering dangerously under his hands. “Every descent is going down, if you wanna get philosophical about it. This one is a little more rapid than most.”

“Who are you? Are you a pilot?” she accused more than asked as she finally relented and swiftly climbed into the seat next to him.

“Sure,” he shrugged and threw her a reassuring smile. “I’m whatever you need.”

She nearly jumped out of her seat as another blast shook the cabin. Mills knocked the useless headset off, and craned his body closer to her, strapping her in. “Shoulder straps, click in here,” he explained out loud, as if to a child. “And voila.”

She watched with trepidation as he pushed levers all the way away or pulled them all the way towards him, with buttons and lights flashing red to the rhythmic blare of warning sirens. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to assess how dire their situation was and she grew deathly quiet.

The fog in front of them cleared and square fields, in lighter and darker hues, delineated by long straight roads cutting through and across them came into view.  

They landed roughly on a road and Mills barely managed to keep on it as the wheels under them spun out of control and broke off. Seatbelts held them in place, but cut deep into their chests and punched all their air out as they swerved sharply into a field and plowed through it until eventually their momentum petered out.

Flying down the road in the distance was a procession of sleek black cars, converging on the wreckage. “That’ll be the Custodians – they’ll clean up the scene. And hopefully a few people from Restorations too,” he unstrapped himself and pressed his hand against his hastily dressed wound as he got up.

He went to offer the girl a hand, but she was already out of her seatbelt and climbing out, avoiding stepping on the corpse that lodged itself between the two seats during the crash-land. Mills wondered if it would do any good to tell her that the man whose corpse she was trying to show some misguided respect to was a human trafficker. Best to keep that little tidbit to himself for now, he decided.

“You’re hurt,” she stated the fact without too much concern for him.

Well, gee, don’t sound too broken up about it, Mills snapped in his head, feeling the pain rankle away any genial aspect of his character. “Yeah, how about that?” he rolled his eyes. But all his bravado notwithstanding, he groaned from deep in his bones as he pried open the door to the fuselage and jumped down.

She stood on the edge of the wreck, sparking and guttering out in a groan of metal and electricity, looking for a safe way to exit. Julian held out his arms to her limply, expecting her to do the typical female thing and slap him away, in some useless attempt to show she was no damsel in distress and that he had caused her enough trouble already, yadda yadda yadda, all that usual crap. Engrossed in his mental scenario, he only just had enough time to lock up his elbows and support her weight when, to his utter surprise, she accepted his help and leaped into his waiting arms.

He tottered backwards and they stumbled a few awkward steps as the headlights of the approaching cars caught them in their spotlight glare. She was splayed against him, face inches from him and, with a sinking feeling, he realized she didn’t look scared at all. She had to be, he knew – he certainly fucking was and only an idiot wouldn’t be – but she was far too good already at staying stone-faced during a crisis. He understood then her life had been no cake-walk and mourned the fact that it would only get less easy going forward with the Museum.

“Julian, you hanging in there?” a male voice asked as he stepped out of the car.

“High and tight,” Mills shot a finger gun at the man and flipped his hair out of his face, suddenly at a loss as to what to say in parting to this bewildered young woman in his arms.

“Julian?” she asked, surmising he had given a false name earlier.

“Julian Mills,” he introduced himself, seeing realization dawn in her eyes at the similarity between the false name he had given her and his real one. “First thing they’ll teach you – use fake names with your real initials. John Mitchell. Jordan Malcolm.  If you ever get confused or start writing the wrong name on some document by accident, it won’t be such a glaring correction.”

“Miss, if you’ll come with me,” an older operative from Provenance, all social grace and grandfatherly familiarity, laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and obligingly showed her to the car that had come to pick her up.

The girl left Mills without a second’s hesitation and, once again, gave him not a single backwards glance as she walked away. She let the operative open the door for her and sat in the back seat of the waiting car. Julian wondered if she jumped in her seat when the plane eventually exploded behind her in the distance, or if she was already inured to such unpleasantries. He was just glad he had managed to salvage her little backpack and her tattered little book. Surreptitiously, when he was sure no one was looking, he flipped it open and found a quote underlined. Act 3, Scene 7. That’s a valiant flea that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion. With a pained smile, his whole side stiffening up like a board from pain, his eyes searched the distance for the firefly headlights of the car driving her away. He hoped she would prove to be that valiant flea that the Bard talked about.

*

@thegrislady @safarigirlsp @lumberjack00fantasies​ @queeniebee​ @mythrielofsolitude​ @vedavan​ @house-of-cadwyn​

[lasplaga]

LOST

𝐀 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞'𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭, 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲.

「𝔖」 September 1994. It was impossible to find himself lost traversing the environment of Valdelobos. However, being thrust into the social conventions of humans after centuries of surviving their onslaught --- not only was he figuratively lost, he was bewildered. ADDLED!

Osmund had a father, of course ; The patriarch cracked the whip to instill obedience & trained the younglings for battle until bones cracked. Not only was he born from a following of monks, but warriors as well --- who prided themselves upon the spread & servitude of 𝕃𝕒𝕤 ℙ𝕝𝕒𝕘𝕒𝕤 above all else.

Expressing affection & paternal love as an assimilated species existed in the form of violence, or was completely devoid. When your community exhibits behavior akin to a hive of insects, the presence of menial tasks such as child-rearing, teaching or play was departed. Los Ganados, plainly, did not cherish the capacity for 'love', unless it was towards their own God. The strongest among them who retained a fraction of their humanity & intelligence possessed a mimicked, bastardized theatrical of endearment --- it was far from perfect, but enough to give the illusion they were capable of expressing a kind-hearted nature, despite being monsters.

To The Lord's immense surprise at the bizarre request & The Castellan's heartfelt confession, he was utterly puzzled how to fulfill it. Ramon, the poor boy, craved adoration from a loving father --- from his 𝕋𝕣𝕦𝕖 𝔽𝕒𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣. & yet he hadn't the slightest clue how! The Severe's fist that chastised & bruised the sickly child would not be the warmth he begged for, certainly?

Pleading eyes of gold begged for his savior to admire & acknowledge. Delicate skin, reminiscent of a porcelain doll, cracked & became bloodied as he frantically entreated. Osmund pitied the poor thing, had the lad accrued any semblance of love outside of his mother at all? Was she truly the only human in his life that did not disparage him for being diminutive & disabled?

" 𝔐𝔶 𝔟𝔬𝔶, 𝔬𝔣 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰𝔢 ℑ 𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲. " The reassurance felt foreign on his tongue, but was truthful in his own way. If not for him demolishing the seal, their sacred grounds would have never been reclaimed. As a parasite, he desired to take & take & take --- never to give. The flip in dynamic to cherish one other than himself almost felt wrong. ...Was this pleasing? ...Everything he asked for? " ℑ 𝔡𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔯𝔲𝔦𝔫, 𝔡𝔦𝔡 ℑ 𝔫𝔬𝔱? "

These expressions of humanity were alien to him, if not innately frustrating, strained from his throat with a restrained flash of his teeth. Osmund had no quarrel with this youth, --- but the lifetime of peace that was STOLEN from him by his ancestry. The cursed, blasphemous blood which coursed through his veins. & as much as The Holy Body resided within his chest, it did not change that they hailed from different worlds. However, the promise to save & nurture him was binding on behalf of a hopeless mother, who released The Devil from exile. & a deal with The Devil was irrevocable. Despite the immense confusion, blindly navigating the tender parental role expected from the ruler of the underworld, Ramon was The Devil's to look after, now.

The right hand that familiarly cracked the whip as his pater loosened. The fingers that clawed into the eye-sockets of prey relaxed. The palm that shattered bone with ease ceased trembling. The forelimb that morphed beyond comprehension persistently remained human. --- Osmund would not repeat the sins of the monster that Ramon abhorred, who had plunged a dagger into his portrait & left his decorative flowers to wither.

Outlandish as the notion was, certainly he could bestow his loyal servant a delicate pat upon the tricorne WITHOUT accidentally crushing his puny skull? The gentle declaration near frightened him upon the attempt, but the success was worth the boundless praises that came after --- outside the whirring drill that was the boy's elated shrills. An awkward grimace in place of a genuine smile was all he could muster for now.

This uncertain with a measly tap, Lord Saddler swallowed with silent apprehension, fearing the decade that would come. Osmund was The Father of Los Iluminados, but the father of Ramon?

--- Perhaps with courage & time, he would be.

[famefckrmoved]

BASIC INFO:

NAME: colby kai foxworth (goes by kai)

AGE: 34

BIRTH DATE: april 23rd

ASTROLOGICAL SIGN: taurus

GENDER / PRONOUNS: cis male, he/him

SEXUALITY: bisexual

HOMETOWN: stratford-upon-avon

CURRENT CITY: los angeles, california / new york, new york

FAMILY:

MOTHER: dianna hornsby

FATHER: ambrose foxworth

SIBLINGS: blair foxworth (younger sister)

PETS: nova the cat

APPEARANCE:

EYE COLOR: blue

HAIR COLOR: blonde

TATTOOS/PIERCINGS: this will eventually be a tattoo tour post

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: calluses from playing guitar, dark circles always present beneath his eyes

QUICK FACTS:

kai is the lead singer and guitarist of spitfire.

he's quite crass, a bit brash, reckless, he has a temper and exhibits many of the stereotypical rockstar behaviors. he's also very well aware of the way he's perceived. he just doesn't care to change for anyone.

really, the only person who has ever seen the true him is his younger sister, blair. he doesn't see her as often as he'd like anymore but he's always sending her things, little trinkets from around the world. she has a normal life, despite a famous rockstar for a brother. he feels like he needs to constantly be making up to her all the time he's spending on the road and overseas. for blair's part, she doesn't fault him for chasing his dreams. she just wishes that he'd come home more, especially now that he has nieces.

his band was, until recently, only semi-famous. it wasn't until they worked with a director on a movie that utilized their songs throughout the entire soundtrack that they found runaway success. the film had a low budget, it was barely promoted, but it made it out of it's little horror fan community bubble thanks to scream queen mila ramos's (hales link this info when its posted) incredible performance in the final scene. the band was launched into superstardom after that.

that's how they found themselves playing the superbowl. that's how kai met braeden sinclair.

he certainly wasn't looking for love. he'd been content with following the music. sure, he'd left a string of relationships behind him, most notably an actor from a popular tv show about dragon riders and a model who was now designing swimsuits, but after his split from genevieve, he'd taken a step back from pursuing romantic interests.

but, of course, the universe had other plans, and set him in motion to meet someone who would become so important to him. and on a night that would alter the course of his career forever, too.

affiliated with: @goldenclair

[southeastasiadiary]

Day 4: From Literature to Egg Coffee, Interrupted by a Cyclo Ride

I mentioned on Day 1 that one of the reasons I have long wanted to come to Vietnam is that Hanoi is home to the Temple of Literature, a name that I find absolutely fascinating. Well, today I got to visit the Temple of Literature. (Check off one major life goal accomplished.)

Constructed in the eleventh century, this complex contains a temple to Confucius, Vietnam’s earliest university, the site of national exams for scholars in feudal times, and basically everything that you can imagine in terms of glorifying higher learning. As far as I’m concerned, if there's a heaven, it must look something like this.

The centrality of education to Vietnamese culture is apparent from the fact that the site is featured on the back of the 100,000 Vietnamese đồng banknote.

After spending much of the morning at the Temple of Literature, our next stop was far more sobering: the Hanoi Hilton, also known as Hoa Lo Prison (“Fiery Furnace Prison,” so-called because of the pottery kilns that were on the site before the prison was built). The French, who built the structure in 1896 when they were still trying to turn Vietnam into a French Colony, simply called it the Maison Centrale, an oddly quaint name that belied the horrors that occurred there.

The exhibits at the prison surely don’t pull any punches with regard to brutalities that occurred there or the impact of the American war of the 1960s and 1970s. The futility of that conflict seems inescapable. The stated goal of American involvement was to prevent communism from coming to Vietnam and then to all of Southeast Asia. Well, communism came anyway, but now Vietnam is one of America's closest allies, and even Ho Chi Minh’s complex has its own, very capitalist-oriented gift shop (as does the Hanoi Hilton, for that matter). So, what was all that suffering for, again?

After lunch, the tone grew lighter once more with an hourlong cyclo ride through the Old Town.

Seated basically on the front of a tricycle without seatbelt or helmet can be an interesting experience as cars and hundreds of motorbikes all seem to be coming toward you at once. (If the video below doesn’t play automatically, be sure to click on it to make it start. You need to see it as a video to get the full effect.)

Many streets of Old Town are devoted to individual trades, like the bamboo, market, the fish market,

the flower market, and so on.

The ride ended at St. Joseph’s Cathedral, built by the French (when, apparently, they weren’t building prisons) from 1882 to 1886. Most Vietnamese just call it “the big church,” and it’s easy to see why.

We then walked partly around Hoan Kiem Lake (only partly around because some heavy rain showers came through late this afternoon). The name of the lake means the “Lake of the Returned Sword," because of a legend that a magical sword once used by the most revered heroes to defeat the Chinese Ming Dynasty had to be returned to the Golden Turtle God of the lake. What is it about kings and the magical swords they so often receive from figures living in lakes?

The day ended with a stop at Cafe Dihn, a tiny (and very crowded) coffee shop on the second floor of a building adjacent to the lake.

There Tony introduced me to egg coffee, which sounds unappetizing but is actually amazing. First developed at the Hotel Metropole in Hanoi, the inventor’s daughter then founded the Cafe Dihn, which has been serving it ever since. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like cappuccino but even thicker and creamier. Its taste is sweet and chocolatey, more like a dessert than just a cup of coffee. Certainly a wonderful way to end a marvelous day.

[jarvis-cockhead]

roughly 6 years ago i went to a gallery to see an exhibition of old british childrens TV- bagpuss, the clangers, etc. at the same time there was an exhibition of black and white photographs from the 70s of every day things which the photographer correctly predicted would eventually become interesting. in here i came across a photo of a girl standing next to a door in a plain looking room and 14 year old me decided she was the most incredible person id ever seen and i instantly fell in love for the very first time. fast forward to now and i recalled this one evening while procrastinating an assignment at 4am and went hunting through my google photos for the aforementioned incredible girl image because i know id downloaded it and lo and behold it was there. and from there i started scrolling upwards past memories and memories (and horribly cringe stuff id downloaded from tumblr at the time but we ignore that). and there i saw, march 2016, an inexplicable photo of an unopened rare sylvanian family set- the fisher cat family- which id taken on my parents bed. instant confusion. i loved sylvanian families growing up and id recently got back into them, so the moment it was no longer an ungodly hour of the night (id ended up staying up until around 9am) i texted my mum asking if she knew anything. she said she didnt know but shed have a look after she finished her breakfast, that she doesnt remember giving them away, but no promises. and then i heard nothing. i came home from uni that weekend and asked my dad if theyd been found and his non response was immediately suspicious- so they had, then. i was told id ruined the surprise- i thought oh, my mum was waiting to show me herself. oh well, ill just tell her what happened. i tell her and it turns out the surprise in question was 14 years old. the fisher cats were released in the UK in 2009, and they were bought for a christmas or birthday but i never got them because by then id stopped playing with sylvanians, so they were put away to be sold. my mum never sold them- and instead decided to save them for when theyd be appreciated again. shes known about them this whole time. now im 20, im rediscovering my love for sylvanians, and her opportunity has come. shes going away for the entirety of may- my birthday month- and decided theyd be a really nice surprise to leave me. ... that would be if id not, by chance, stumbled across a photo of them from 7 years ago. i cant bring myself to blame the girl in the photo- i have no idea who she is, and shes certainly not to blame for my horrible procrastination. but it did lead me to disappointing my poor mother and crushing her excitement. not that i had any way of knowing, of course. ill see them in a few months and ill be thankful of them while shes away. ill miss her a lot. mum, im sorry.

[literaticat]

Which book fairs are more for agents and which ones are more for publishers? Is it worth the costs and time for authors/illustrators to attend these and pitch their work?

"Book Fair" can mean different things! Usually it's referring to, say, a Scholastic Book Fair at a school, or a public Book Fair like the Los Angeles Times Festival of the Book or the Brooklyn Children's Book Fair -- those are aimed mostly at READERS, and it is a lot of authors, bookstores, etc, who are there pushing books that already exist. There may be a publisher presence but again, it's all about interfacing with readers.

When publishers / agents are talking about "Book Fairs" they go to, they are typically referring to Bologna Children's Book Fair, London Book Fair, or Frankfurter Buchmesse. (There are also some other ones, Sharjah, Guadalajara, etc, but I have zero idea about those, most people I know focus on Bologna/London/Frankfurt which are the largest.) These fairs have exhibit halls where publishers have booths showing off their wares, and they also have a "rights centre" where agents and publishers have meetings all day.

I can only speak for Bologna, because it's the only one I have been to.

The rights centre is private, for agents to have meetings with publishers to sell foreign rights on their books or discuss books that are already being published in foreign territories. The agents quite literally have meetings every half-hour ALL day for days on end -- they are completely booked weeks or months in advance -- there is no place for authors there, we pay a lot of money for the privacy, please don't crash it.

The fair itself -- aka the exhibit halls -- are very fun and interesting. Lots of creators DO come there to see what's up -- particularly illustrators! They pin their artwork / postcards / etc to these giant blank walls, and by the end of the fair the walls are covered floor to ceiling in it. (Here's an old blog post of mine with pictures of the art wall!)

I know some publishers booths also do portfolio reviews and the like, and I know illustrators who participate in that. I also know translators who network with publishers there. (I have never particularly seen AUTHORS doing that, but that doesn't mean they don't - I just think it's more popular for illustrators!)

Is it "worth it"? I mean - if I was a kid's book person, and I was IN ITALY already or close by, I'd certainly want to check it out at the very least -- it's COOL to see all these books from hundreds of countries! It's a whole thing! I don't know how much pitching opportunity there would be, so I wouldn't count on that, but it's a v cool event anyway.

(And, I guess illustrators especially MUST get some work out of it, or they wouldn't keep coming back, right? But you'd have to talk to creators who go to pitch to know more about how that works, I'm simply not in that part of the fair at all when I go, so I don't know HOW MUCH work they get or what the cost/benefit analysis there is.)

If I was a creator who was NOT already planning to be in or near Italy, I would probably NOT make the expensive pilgrimage.

[always-andromeda]

Meda, i am well and truly SOBBING 😭😭🥰🥰 your words in your response to my last ask were so so so so so incredibly sweet and I can't even express to you how much it meant to me to read them 🥹🥹☺️😭

and HELL YEAH WEIRD KIDS UNITE!!!!!! I was also majorly into the titanic (and shipwrecks in general) and I actually got that enormous lego titanic and it takes up the top of like two of my bookshelves 😅

in terms of weirdness, my specialty tends to be in macabre history, so I'll bring the stories about body snatching and that time I almost could have gotten Certified Vintage Victorian Smallpox™️ and you can tell me all about the Kennedy assassinations and true crime cases!! and we can bake treats while we do it!! ☺️☺️ honestly sounds like a dream 🥰

this is also a super random story but it's related to being The Weird Kid and really made me laugh: so at the end of the semester I asked my students what was one thing they learned from the class. it didn't have to be like a dry academic fact or anything, just something super cool or shocking or mind-blowing or whatever - something they would remember after the course ends. and in one of my sections I had one student say "I don't think I can ever forget how you told us that the Victorians ate mummies" and another one who said "pretty sure I'm always going to remember that time when you explained how they buried too many bodies in the cemeteries of Edinburgh and when it rained that one time all the decomposing corpses just floated out into the street." like, I am so incredibly proud that this is my legacy 😂😂

I think that's about all I have for the moment, but I hope you are doing well and taking care of yourself! I made a chocolate cake yesterday and I'm about to frost it with my famous Nutella frosting, so I'm cutting a slice and virtually sharing it with you 🥰🥰

love and hugs always,

charlotte 🎨

I owe you a massive apology, Charlotte, for taking so long to get to this!! I’ve been sick for the last week and this ask just got buried in my notifications and I didn’t see it until recently. So apologies for that and thanking you endlessly for the virtual cake!! I’m sure it was absolutely delicious!! 🥰

(Putting a read more cut because I ended up typing up a lot more than I thought I would lol)

That all being said, you talking about your Lego Titanic reminded me of a little memory I have. When I was thirteen and on a trip to Las Vegas, there was this Titanic exhibit at one of the hotels on the Vegas Strip. They had recreations of various rooms from the ship and even a little section of the ship itself?? I’ll include pictures because I swear, it was one of the coolest experiences ever. It was equal parts euphoric because it was a hyperfixation of mine at the time and I was going into such overload but also kind of haunting because of this one detail.

When you started the experience, they’d give you a ticket with the name and information of some random passenger. You’d get to see details of where on the ship they were staying, who they were traveling with, where they were going and everything. Then by the end of the whole experience, they had these massive walls that had the names of who died and who lived through the sinking. And I remember the card I got was for a woman who was traveling with her father and stayed in the servants quarters. And she didn’t make it.

So being like…thirteen years old. It was this haunting experience sitting there and realizing that I now knew the existence of this woman that may have otherwise been inconsequential if she hadn’t died the way she did.

I’ve had a few different little experiences like that with certain museums and they’re certainly very emotionally heavy, but they’re meaningful to me. They fuel this want in me to be more connected with humanity? Which sounds super alien to say lol. But I just…it blows my mind sometimes knowing that as vast as the human experience is, it’s also so unifying to see how people before us experienced it.

Anyhoo, long ramble aside, UGH, I LOVE THAT STORY ABOUT YOUR STUDENTS. Sometimes I think that’s one of the greatest things about being neurodivergent. Just having the largest mental catalogue of absolutely bonkers information like that that almost no one else knows?? Like that’s how you get people interested in learning lmao.

I always love our little chats, Charlotte 🫶🏻🥺 I’m planning on making some brown butter chocolate chip cookies soon so just know that I’m saving a few to send to you virtually as well, dear. Take care of yourself!! So looking forward to the next time I hear from you!! 💛

[thedovahcat]

Gorillas and the Last Birthday Hour (And Dino Pics!)

Went to the natural history museum today with my dad since he said he’d take me out on my birthday. It was really fun! While the place was small, it still had a lot of neat exhibits to look at. I’m used to the overcrowded gigantic colossus of a museum that is the one in Los Angeles, so to see a small one like this was certainly noticeable. Not bad! Just different.

They had some special arctic dinosaurs exhibit with one big fellow who looked really neat. Can’t remember the name right now. Along with one that was just for Texas animals and such and these very nice video presentations. Texas is a very nice state, the thing is, all those pictures in the videos of the Rio Grande and the flower fields and the pines over towards the east side? I’m finding you really need to be an outdoorsy kind of person to appreciate what this state has to offer. And, with any luck, I’ll be able to do just that once I get my school/job situation back on track and have a normal job again. One that properly pays me AND properly lets me take time off. Naturally you can’t do anything without money.

So there was that, then there were these like... Ancient peoples kind of exhibits upstairs which was also really neat, a lot of rancher life stuff in the next building over, and a neat garden outside by the river. It was cold today so we didn’t stay out long before packin’ it in and vamoosing.

After that we had some great cheeseburgers at this little local joint, and as soon as I got home I fell asleep for most of the afternoon.

Had a little cake after dinner and here I am. All in all a good day! Nice and peaceful. The last year of the 20s for me... Next year the big 3-0. Terrifying! But that’s till young lmao.

It’s going to be raining all this week or at least off and on, so I haven’t had a chance to practice outside with my new bow. Saved up more than enough money to buy it and some arrows and a target! But now me and my dad really need to figure out this backstop business. Not a lick of building-things n our bodies, so we’re kind of wondering how to just hack something together... I seen plenty of DIY youtube videos but they’re a bit too advanced for us (even though in principle just gluing shit to some plywood is easy... It’s never that easy there’s always a catch.)

Not very much going on in the school realm. I’m still unable to register for fall classes as they haven’t set up the schedule for that yet. Still unable to do the stupid orientation.

Been doing some captioning work for Rev on the side. I was lucky to get in apparently. It’s not great but I appreciate having an extra 10 or 20 bucks at the end of the week. Even little amounts add up over time. But, now that I’ve bought what I want, I guess now I don’t really know what to do. I feel like I met a lot of my short term goals within the last couple months because boy, I was working really hard to study for that stupid placement exam. And I was saving up money like nuts for my bow. Now that it’s all over I’m back to the ‘now what’ phase. I’ll figure something out.

Other special note thing UoU today on my birthday Rev and Hass have -officially- been married for 10 years in Real Life. They had their big ol Pandaria wedding on my 19th birthday and I still remember it. Here they are. Couple’a old geezers. I cry. I didn’t even do anything special for them like a picture or anything. Shame shame!!

Anyhoo, sorry for the short update. Here’s some dinosaur pictures to make up for it.

[red-eagle-fire-protection]

A Skyward Adventure: Exploring the Astronomy and History of Griffith Observatory

Perched atop Mount Hollywood, Griffith Observatory has long acted as a portal to the cosmos, offering millions a peek into the expansive cosmos past our earthly confines.

This historic spots is not just popular for its ingenious astronomical research and public education and learning, however additionally for its amazing architectural elegance and motion picture popularity.

The observatory's abundant history, linked with groundbreaking discoveries and iconic cultural minutes, uses an interesting expedition into both the celestial and the terrestrial.

As we start this expedition, we invite you to unlock the interesting stories of Griffith Observatory, its extensive contributions to astronomy, and its long-lasting influence on our understanding of the cosmos.

Through this trip, we will certainly be able to value exactly how a structure of concrete, steel, and glass can transform right into a sign of expertise and inspiration.

Unraveling the Universe: Griffith's Astronomical Contributions

While the Griffith Observatory is renowned for its building elegance, it is the institution's considerable payments to the area of astronomy that genuinely underscore its significance in the clinical area. Considering that its facility in 1935, the observatory has been a lively center for huge research study and public education.

It is home to a modern planetarium, a variety of high-powered telescopes, and numerous exhibits that delve into the mysteries of the cosmos. Griffith Observatory has actually played a pivotal duty in many huge discoveries, including the identification of remote galaxies and the tracking of asteroids.

Additionally, it has made astronomy accessible to the public, allowing many site visitors to look at celestial bodies and gain a deeper understanding of deep space.

Ageless Mirrors: The Historic Influence of Griffith Observatory

Throughout its renowned eight-decade history, Griffith Observatory has not just made considerable strides in the field of astronomy, yet it has also left an indelible mark on popular culture and society's collective imagination.

Its renowned dome, a silhouette against the Los Angeles skyline, has been included in numerous films and tv shows, intensifying its social significance. The Observatory's public telescopes have actually given millions a closer take a look at the cosmos, thus motivating a feeling of marvel and nurturing the spirit of discovery.

Its exhibits and planetarium shows have educated generations, making complex huge principles available to all. This long-lasting influence reflects the Observatory's historical duty as a nexus in between scientific research, education, and popular culture.

[dsandrvk]

Monday, April 25 - Cordoba to Antequera

We looked out this morning after our breakfast and although it had been raining most of the night (and was forecast to do so the entire day), there was currently a break in the rain, so we walked swiftly to the train station, happy we didn't get wet. We had another high speed train again, and were set with our on-line tickets to Antequera-Santa Ana, the only train station we were able to reserve on-line that had Antequera in it. Only when we got on the train did we realize there was an Antequera AV station, which was actually the one by the town, while the other was 15: kilometers away in the middle of nowhere. It actually exists as a junction between trains from Seville to Granada and trains from Seville to Malaga. Good thing we figured it out or we would have gotten off in some fields. The conductor didn't mind that we stayed on an extra stop - I have a feeling this may happen frequently.

The only additional problem is that all of our subsequent trips (to the Caminito del Rey tomorrow and on to the town of Ronda on Wednesday) start from Antequera -Santa Ana, and no trains exist that connect the two at a time that works. Oops.

But today we had a long walk from the correct train station uphill to our hotel, and once again the rain held off. And although we were early for our check-in time, they had a room ready and so we were able to dump our suitcases, grab our small daypacks and head out to explore. It did rain a little off and on all afternoon, but never enough to really matter, and certainly not what was predicted. While we were out, however, the temperature did start to drop and the wind came up and we were glad to have our rain jackets as wind jackets.

We headed further uphill to the highest part of Antequera, the Alcazaba de Antequera. Here is the fortress from Moorish times that was later recaptured by the Spanish. The Arco de los Gigantes (arch of the giants) leads into the bottom of the fortress, as well as white-painted houses leading to the Real Colegiata de Santa Maria la Mayor, the highest church in town. It was built in the early 16th century and is now used for concerts and exhibitions. It also overlooks an excavated Roman bath complex, showing the old and newer uses for this hill. Inside the church is this procession float that is a replica of one carried in Granada in 1760. It was common to have a woman statue riding or commanding serpents or dragons to represent faith triumphing over sin. The dragon in this case has seven heads.

The Alcazaba here, though, is the main attraction with towers and walls along the west and north. The highest tower holds a giant bell - when it rings it certainly gets one's attention if one is nearby (or up in the tower). The bell and top of the tower were added after the reconquest - the towers were square on top in Moorish times. There was also a small mosque, but it was destroyed. Down below the walls, in the area where the fortress was finally breached by the Castilians after a week-long siege, there is a statue of Arabs fleeing the city, on their way to founding a neighborhood in Granada in 1410.

Unlike Seville and Cordoba, there are few tourists here, and we were able to wander, climb the towers, and explore with very few other people around. Afterwards , we headed back down to walk through some more quaint neighborhoods, and Russ found another Camino route by the metal shells embedded in the sidewalks, leading to the local Santiago church. This particular Camino begins in Malaga and joins the Camino de la Plata in Merida. We had also seen a different Camino begin in Cadiz when we were there last fall.

Note on the little diorama - it shows (with a humorous twist), a burial procession to a prehistoric dolmen. There are several here which have become a UNESCO site, along with several of the natural features also around here. It was behind glass, so it was hard to photograph but was really unexpected, especially since it was in the large tourist information facility, where they claimed that Antequera gets no tourists. Probably something we missed in translation.

Our weather for tomorrow does not look promising, since the high is only supposed to be about 45, with high winds and rain until mid-day - not ideal for hiking along a narrow walkway halfway up cliffs in a gorge. We do have our tickets to and from El Chorro, the train station near the gorge, and have ordered a taxi to get us to the train station in the middle of nowhere early tomorrow. We'll see how it all works out, and we'll be taking all our warm and rain gear!

[top-roofers-of-compton]

In Your Neighborhood: Uncovering The Best Roofing Contractors Near Me

When embarking upon the journey of home enhancement, roof seems one of the most important facets to consider. The job demands an exquisite equilibrium of building appearances, resilient materials, and precise workmanship. Determining these high qualities in a professional can be a challenging procedure; however, with thoughtful research study and precise focus to information, it is possible for house owners to identify neighborhood roofing contractors that exceed in providing high-grade solutions.

In this electronic age where information is at everybody's fingertips, leveraging online systems can dramatically enhance the search for trusted local solutions. A reliable technique entails cautious exam of different roof covering materials and strategies that provide ideal options for varied climatic conditions and building designs. It additionally necessitates gaining understandings into intricate procedures associated with roofing system setup or repair which further aid in critical professional skills amongst company.

With each other, these techniques not just add to notified decision-making yet also foster a feeling of area by linking people with relied on local services within their areas.

Identifying Secret Criteria for Professional Roofer

Undoubtedly, the vital standards for choosing roofer encompass not just their knowledge and experience in the field yet likewise their capacity to offer high-quality materials, adhere purely to safety guidelines, and exhibit a dedication to prompt job completion.

Experience is an undeniable element as it makes it possible for a contractor to deal with diverse roof difficulties with finesse and accuracy. Expertise entails extensive expertise of various roof products such as asphalt tiles, metal roof coverings, slate ceramic tiles among others, along with the ideal techniques for setup or fixing. Premium products are vital for resilience versus negative weather conditions while adherence to safety and security protocols ensures marginal threat throughout procedures.

More discussion on these selection standards discloses that the principle of timely task conclusion is important in minimizing disruptions triggered by extended roof repairs or setups. This component highlights the professional's regard for customers' time and routine.

Additionally, service providers that offer comprehensive service warranties demonstrate liability for their workmanship and impart confidence in possible clients regarding their solutions' dependability in time. It is as a result essential that property owners seeking professional roof services prioritize these components when evaluating possible company in order to ensure they receive top-tier solution while feeling part of a community that values quality workmanship and client contentment at its core.

Online Look Techniques for Regional Solutions

Browsing the web effectively demands critical search techniques, particularly when it pertains to sourcing regional services. A refined method is vital in order to strain irrelevant information and determine prospective roofing contractors that satisfy specific demands. The first step typically includes entering pertinent keyword phrases into an internet search engine, such as 'ideal roofing professionals near me' or 'regional roof solutions.' This will certainly return a checklist of businesses operating within the defined area. Nonetheless, it is necessary not simply to focus on the leading outcomes but likewise discover various other web pages to locate prospective surprise gems.

Online directory sites can be an additional important source for locating neighborhood solutions. Websites like HomeAdvisor, Angie's Listing or Better Business Bureau (BBB) provide thorough listings of companies along with rankings and reviews from previous consumers which might assist decision-making.

Consumer Reviews: These can offer understanding into previous customers' experiences and complete satisfaction levels with a service provider's handiwork, professionalism, and customer support.

Company Accounts: Comprehensive profiles often include information regarding a roofing contractor's certifications, certifications, years in business, types of products used, and locations of expertise.

Photos and Descriptions of Past Projects: Visual proof of finished works can give a concept concerning high quality criteria kept by the professional.

Scores: A high ranking shows consistent excellent efficiency gradually which might attest to dependability.

With evaluating these components systematically throughout numerous platforms one can limit alternatives and make educated choices about working with roofers who are best fit to their requirements while fostering a sense that they become part of a neighborhood that values high quality handiwork and high-standard service shipment in their area.