#but me completing just one piece of artwork is a miracle in of itself

[devilishdelights]

Awaaaaaghhh (just some thoughts)

[iriemorning]

return to sender

fluency in words comes with great expectations. as i was widely read since young, people hang on to what i say and so i often feel that looming pressure on my shoulder whenever i speak out and inform. in contrast, ideas breeze to me like petals in spring. i see all these foods for thought and i am a mere basket catching all of them. but whenever it's time for me to present them into something people can digest, my words don't come out easily—both written and orally.

analyzing literature pieces and academic papers are relatively easier, since you already have a source material to relate to (which is what my current degree is all about) the key there is finding twisted connections. you're not creating concepts out of thin air, unlike writing fiction. it is one of the most soul-sucking practice a human can ever do, so fermenting my ideas for a long period of time is a must. there are a lot of stories in my roster gathering dust for years, waiting for the miracle when i would finally have the time of day to write their first draft. but alas, i'm a chronic procrastinator; very much in love with outlining and daydreaming scenes more than actually putting the work to churn out words on the blank page.

nowadays i'm working on that weakness by writing a page everyday. it's a snail pace but i hope i can make it a habit in the long run.

there are fortunate times wherein i catch fully ripe fruits in my basket. my expertise is putting together various petals from different flowers altogether, creating a new, unique flower. ripe fruits though, is the quintessence of art in its absolute form. they come in my all-time favorites [TV shows and movies, animangas, comics, books, music videos, albums, paintings] and what im striving to make someday; to have a complete opus with my style and trademark.

but there are also terrible times wherein i receive unripe ones from the mail. my former colleagues, for example, have asked me for advice about their unfinished pieces. some even prompted me to revise the entire manuscript itself (that's like giving away free labor, being an editor is not for the weak), or changing the entire plot based on my suggestions. like woah, why would you trust me that much?

which is why i always walk on eggshells when giving out constructive criticism, or making offhanded remarks, because it might make or break someone's morale and negatively affect how they make their artwork. that's the last thing i want. i am a firm believer that we should all maintain creative autonomy on our own works, and how we live our life in general

so here is a big disclaimer: please treat whatever i say here in my blog (experiences, tips, realizations) with a grain of salt. they're rather N of 1 trials: i am a lifeseeking-researcher but i am also my own sole test subject, always putting myself in this microscopic stance with the rest of the world as a petri dish. i cannot guarantee that whatever works for me will also work for you. and just because i make direct eye contacts with the sun doesn't mean you'd also follow me and make yourself blind. the world is in constant flux, our cells are always regenerating, the energies are always changing. i grow everyday, and some epiphanies i get may not be applicable anymore the day after tomorrow, or a year later.

only take whatever seems useful for you in my basket of confectionery then leave the rest, at your own discretion; maybe even pass it on to the next person.

and there's more: ever heard of unwanted deliveries? annoying calls from unregistered numbers masking themselves as urgent? there are times when i receive these rotten fruits; situations that seemingly require my immediate attention and action but doesnt really fit my forte in life. i am just like any other twenty-something-year-old-woman, living my normal college life, having silly little crushes, spending my teensy-weensy outdoor moments reflecting because i didn't do that when i was young (i was just like any other rebellious teen too, not so special). so i could have been any of you. i am not a superhero, a mad scientist, nor an aspiring cult-leader. just a creatively-constipated storyteller

if you still wanna stick around, then welcome to my humble abode (maybe even cure my word constipation... is that a yes?)

but if i receive unwarranted energies, trust that i will send it back to your address

with love, xx

[welllpthisishappening]

Three Strikes [you're out]

It was his fault, really.

Wearing that jersey at Citi Field practically required Nina to hate the mass of muscle sitting in front of her on sight. Plus, he didn't know how to score a baseball game. So, honestly, it made sense. To hate him. Ardently, even. To push buttons, metaphorical or otherwise. A game within the game.

And, if, she found herself having fun, well, that was neither here nor there.

———

Rating: T, with sports and kissing because of who I am as a person Word Count: 9.1 K, also because of who I am as a person AN: I don’t know, guys. I got thoughts. I got feelings. The only way I know how deal with either of those things is to write about them with sports and kissing. Did I suggest that being a Mets fan was a bit like being Grisha? Perhaps! Perhaps, I did! If this is out of character just...don’t tell me.

Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll

———

The suggestion that an idea was capable of boiling a person’s blood, even in the most abstract and metaphorical sense, had always appealed to Nina. Not in a particularly violent way, of course. More in regards to the visual. 

Conjured up all sorts of possibilities. 

Little bubbles beneath her skin, searing emotion through her veins that inevitably led to tufts of smoke pouring out of her ears. Like one of those old cartoon characters, she could now only dimly remember. In moments like this, especially. When she wasn’t quite boiling, but certainly racing toward the vast and admittedly surprising precipice of abject hatred. Directed almost solely toward the mass of muscle who dared to wear a Chase Utley jersey to Citi Field on a Thursday in May. 

He needed a haircut, she thought. 

The muscle. Not Chase Utley. She couldn’t possibly care less about the state of Chase Utley’s hair. Unless he was choking on it, somewhere. Obviously. Then Nina cared very much. About Chase Utley. And this guy. With too-long strands that she was starting to believe fell almost artfully across the back of a vaguely golden-skinned neck, as if they existed solely to torment her. 

On a Thursday in May. 

Sitting there, with a seat digging into the middle of her spine and her frustration threatening the enamel on the back of her teeth, Nina was loath to admit, even to herself, that she couldn’t stop staring at him. Partially because of the hair. Which looked very—pushable, really. As far as her finger’s potential went. But mostly because of everything else. Watching the muscle was a bit like watching a statue at the Met, waiting with bated breath for it to actually surge to life because when she was that same kid who watched cartoons on weekend mornings, she rather strongly believed that the statues at the Met were wholly capable of smiling and turning and living. Artwork prone to the mystical and potentially magical.

She blamed Ben Stiller for that, honestly. 

Amy Adams to a slightly lesser degree. 

Robin Williams would suffer no criticism in this argument, naturally. 

The muscle shifted. 

Twitched just a hint in his seat. Altered the angle of his, frankly, impressively wide shoulders. Rolled his neck between them. The seat was too small. He was too big. That jersey must have been ancient. 

And, really, when it came down to it, Nina hated him most for the pencil. Tucked behind his right ear, it looked comically small whenever he pulled it between his fingers, scratching across a legitimate scorebook because in the thirty-seven minutes or so she’d spent observing this fascinating specimen of humanity, she’d noticed it was, in fact, a scorebook. 

Not a piece of paper.

Not a printout. 

Not even the one she was only vaguely confident they handed out in the rotunda downstairs. 

An actual scorebook. 

That he brought with him to Citi Field. 

She glanced down to make sure she had not actually burst into literal flames in section 205. Row F. Seat 27. No such luck. Weird. 

The pencil was back in his hand. One leg crossed the other, leaving his knee propped in the air, and there was just so much of the muscle that it was a rather small miracle of an exceptionally narrow field of science that it didn’t collide with anyone around him. Instead, it provided a built-in desk, that stupid scorebook propped up against jean-covered skin and even more muscles, pushing against fabric like they were personally offended by the concept of the blue-colored prison. 

Nina bit her lip. 

Tried to keep breathing. Because fires required oxygen, and there could be no boiling without fire and—

“‘Scuse me, ‘scuse me, ‘scuse me, just trying to—” Blood flooded Nina’s mouth, making it impossible for her to open that same mouth and let out the laugh already pushing against her lips. There were at least four little wrinkles pinched across the small expanse of Jesper’s nose, two boxes of popcorn clutched in either one of his hands and a soda between the slight bend of his elbow. He tiptoed his way around disgruntled fans, glaring at a few red jerseys for good measure. As if he actually wanted to be there. Nina kept biting her lip. “Just trying to get back to my seat,” Jesper finished, “won’t bother you again, rest of the game, absolutely, one-hundred percent guaranteed.”

Nina’s lips tilted up. 

Scrambling to her feet, she couldn’t quite balance on the edge of the seat that immediately swung back up. Something sticky stuck to the bottom of her shoe and eventually, she would find herself wondering why she didn’t simply move into Jesper’s seat. For a myriad of reasons, she assumed. 

Some of which might have mystical and potentially. 

Goddamn, Ben Stiller. 

“Accommodating sort of group, isn’t it?” Jesper mumbled, pushing past her and Nina had to applaud his dexterity. Not a kernel lost in the battle. 

“Should have waited ‘til the middle of the inning. This is just bad form on your part.” “And miss all—” He waved an imperious hand toward the field. “What am I missing, exactly?”

Opening her mouth, Nina was certain she’d come up with a reasonable explanation for the romantic nature of baseball, only she was a little busy. Keeping her head connected to the rest of her body. 

Snapping to the left, her breath caught. In that dramatic sort of way that always seemed like the perfect soundtrack to any great sporting moment. Eyes wide and fingers digging into her palm, hope mixed with the bubbles and the boils, and she barely noticed the awkward angle of her bent knees. Or just how close she was to—

Him. 

The muscle. 

She heard his pencil drop, she swore. 

Oh, Gods, but he had blue eyes. Sharp and staring right at her, Nina resisted the very real urge to let herself melt right there. In section 205. Row F. Seat 27. Well, in front of seat 27, technically. 

Pulling her knee back did not do that same knee any favors, muscles almost audibly objecting to the force of Nina’s split-second reaction, but then she forgot about the pain and the concept of depth perception. The yell tore itself out of her lungs, found its way to the rest of the noise circling the stadium, wrapping its way around people until the hope of that one, singular moment settled on the tips of her eyelashes and the backs of her heels and she wasn’t sure if she heard him at first. 

No one should be capable of possessing a voice quite so gruff, that’s why.

“Not going to make it.”

Glaring at the monstrous mass of muscle and questionably good hair wasn’t so much as a decision as something far closer to instinct, pulling her brows together and letting her tongue push at the bottom of her teeth, and he—

Looked. Right at her. And her tongue. 

Shoulders tensing, a hint of nervous energy appeared in those same ridiculously blue eyes, gone almost before Nina had a chance to realize it was there at all and she didn’t see the play. Heard it, though. The groans and the grunts, complete despair, and the first shreds of desolation drowning out the hope and pulling it from a grip that was always a little tenuous. 

No home run. No hit. Just a run-of-the-mill fly ball in center field. 

One side of the muscle’s mouth tugged up. 

“Told you.” “Oh, fuck off.”

Surprise, she thought, was a very good look on him. Most of them would be, she imagined. But right then, on a Thursday in May, with two outs in the bottom of the fourth, Nina relished the surprise. 

And sat back down. 

To be a Mets fan, was to believe in the impossible. 

The amazing, even. 

It was right there in the slogans. The advertising campaigns. On a variety of shirts, both legitimate and those sold at the bottom of the 7-train stairs. To accept the amazing, to wish for it, even, was part and parcel of the history of an organization that relished its underdog status. Thrived in its role, the second team in a city that toed the line between excess and restraint. 

Winning with this team was unexpected and unpredictable. Came without much pomp. Certainly no circumstance. Only a few trades that drew national eyes and back page headlines. More often than not, this was a team that discovered amazing when it simply should not exist. 

Misfits who created something wonderful. Who sparked something among people who, at least for nine innings, believed orange was a worthwhile color to wear. Who smiled at a mascot with a massive baseball for a head. And his wife, who sported some rather impressive eyelashes, actually. 

To be a Mets fan, was to understand heartache. 

To accept being the butt of jokes across decades. 

Every year, the knowing smiles came. Paying goddamn Bobby Bonilla. Cracks about pyramid schemes and owners who couldn’t find their way out of a money-based paper bag, team antics that occasionally drew those headlines, and players who fell in wayward ditches on their farms, ending their season before it ever really began. 

Winning didn’t come often, but it was loud when it did. The crack of a bat and a ball finding the back of a glove, shoulders slamming into the left-field wall with its massive M&Ms ad. Feedback from a microphone as David Wright thanked the Seven Line Army, in all their orange-clad glory, memories of that near-perfect October and what could have been imprinting themselves across a generation. 

To be a Mets fan, was to live and die with each pitch. Each hit. To hold your breath and wait for magic that lingered beneath skin and forced its way into bloodstreams. 

To be a Mets fan, was to hate anyone wearing a Chase Utley jersey. 

“Stew, stew, stewing, a rather hearty beef stew.” Nina narrowed her eyes. “What are you talking about?” “You are stewing,” Jesper said pointedly, as if it was an obvious affliction and they both hadn’t casually descended into madness caused by extra innings. Putting a runner on second was supposed to help avoid all of this. Runs were meant to be scored in extra innings. Nothing had happened yet. “Any more and that little divot between your eyebrows is never going to disappear. Then what will we do?” Answering would only acknowledge that the divot was more like a rather obvious ravine now, and the little half-moon circles left by her nails were going to be permanently etched into Nina’s palm. 

He was still keeping score. 

How he hadn’t run out of columns in his scorebook was beyond her, but Nina figured if the muscle was someone willing to purchase a scorebook, he probably made sure it was one that also included, like, fifteen innings on each page. 

If they made it to the fifteenth inning, she would cry. 

It would be embarrassing. 

Jesper probably wouldn’t come back for the rest of the series. If she cried, that was. And she needed him to come back for the rest of the series. Sitting anywhere else wasn’t all that appealing, even if it might have been warmer up there now. 

She wrapped her arms around herself. Better to stew with, that way. 

“Do games normally last this long?”

Nina shook her head. 

Jesper groaned. Loudly, complete with his head thrown back for extra emphasis and even clearer frustration and she didn’t think she imagined the way the muscle tensed. Staring at him was becoming something of a pastime in the middle of a more acceptable one. Light didn’t quite reflect from the hair she was starting to become just a hint obsessed with, but it certainly appeared determined to try, and his ability to hold so much tension in the region directly surrounding his jaw would have been impressive in any other circumstance. 

As it was, Nina was a little concerned about the state of the muscle’s back molars. 

It was why she didn’t react as quickly as she should have. Or so she would argue for the rest of time. 

Once she got the popcorn off her feet. 

A waterfall of butter-coasted kernels landed on her shoes, a few bouncing as she did, thrust out of her seat like a canon. Whatever bit of her heart that existed solely to document the ebbs and flows of the New York Mets success flew into her throat, where it immediately took up residence directly in the middle. Wide eyes immediately started to water, which brought her straight back to the entirely metaphorical cliff of her potential embarrassment and the muscle was leaning forward. 

With his own brand of emotion. 

No obvious tension, just that steady sort of hope born among the din of baseball-type sounds and, even more importantly, baseball-type feelings and Nina was mumbling. 

“Turn ‘em, turn ‘em, turn ‘em, two, two, two, two, get the—” Suggesting she screamed made it seem as if she weren’t in complete control of her faculties. And despite the potential of extra innings insanity, Nina was just as lucid as ever and just as capable of throwing her hands in the air, while also screaming. 

Undeniably so. 

As soon as the ball jumped over the outstretched glove at short, Francisco Lindor’s lanky and overpaid body stretched out across the infield grass. Curses flowed from Nina’s mouth, some of them sharp enough to make even Jesper choke on whatever bits of oxygen he was able to gulp down, and she didn’t stop. Kept screaming and shouting, increasingly mobile hands and dexterous shoulders, miming her own throw home because whoever was playing left field was not moving quickly enough for her. 

He didn’t make the throw. 

Not in time, at least. 

Dirt flew into the air as a leg stretched over home plate and the umpire’s arms were nearly as impressive as Nina’s. Marking the runner safe and giving the Phillies their first and only lead of the night. 

Frustration mingled with out-of-place despair, far too early in the series and the season to be feeling quite as desolate as Nina suddenly was and, really, she wasn’t sure why she looked. Something about magnets, or simple curiosity, but her eyes drifted and her head tilted and she felt her jaw drop as his stupid, little pencil scratched out E6 in his scorebook. 

“What the hell, man?”

He didn’t turn. Figured. Screaming was becoming her base setting, so Nina wasn’t entirely surprised that the muscle didn’t acknowledge it, but then she was moving and leaning and tapping on a shoulder that somehow seemed sturdier when she had kneed it several innings earlier. 

“That’s not an error.” Moving in slow motion only made sense if the man was, in fact, a piece of marble. Strands of hair stuck to his forehead, acting as little paths toward his eyes and they were still blue. Good, that was good. Bad, that was bad. 

Jesper wasn’t even trying to contain his laughter. 

“Excuse me?” “Not an error,” Nina repeated, careful to pause between each word for emphasis. The muscle didn’t flinch. Stared at her incredulously, though. “Did you not see that hop?” “I saw your multi-million dollar man throw his arm out without much regard to actually making a routine play. Is that what you’re talking about?” “How is that possibly an error?” He lifted a shoulder. She was boiling over. “Should have made the play.” “It was impossible!" “C’mon now,” he chuckled, and the good fought with the bad. A symphony of contradictions blaring between Nina’s ears. Neither of which were steaming, it seemed. “Nothing is impossible in baseball.” “That was!” “Might need to come up with a better argument.” “Home scorer is not going to give Francisco an error on that. He had to dive!” “Maybe he should have been in better position, to begin with.” “The shift was on.” “Well, the shift is ruining baseball, so—” Nina gagged. Let her tongue push between rows of teeth that she couldn’t believe were going to survive the rest of the night if the acid churning in her esophagus was any indication. He looked. Again. Whatever heat lapping at the base of her spine was only marginally distracting. “A baseball purist cannot possibly wear the jersey you are wearing.” “I wasn’t aware of the rules, but, please, go on.” “Fuck. Off.” “Getting less and less creative.” His eyes hadn’t moved. As if he was documenting each twitch of her lips for his own personal posterity. Nina found she didn’t mind the idea as much as she should. 

Jesper was going to crack a rib. 

“Chase Utley is an asshole who doesn’t know how to slide.” “Ok.” “An asshole!” “I heard you the first time,” he said, losing the war with his lips. Curled up, they cut across the serious mask his face had become in the world’s least serious conversation. It was nice that Jesper ended up crying before Nina, honestly. “And he wasn’t a Phil when he hurt your guy, so I don’t think that should count at all.” Nina did not know what noise she made. Wasn’t human. Hurt a little. “Did you just call him a Phil?” “Guys,” Jesper mumbled, but she couldn’t be bothered with something as menial as the bottom of the inning when the muscle in front of her kept doing that thing with his eyes and his hair and—

Reaching out, she managed to bypass his rather impressive reaction time, grabbing the pencil before he could stop her and the crack of it between her fingers was as loud as any grand slam this slightly ugly ballpark had ever witnessed. 

Not that Nina would ever admit she thought Citi Field was slightly to moderately ugly. 

It was the color scheme. Way too much green involved. 

She gave herself exactly seven seconds to relish the look of pure amazement on the muscle’s face. 

“Use a pen,” Nina sneered, “at least stand by your scoring convictions.” “Chase Utley is going to be in the Hall of Fame.” “As a Phil?” “World Series champion.”

His ability to emphasize words with meaningful pauses was far better than Nina’s. “It wasn’t an error.” “You’re paying that guy more than anyone in the world deserves to get paid, if he’s going to lay out for a liner, then he should be able to make the play, don’t you think?” Nina bit her lip. Boiled. Stewed. 

Ah, damn. 

Her silence was an answer in the middle of a sea made up of equally disheartened fans. Who all suddenly remembered how terrible they looked in orange. Always worse after a loss. 

The muscle nodded. Once. Exhaled. Through his nose. As if he’d won, and not just his team, and Nina didn’t offer to replace his pencil. 

On a Friday night in May, Nina genuinely believed that he wouldn’t come back. Hoped for it, even. And something else almost akin to the exact opposite. 

Both were very strange feelings to feel contained in one human, body. Draped, even as it was, in blue and orange and New York City’s less famous pinstripes. With PIAZZA splashed across her back, Nina felt as if she were obligated to sit a little straighter. As if slumping in her seat — by herself tonight because Genya was not at all interested in sitting in the stands and Zoya would have laughed at the suggestion, and Jesper had to get back to the Crow Club — would somehow tarnish the reputation of a name that didn’t belong to her. 

Didn’t it, though? Just a little. Wasn’t that how sports worked? Throwing yourself into the camaraderie with both feet and occasionally flailing arms, willing to sit in an uncomfortable seat that she’d have to mention to Nikolai at some point because these were starting to feel a bit like torture devices masquerading as plastic, and a piece of paper floated onto her lap. 

He’d folded the piece of paper. 

The muscle. Not Nikolai. Who was sitting in the owner’s box, in fact. Nina assumed those seats weren’t rising up in revolt against him. 

The muscle wasn’t wearing a jersey this time. A cup of what smelled like over-brewed coffee, though, was held tightly in his left hand, while the right clutched his scorebook as if it were made of gold. Nina’s tongue swiped her teeth. 

He watched. 

Documented. 

Kept track. 

“What the hell is this?” “Is that your favorite curse, you think?” “Why are you throwing paper airplanes at me?” Lifting shoulders appeared to be his default form of response. “Felt just quirky enough not to be overtly threatening.” “Because of the guns generally associated with fighter planes?” “What do you know about fighter planes?” Rolling her whole head did not get her a smile. Or even a hint of such a thing. It did get him a few grumblings of frustration from those whose view he was blocking. Because there was so goddamn much of him. Imposing, that was the word for it. Taking up space and settling into the seat with a near amazing amount of grace, practically folding in on himself, like he was made of smooth lines and crisp edges, capable of soaring through air in a way that belied that flimsy nature of paper airplanes, and there was that word again. 

“Always liked the ones that had painted teeth on them,” Nina said, somehow fully prepared for the huff of laughter that fell out of him. He pulled a pen out of his jacket pocket. 

To hand to her. 

“You would.” “What is that supposed to mean, exactly?” “It means,” he said, nodding at the pen when she kept gaping at it, “that in my limited experience with you, Ms. Met—”

“Thought we covered lack of creativity last night.” He ignored her. Eventually, it might be a good idea to learn his name. Where that might also be the worst idea in the history of the world. Maybe Nikolai could track him down. Like through ticket sales, or something. That seemed like a breach of power, though. 

“You do have a rather impressive set of teeth on you, yourself.” “Oh, that’s an insult.” “Should unfold the paper airplane.” Most of her wanted to crumple up the piece of the paper, toss it back in his face and then possibly stab him with his own pen. But Nina also didn’t know the muscle’s name, and cold-blooded murder on a Friday night in May required a certain sense of personalization that they hadn’t quite reached yet. So, there was no crumpling. Her fingers didn’t shake. Her heartbeat held steady in her chest. 

Unfolding the paper with his eyes on her, Nina did hold her breath. For eight straight seconds, approximately. Until it all rushed out of her, entirely amazed and perpetually annoyed because the paper airplane left creases between the boxes of what was very clearly her own personal scoresheet. 

With provided pen.

“This is a trick.” “That not being a question gives me pause,” he said, but it sounded like an admission. One tinged with regret. Presumably for Chase Utley’s tendency to be a complete and utter asshole. Prone to injuring Mets’ middle infielders. 

“Is it not?” He shook his head. And the pen in his hand. “Get to stand by the convictions of your scoring actions.” “Errors occur only on routine plays.” “Yuh-huh.” “You’re here by yourself.” “Also not a question.”

“Or an answer,” Nina pointed out.

“Where’d your friend go?” “What do you put in your coffee?” “Nothing,” he answered, “seriously, where’s the friend?” Something lingered on the edge of the question. Something Nina didn’t want to notice, but couldn’t possibly ignore. Not when it came with concave shoulders, curling toward her like they were preparing themselves to block wind and glares in equal measure. The second of which was really a more pressing problem at the moment.

“Had to work.” “As a stand-up comedian?” “Hardy har har,” Nina grumbled. Leaning back against the force of his ensuing smile was as natural as wearing a Mike Piazza jersey and searching for the prize at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box. What she was less prepared for was the ability of that same smile to twist its way between her ribs, lighting another new and imaginary fire and if her mouth dried just a bit, then that was neither here nor there.

Between her and the baseball gods, fickle as they were. 

“You don’t put anything in your coffee?” He shook his head. “Sugar makes me nauseous.” “God, what a depressing way to live life.” “Eh, there are things that make up for it.” “Chase Utley?” “I think you might be obsessed,” he said, dropping into his seat so as to avoid being pelted with cheese fries from Shake Shack. The guy three seats away looked real serious. “Going to write him a letter asking for a game of catch?” “You’re making pop culture references.” “Not a question, either.” “No, a stunned statement of fact.” She wanted that laugh on loop. Wanted it to play as the soundtrack for the rest of the night and the rest of the series and quite possibly the rest of her life, lingering softly in the background of everything she did for the rest of forever. 

Matching in perfect rhythm to the predisposed nature of her blood to boil. 

“Where are all your friends, then?” Nina asked, almost desperate to change the direction of the conversation and her internal dialogue. The blue evolved. Right there in his eyes. Darkened until it looked like the sky before a storm and that was ten-thousand times worse than any other drivel she’d come up with so far. 

Licking her lips was idiotic. Naturally, that’s what she did. 

“Not here,” he replied, “but I know the hitting coach.” Strictly speaking, that should not have been quite as awe-inducing as it was. Nina hadn’t paid for her tickets, after all. Had no intention of paying for tickets ever again, if she was being honest. So, really, seeing how caution swept the muscle’s face was kind of a dick move. 

On her part, specifically. 

“Should I be impressed?” Shoulder lift, right on cue. “I knew him in college. Was, uh—” “—Wait, did you play baseball?” Color didn’t rise on his cheeks. Not in any romantic way. Nothing about it was swepping, which was good because the Phillies had won the night before, meaning any sweeping would also guarantee Mets losses. It arrived in splotches. Bits of pink and nearly-red, tiny pinpricks of unregulated emotion that immediately affected the ability of Nina’s pulse to stay even. 

She grinned. 

Wide and honest, ignoring the strands of hair that fell in her eyes when she let her head fall. 

He didn’t look away. 

She’d think that was important, later. 

“You contain multitudes, Muscle.” “Insulting,” he grumbled. “Quite possibly the tallest man I’ve ever encountered in the flesh.” “That can’t possibly be true.” “You don’t look like a baseball player.” Back to the correct shade of blue. Just for a moment. Disappearing in the haze of a 90 mile per hour fastball. Right up the middle. But Nina had always been fairly good at tracking pitches, and she might not have been a former baseball player, but picking out the slider amongst a never-ending stream of heaters was like her personal superpower. 

“So I’ve heard.” “From scouts?” “Sometimes, yeah.”

“Of the professional variety?” “Every now and then.”

Letting out a low whistle, Nina’s spine relaxed. Tension that had taken root between her shoulder blades loosened, watching the face in front of her and the mask it was so obviously clinging to. Kept slipping, though. While staring directly at her. 

It was, she would argue, why she did what she did. Without mumbling. 

“You wanna sit?” “With you?” “Rude. You threw paper at me.” “It was a well-constructed airplane,” the muscle argued, “so you could also score the game. This was a nice thing I was doing.” “Past tense.” “Am doing,” he corrected. “Currently.”

“That mean you're going to sit?”

She counted. Seconds. Moments. Breaths. Dug her teeth into her lower lip. Against the side of her tongue. He nodded. 

And climbed over the seat. 

So, that was only going to marginally mess with her brain. 

“Alright then,” Nina said, doing her best to flatten her paper against the bend of her knee, “tell me everything about your baseball tale of woe.”

He didn’t. 

At least not at first. 

It took until the fourth inning for them to begrudgingly agree that mowing patterns in the outfield was an abstract art form that did not often get the credit it deserved, before deciding, in no uncertain terms, that the NL East boasted some of the better uniform options in all baseball, even if that was mostly because of the Marlins and—

His hand moved to his shoulder. 

The right one. More than once. Gently massaged the muscle there, a slight grimace that Nina only noticed because she was sitting squarely in the middle of objectification and she didn’t even know his name. Yet, she reminded herself. 

They’d get there. 

They didn’t. Not in that game, anyway. 

A Saturday afternoon in May didn’t present the same sort of chill that required scalding hot coffee with absolutely nothing else in it, but Nina was playing with hope and resting on her not-so-cautious expectations. Seeing how wide his eyes could get was extra. 

Sugar on top, if you will. 

They got very wide. Frozen, even. Stuck halfway down the row, still no jersey, just his dropped jaw and slumped, possibly injured shoulders, ignoring the jabs from nearby season ticket holders who were starting to believe this mountain of muscle existed solely to block their sight lines. 

Nina figured that’s what it was, at least. 

He smiled. 

That smile. Her smile. When she’d begun to claim it, she couldn’t begin to pinpoint, but it might have been six and two-thirds innings into last night’s game when his left arm had bumped her right, just enough warmth wafting off him to be noticeable. To leave goosebumps in his awake, too. 

“There’s no sugar in it,” she promised, “so you don’t have to worry for the state of your stomach.” “I didn’t once think you were trying to poison me.” “High praise.” “Deservedly so.” She flushed. Ducked her eyes. Tried not to chew her tongue in half, or allow the burning-hot blood racing through every single one of her extremities to burst its way out of her skin. That would be off-putting. And traumatic. 

“Here,” he added, tugging another folded piece of paper out of his back pocket, “for you.” “Are you printing these off in the hotel?” “Should be a private investigator, Ms. Met.” “Did your coach make you stay in Queens, Muscle?” The hand that landed on her waist — to move her, just to move her — was warm and blistering and those were two very different words with a pair of very different meanings and even more jarring consequences, and he sat down next to her. 

Huh. 

Huh. 

“Been taking the train in from Grand Central.” “Ugh, he’s making you stay over there? There’s no good food in that part of the city.” “Quiet, though.” Sticking her tongue out when she gagged continued to be one of Nina’s less impressive traits. “I blew my shoulder out my junior year of college.”

One of Nina’s knees buckled. Only one. The right one, actually. She refused to believe that was a sign. From baseball gods, or otherwise. “Hitting?” “Throwing. Probably because of the hitting, but the blowing out actually happened on what was considered by most in the know to be a pretty routine throw from left field. Hurt like hell.” “Yeah, I bet.” “I don’t remember a ton of what happened right after. Might have yelled? Quite possibly blacked out. Definitely heard something snap, which admittedly terrified me, but then there were a bunch of people talking and walking me down the tunnel and more lights and tests. The phrase never the same again was thrown around with alarming regularity.”

Cold. Nina was cold. Freezing beneath a mid-afternoon sun, one of those May days that tease of summer yet to come. They smell like cotton candy and potential, of a distinct lack of responsibility and SPF 70. 

She had sensitive skin. 

“Were you by yourself?” Asking questions she somehow already knew the answer to was equal parts cruel and unusual, particularly when asking it of a man whose name never got to back pages. Or her ears, it seemed. She swallowed whatever was sitting in the back of her mouth. 

“Brum was there,” he said, but it sounded like an excuse. A practiced line that had started to reek of insincerity. “My—well, my parents had been gone for a while. Same old sob story you always hear, y’know? Kid loses everything, finds salvation in the dogma of sports, gets pretty good at it, and then—” “—Loses it all again?” Nina finished. She thought she did. Whoever was talking didn’t sound like Nina. Sounded like someone who had painstakingly refolded her paper airplane the night before. To keep on the nightstand next to her bed. 

“Some of it, yeah. They wanted me to stick around. Stay on staff. Coach. But that was—” He clicked his tongue. Distant eyes stared past that goddamn M&Ms ad, and Nina didn’t think. Wasn’t that how the best athletes were, though? All instinct and lightning-fast reaction times. Responding to a situation before the rest of us mere mortals could even begin to fathom the circumstance. 

He didn’t push her hand off his. 

The coffee was going to go cold. 

“Very maudlin way of approaching things.” She chuckled. Tried not to cry, for entirely new reasons. “Impressive vocabulary for a jock.” “Keep workshop'ing your insults, Ms. Met.”

“Brum, he just got hired by the Phillies, right?” She knew that answer too. “Is this the first game you’ve been to?” His eyes slid to hers. In that same slow motion as before, and that couldn’t possibly have been less than seventy-two hours ago, but life had a tendency to be weird like that and good like that and, well, you can’t predict baseball, Suzyn.  

“Why the Mets?” It wasn’t the question she expected. Felt far too big and more than a little terrifying, jumping into the deep end of the pool from the highest diving board. But that same pool was always crystal clear, the sort of blue they wrote songs about. Summertime and the living was easy. That sort of thing. 

“Because there’s something wonderful in a team that defies every bit of sports conjecture. That breathes in the chaos and spits out something that, every now and then, is absolutely beautiful. That lets me be bigger than myself for nine innings and a minimum of one-hundred and sixty-two games. That takes all my shortcomings and accepts them because one time this team claimed there was a raccoon fighting with a rat in the dugout tunnel. Because they don’t play The Imperial March during lineup announcements.” Something, something—she needed better sunscreen. 

So as to not get burned by the force of his sun-like smile. 

“I think a raccoon could probably take a rat, don’t you think?” “I don’t know,” Nina wavered, “I own a fair amount of Staten Island Pizza Rat merch.” His hand flipped. Fingers curled around hers and held on with an ease that settled her acid and cooled her blood, finally finding that middle ground between frigid and fission. 

“Explain the single seating.” “I had a friend here on Thursday.” “And he had to go back to work. Where does he work?” “Bar in Jersey.” Curiosity flashed in the blue, but then it was gone and Nina must have imagined it, looking for more common ground and mutual understanding. Her fingers looked minuscule between his. 

“If I told you that I know the new owner of the Mets,” Nina started, “because I went to college with his girlfriend, and he’s been listening to me talk about this team for the better part of a decade now, so he decided to spend some of his inherited millions to buy it, and now that same girlfriend is sitting up there perpetually confused why I like to be out here, do you think you’d hate me on principle?” One blink. Two. Head tilt. Jaw clench. His lips popped when they opened. 

“No.” “No?” “No,” he echoed, “Nikolai Lantsov shouldn’t have spent so much money on your shortstop’s contract.” “Wasn’t an error.” Both shoulders lifted.

“Nina Zenik,” she said, a tardy greeting that should have happened well before the hand holding. The hand holding continued. 

“Matthias Helvar.” “Did you bring a pen?” He pulled another one out of his jacket pocket. 

They disagreed on no less than half a dozen calls. Impressive, since they didn’t actually start paying attention to their separate score sheets and books until early in the third inning after Nina had barely cleared the cheese sauce off the corner of her page. 

Introducing themselves made it feel as if they’d crested another level in whatever the proper term for this not-quite relationship was. 

Jabs weren’t nearly as sharp, but elbows brushed and noses scrunched. Makeshift disdain blurred against subtle infatuation, sunshine in his hair and pressing against the barrier of Nina’s consistently reapplied sunscreen. They talked. Laughed. Shouted and screamed, standing at different times. Much to the chagrin of everyone around them. 

She didn’t bother asking about the Chase Utley jersey. Knew that it was as much a part of Matthias’s fandom as the Piazza jersey was to hers. Connecting him to something that was only partially his, because no matter how much this sport might be capable of sweeping over them, of bringing them along with the current, there was a riptide always threatening just below the surface. Capable of drowning and filling lungs, leaving them both taking on water and hastily constructed metaphors. 

Plus, they both hated the Yankees. So, they talked about that. 

Talked about places in the city they liked to go, Nina’s knowledge of hole-in-the-wall restaurants leaving his eyes as wide as she’d hoped they could be, tiny pools she was more than willing to dive into. With perfect form. 

Laughter became the new normal for the pair of them, chancing glances when they thought the other wasn’t looking. They always were. As if those magnets were real and forceful, leaving them both grinning like idiots whenever they were caught in the act. 

Once an inning, then. 

Matthias didn’t sing during the seventh-inning stretch, but Nina was loud enough for the pair of them. Especially when she was standing on her seat, a hand flat on the small of her back. 

“So you don’t fall,” Matthias explained, and the words immediately branded themselves on that corner of her brain where Nina kept good things. 

They shared a plastic helmet of swirl ice cream. With rainbow sprinkles. 

He called them jimmies. 

She made fun of him. 

And then—

It was over. 

No drama. No walk-off hits. No extra innings. Just a Mets win that didn’t require the bottom of the ninth. And she was happy with that, she was. Less so with the way her stomach dropped as soon as her knees bent and her chin lifted, barely tempered hope and the sort of want that did not require magnets to direct her gaze. 

Matthias loomed above her, casting shadows and the desire to finally push her fingers into his hair was nearly too much to ignore. Nina did. In favor of what came next because she knew what came next, and this was not that serious. Sitting on opposing lines of a flimsy at best baseball rivalry did not mean she couldn’t push up on her toes and catch the mouth of someone who no longer felt like a stranger. Until that same mouth inevitably opened and she got to do whatever she wanted with her tongue. 

Only—

One of the season tickets started grumbling, and the sea of fans pushed forward and the only way Nina stayed upright was because of the arm around her waist. Matthias’s nose ticked her skin along the back of her neck. 

“Told ya,” he mumbled, and if he saw the goosebumps, he didn’t mention them. 

That was nice. 

He was nice. 

She was—

A mess, at best. 

Mostly because there was no kissing. Almost like they were nervous of what would happen if they did. Of shattering this tremulous understanding and shaky alliance, but Matthias’s fingers squeezed Nina’s hip before he said, “See you tomorrow.”

She did not see him tomorrow. 

When tomorrow was tonight and now and Zoya and Genya kept doing circles around the room. 

Sunday Night Baseball on ESPN required a certain amount of protocol and it was the first broadcast with Nikolai in the owner’s box, which meant plenty of shots at the owner’s box, and Nina sat in her very plush, decidedly warm seat, with only minimal argument. 

There was champagne, so. That helped. 

Plus, she figured she’d— “Is it a guy?” Genya asked without preamble, propping her chin on her hand. “Is that why you don’t want to hang out?” Nina sighed. “You know me better than that.” “Sure, sure, sure, looked real cozy down there, though.” “Are you spying on me?” “Nah, Zoya was.” Frustration clawed at Nina’s consciousness. Surprise did not. This was par for the course and several other out-of-place sports cliches. 

Zoya finished her drink before adding, “I didn’t leave this suite all afternoon, yesterday, the security guards that Nikolai knows in that section though…” “That’s splitting hairs,” Nina argued. “And they were just doing their job,” Nikolai added, shouting in a way a multi-millionaire absolutely should not. Zoya rolled her eyes. 

“Whatever they were doing,” Nina said, “they didn’t need to be doing it. What if someone got robbed while they were watching me?” “You think people are getting robbed in broad daylight inside this stadium?” “Maybe!” “Were lots of Phillies fans here,” Genya pointed out. Laughter clung to her words, quiet snickers from the rest of the assorted peanut gallery. Before they noticed that Nina wasn’t lacking. Might have paled, if the matching expressions she was met with were any indication. “Oh,” Genya exhaled, “good looking Phillies fan, huh?” Nina grit her teeth. “He knows Brum.” “The bastard,” Nikolai sneered. 

“Most people don’t like him.” “Because he’s a bastard, yeah.” “How’d the Phillies fan know Brum?” Zoya asked, and it wasn’t like Nina wanted to tell them. Words poured out of her all the same, excitement carving its way into the conversation because even if she could rationalize the lack of kissing after a three-day conversation and occasional argument, none of her friends could understand how she didn’t get his number. 

Neither could she, quite frankly. 

“This is either disgustingly romantic,” Nikolai said, “or it’s exceedingly dumb. Of both of you.” Genya clicked her tongue. In agreement, Nina figured. “Second one, for sure. Do we have to go arrest him for something? Bring him up here, nervous and scared—” “Same sentiment,” Nina mumbled. “—Only for him to see you, awash in a sea of moonlight and outfield lights, and then you live happily ever after despite your baseball allegiances?” “He hates the Yankees too.” “Something, at least,” Zoya said, but it was missing the edge. The acid. The anger Nina had almost prepared herself for. “You going to go down there, or….”

Finishing the sentence was pointless when Nina was already standing, Nikolai’s laugh ringing in her ears as she did her best to push her finger straight through the elevator button. She bobbed on the balls of her feet, impatience skittering up her spine and there were too many buttons and too much laughter, but that was likely a good thing, and the security guards didn’t stop her. 

From running into the section. 

Only to find two sets of empty seats. His and hers. A weird, depressing, matching set. 

Nina waited. Stood at the top of the section stairs, waiting for a flash of familiar hair or those eyes that she probably hadn’t dreamed about the night before. Never came. The goosebumps did, for an entirely new and even more depressing reason. 

The security guard asked her to leave. Twenty-eight minutes after the last out. 

Matthias hadn’t been at the game. 

To be a Mets fan, was to wait. 

For wins. For David Wright’s body to heal. For that same rush that came in 2015, only this time, it also came up with a World Series championship attached to it. 

Nina wasn’t very good at waiting. 

Summer crept forward. As it was apt to do. Going back to the ballpark was second nature to Nina, but the Mets were on their West Coast swing, and spending a week and a half with Zoya and Genya touring the greater California coast wasn’t entirely appealing. So, she was in New Jersey. 

Leaning against the bar of the Crow Club, Nina watched the crowd. Most of them saturated with fruity alcohol, drinks that never came with those little umbrellas because the thought of such a thing would have set Kaz’s teeth on edge, but this was Atlantic City and that required a certain level of nonsense to be met consistently. 

Plus, Nina knew Inej liked those drinks. 

And that was that, for Kaz. As they say. 

Heads turned at tables while she watched, conversations that only occasionally acknowledged the baseball games on TVs hanging above them, others recounting beach exploits from that afternoon and plans for the rest of the evening, a steady din of noise and humanity that somehow made it easier for Nina to breathe. 

It smelled like salt when she did. 

“Looking awfully thoughtful,” Inej said, appearing out of nowhere to grin knowingly at Nina. “Give you a nickel for them.” “They’re not worth that much.” “What about one of those tokens from the casino down the boardwalk?” “Does Kaz know Jesper went to play there again?” “Absolutely.” “And?” “And what?” Inej parroted. “Who are you looking for, exactly?” “No one.” It was the wrong answer. A telling answer. An answer Nina didn’t realize she was capable of providing until the very moment those five letters in that specific order passed between lips in desperate need of ChapStick. And kissing. Gods, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t kissed him. 

“Our dear, darling Nina is pining,” Jesper explained. Drink in hand, the soft clink of casino tokens was as absurd as it was not, a mix of youth and age and responsibility and not. The perfect blend of summertime status. 

Nina took a sip of his drink before he could offer. She assumed he would offer. 

“For that,” Jesper hissed, “I’ll tell Inej the rest of the story.” He did. Spared no expense, really. Recounted scorebooks and shouting matches, although some dramatic license was taken at that point, drawing a small crowd that included a guy Nina had never met before, staring openly at Jesper like he’d hung the moon. She’d make fun of him for that. Maybe. After the story. Probably. 

Inej was a rapt audience, taking in details and occasionally letting her eyes flit toward Nina. Who never once disputed anything. There was nothing to dispute. The goddamn paper airplane was still sitting on her goddamn nightstand. 

“And you just never saw him again?” Inej asked. Nina shook her head. “That’s tragic. Not—maybe not grand scheme, world level, but tragic all the same.” “No kissing either,” Jesper added. 

Nina’s heart dropped. Shattered at her feet. Like one of those plates, you could shoot at in the arcade. “How do you know that?” “I didn’t, until right now. Simple assumption, though. Who could pine at your level if there’d been previous making out?” “Two different things,” Inej murmured. 

Jesper hummed in agreement. “And Nina wanted both. Fraternizing with the enemy.” “He hated the Yankees, too.” “So, what? The enemy of my enemy is my friend? My good-looking friend?” “He was good-looking, right?” That earned her another hum — and got Jesper a look of passing consternation from the guy at his side. Nina desperately needed to learn names in a more timely fashion. Determined to remedy at least one situation, she took a deep breath and immediately, very nearly died. 

It was very dramatic. 

Sweeping, even. 

Because the door opened and she knew the music didn’t stop and the Earth didn’t pause mid-rotation, but it felt like her center of balance had been inextricably altered and that wasn’t the bad thing it should have been when Matthias Helvar took his first step into the Crow Club. 

Not falling over really was a rather monumental miracle. 

If she decided to move, Nina did not remember it. Could not bother with something as menial as cognitive reasoning or the ability of the neurons in her brain to properly fire, not when she was twisting around tables and reminding herself of all the very important properties oxygen possessed. In regard to continued consciousness. 

He didn’t move. He waited. Watched. Documented her, it felt like. 

She wasn’t entirely opposed. 

Their shoes nearly brushed. 

“Huh,” Matthias breathed, slumping slightly to get into her eye line. Or just closer to her. The specifics didn’t matter. “I was right, then.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “You said your friend worked at a bar in Jersey.” “This is a bar in Jersey.” “Yeah, we might be going in circles, actually.” “What are you doing here?” Nina was dimly aware of Jesper shouting something, but the buzz between her ears was far too loud and even the concept of pulling her gaze away from Matthias’s made her want to grit her teeth together until she ground them down completely. 

She licked her lips. 

He smiled. “After I got hurt,” Matthias explained, “I didn’t know what way was up. So, I went...up. Best as I could, really, up the Shore.” “Is that a joke?” “No, I thought your friend looked familiar. Was driving me nuts, honestly.” “How?” “Twenty questions, Ms. Met.” “Matthias!”

Her voice cracked. Her foot stomped. Air crackled and the world very likely did shift because the hands on Nina’s cheeks were warm and perfectly sized to pull her that much closer and she was legitimately proud of herself. For not stepping on his feet. He didn’t really give her the chance. 

Rocking against each other, there was a joke about tides and current to be made and Nina pushed them back, down or up, and direction didn’t matter and time didn’t matter. Sports allegiance was the least of her worries. Not when Matthias’s arm found her waist and there was something to be said for the stretch of his upper body. Capable, as it was, of lifting her up and he was ten-thousand times better at any tongue thing than she could have possibly imagined. 

Tracing her lips and twisting around her own, like he was taking a very personal and detailed inventory. One of his thumbs brushed against Nina’s cheeks, but she honestly couldn’t figure out which one. Everything was sensation and feeling, a bases-clearing double that kept the rally alive and the roar in the background wasn’t the crowd at Citi Field, but Inej perched on the edge of the bar and Jesper balanced on the rungs of a rickety stool, and they only broke apart to fall back together. 

Nina closed her eyes. 

Better to remember, that way. 

To let her breath catch whenever Matthias’s neck dipped again, the sort of angle that sonnets were written for, and epic romances documented. Right side up and cross dimensions and Nina’s eyelashes fluttered. Open, closed. Once, twice. 

He was still there. 

“You go down the Shore, everybody knows that,” Nina whispered, still somehow sounding like herself. Good, that was good. And only good, that time. 

“I think you’re getting paid by the disagreement.” “I liked shouting your name.” His eyes—

Sparkled, maybe. 

She didn’t even hate herself for thinking that. 

“Probably about as much as I enjoyed hearing it,” Matthias said, “and I’ve been here before. Spent that summer drinking at,” his head jerked toward the corner where Inej waved, “that corner. This was as far away from school and baseball and everything I thought was gone as I could find.” “Ah, the scorebook makes sense now.” “Does it just?” “You know baseball isn’t often predictable nor nearly that organized. That’s the appeal, so people claim.” “They do,” Matthias admitted, “but I—is that demon-looking guy still working here?” “Kaz owns this bar.” “Of course he does. You know everyone, don’t you Ms. Met?” “Impressive like that.” Humming wasn’t really her favorite of the audible, non-word responses, but Nina heard something different in that sound than she ever had before. Almost like hope and something worth waiting for, if only because the waiting found her first. 

She kissed the bottom of his chin. 

It was all she could reach. 

“I really wanted you to be here, Nina,” Matthias said, “and I’m sorry I wasn’t there Sunday. For that game, I—that wasn’t part of the plan, but...well, Brum had set up this whole interview with a college team in the middle of nowhere, thinking I’d be good with that and—” “You weren’t good with that?” His hair shook when his head did. “Not really, no.” “Did he kick you out of your hotel?”

“Smart too.” “Total package.” “Yeah,” Matthias said, a note of awe that made Nina’s skin prickle, “anyway, I’m pretty much in New York full-time now, but trying to find you there seemed impossible.” “So you figured you’d try a bar in the middle of Atlantic City?” “I leave a very strong impression,” Jesper yelled, practically jumping off the stool when Kaz glared. Inej’s smile was hypnotic. 

“Something like that,” Matthias agreed, “so this is the part where we actually give each other our phone numbers and then—” His arm tightened again, finding a bit of space that certainly hadn’t been there twelve seconds before. Just enough to make sure Nina heard him mumble I like you before he kissed her. Or she kissed him. 

Either or, really. 

They went to Yankee Stadium on Labor Day weekend. 

Nikolai pulled some strings to get them suite seats with complimentary well drinks and never-ending popcorn and both Matthias and Nina wore wholly out of place jerseys. Supporting neither of the teams on the field. Just each other, maybe. At least without much argument. They had better things to do, anyway. Fingers laced together, Nina shouted at the field and Matthias stared at anyone who dared glance in their direction and it was weird and wonderful and exactly what sports was supposed to be. 

Caring about something beyond reason, something bigger and better than any one person was alone. 

[mischiefs-hawk]

Sometimes if Crowley thought about it long enough and hard enough, he could remember what he was like before he fell. He was big- sort of? The clearest thing he could remember was the light- the over whelming light that extended out into space out to the farthest and coldest stars. 

He’d had a different name, too. A name before Anthony J. Crowley, a name even before he was called Crawley. It was an important name, a powerful name he could just barely recall the sound of it in God’s soothing voice. The way his brothers used to tease him as they flew through the universe breathing stars and life into creation as they had been ordered. The name itself was gone, stripped away from him when Lucifer pulled him down out of heaven to join in his rebellion. 

Crowley hadn’t thought much about it at the time, that nothing truly bad could happen if he was with his big brother. Then he burned and his glorious white wings stung and burned, the ash of his skin darkening his wings until they were black as soot. 

Lucifer, in his outrage for loosing, or maybe just to punish Crowley for whatever he’d done wrong (cried from the pain, perhaps?) had looked into his head and taken out the name God had given him. 

So, he could remember that the name as said by God or Michael or Gabriel or Lucifer had been a comfort to him but not the name itself. 

Crowley had never bothered to ask Aziraphale though he was certain the angel could remember it. The question of his old name had come to mind while he’d been following around Aziraphale at the Tate Museum. They had some special exhibition on an older less-well known artist Xenophilius Reknowned. Ironically, he wasn’t very reknown until well after his death. 

Xenophilius Reknowned, born 1900, died 1945 in Dresden. Only through a miracle, so to speak, that while he burned away in Allied Firebombings his paintings did not. The exactly 13 (and 1 complete sketch book) paintings that remained in storage until being found in 2010 when a couple was looking for a place to fool around. 

Anyway, it took nearly a decade for the artwork to find its way over to the London Tate Museum of Art. If one were in London and fancied a walk around, it would take approximately 12 minutes to go from the Tate to St. Paul’s Cathedral. From which, if going to the very top, you could see over the Thames and back onto the Tate. 

But that isn’t important, aside from the slight bit of irony. 

In the lightly colored hallway, set aside for exhibitions such as this, Xenophilius’ paintings were on display. Three of them depicted Michael, Gabriel and Lucifer. Michael’s with his great sword, Gabriel and his horn and Lucifer’s fall. Several depicted the rebellion which led to the fall and the last one was a set piece of sorts. The painting depicted a figure, looking quite at ease with the world as he fell through the sky head first, his leg at an odd angle with one wing bright white and the other black. It was the oddest thing to look at as if you starred long enough at it, you’d swear the white wing was shimmering. Or that if you looked at it again, you would swear that it had been the other wing which was white and the other that was black. 

As Aziraphale flitted about the room, studying the paintings Crowley found himself in front of this last painting. There was something about it that made Crowley feel uncomfortable, sort of tense. In his head was a mix of radio static and burning. 

It’s title was “Truth will out by Caesar’s 6th: 24-7-22-14-7-11-18.” 

“Well that’s odd,” Crowley muttered, jumping a bit when a pair of hands wrapped around his arm, Aziraphale’s head resting against his shoulder. 

Ever since the Armagedidn’t and both Heaven and Hell had left them alone, Zira had felt more comfortable in public embraces of affection. Hand-holding, hugging, an occasional peck. Crowley found himself very much enjoying it. 

“What is?” 

“This painting- doesn’t it just feel weird?” 

“Hmm,” Aziraphale murmured, standing up straight to study the portrait. He was quiet for a moment before releasing a surprised “huh.” 

Crowley was watching his companion intently, waiting for the angel to continue. 

“It was painted with holy water, I think? I think the artist was a seer of sorts? Perhaps he saw this angel falling and was inspired?” 

The fallen angel was quiet for a moment, his next words tentative and unsure. 

“Angel, I think that’s me.” 

[eternityunicorn]

Elijah’s Eternity Part Ten

Author: eternityunicorn 

Genre: Romance/Fantasy/AU

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x OC

Warnings: Violence, Language, Smut (Smut marked +18)

Summary: Elijah Mikaelson didn’t know what to expect when he encountered the strange archer in the night, but he certainly didn’t think his whole world would be turned upside down by it. Yet, he quickly learns that she is more than what she seems, having come looking for an Original after a large spike in supernatural being populations started cropping up on Earth a thousand years ago. Now, he must help her decide if the supernatural community should stay on their home planet or leave it for good? A task that is made more complicated along the way, as his life is changed forever.

NOTE: OC is from my up and coming novel series. Other elements from said novel series also included. 

———————————————————————————————————

The walk to the Art Institute of Chicago was frankly quick. It was just located a couple of blocks away from the penthouse, not a long walk at all. Elijah walked with Eternity by his side, her hand nestled in the crook of his arm with her other hand resting on his bicep. It reminded him of their time in Maine, just a couple nights before. 

They moved steadily toward their destination, while Elijah spoke of his few past adventure in the city. She smiled at his retelling, at the excitement he displayed whenever he would paint the imagery of the old landscape for her. She didn’t say much in reply, contented to simply listen to him speak.

His telling made the already short journey feel even shorter. It wasn’t long at all until they were climbing the steps of the Art Institute, recognizable by the green lions that stood guard on either side of the large stairway. Once inside, he took the lead in showing her around the place, having wanted to show her his favorite pieces and periods of art.

For a while, they simply wandered about, viewing this painting or that sculpture. He would tell her of his knowledge in each piece. Again, Eternity was content to let him tell her what he knew, seeming to absorb everything he said with high interest. She would comment here or there on what she had experienced in regards to the time periods each piece was from, but for the most part, she was just content to look and listen. 

One of the exhibits of the institute was that of old Viking swords and shields. Here, he stared at each piece with a certain fondness. A lot of the items locked behind the glass had been apart of his life long ago. They generally reminded him of a time long since past - of home. He began talking about the construction of the swords and shields in a step by step fashion, becoming more animated as he went. He remembered these things like they had happened yesterday and not a thousand years ago.

Then Elijah started speaking on the symbols etched into the metal. On one of the hilts was a worn etching of Loki, the Trickster God of Asgard. All he had to do was mention the figure’s name for a dark look to cross Eternity’s face. It was similar to the ones he had seen before upon her lovely features. 

She wasn’t looking at him, but at the sword he had mentioned. Her body was tense and it seemed like she was trying to light the old blade on fire with her stare. It didn’t light up, as he partially expected, which was good. It would be impossible to compel that many people into forgetting such a strange incident. Yet, he was concerned as to the cause of such a disturbed look. It didn’t settle well to see her upset.

“Eternity,” Elijah called to her, reaching to gently grab her arm.

The moment he touched her, she snapped out of it. She smiled shyly and laughed nervously at him. “Forgive me,” she whispered.

“Are you alright?”

“Aye. Just remembering...the past.”

With those words, Elijah was immediately more interested in her than the artifacts. “Explain.”

Eternity looked back at the sword with Loki on it, though this time her expression was light and animated, if not also a little sad. “Loki, along with all the figures of the old Norsemen’s religion, are real people,” she told him softly. “It is the same for some of the other mythologies too. Zeus, Hera, Hades. Anubis, Osiris, Isis. Odin, Thor...Loki. All of them are real.”

Elijah was taken aback by her words. So, there were gods amongst the immortals she spoke of. While he admitted he was surprised, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t expected to find out something of that nature from her. In fact, it made sense that some of the figures of human mythology would be real. But what puzzled him was why did the mention of Loki affect her so much? 

“Loki and I have history,” Eternity answered his thoughts. “He killed my grandmother, who was the Universal Queen before the duty fell to me. They hated each other and so, Loki acted as he always does: with malicious intent, slaying her before should even defend herself.”

“So, you seek revenge for this crime,” surmised Elijah. 

“No, not revenge,” she responded quickly. “I am a guardian. Revenge is not in my nature as a result. Though justice certainly needs to be fulfilled for his actions, but not with his death.”

Elijah didn’t understand. A man committed regicide and yet death wasn’t to be the automatic punishment for such a heinous crime? Maybe the laws were different for the immortals, he reasoned. Perhaps, they understood death was too swift a punishment and so, chose other methods to execute justice.

“You know, all those old Norsemen stories that you and your family grew up on were mostly complete fabrications,” smiled Eternity, changing the direction of their conversation. 

He allowed it, figuring it was best for now. So, he smirked playfully, “Is that right?”

“Aye, it is,” she nodded. “Odin, Loki, and Thor used to come here to Earth, to tell tales of their godhoods to the poor naive humans. Odin was especially full of himself when he spoke of how he created the universe and life itself to the humans. Of course, it never happened. Odin is not a creator god or any sort of god for that matter. He, like all immortals of light, are fallible creatures with only a higher calling of guardianship. Yet, he and many others, still like to think themselves gods toward those they deem lesser than; humanity being number one in that.”

“They sound delightful.”

“They are quite ridiculous. A little pathetic as well.”

Seeing how indignant she was becoming, Elijah observed, “You’re very impassioned by this distasteful attitude of your fellow immortals.”

With deadly seriousness, Eternity replied, “When they think themselves above others, you’re damned right I’m impassioned by their distasteful attitudes. Nobody is better than anyone else. No matter their station in the greater scheme of the universes.”

Elijah was impressed by the fierceness in her, in that moment. Her sapphire eyes were unyielding and intense with a noble sense of compassion for others, particularly in regard to those weaker. It was beautiful to see light in someone nonhuman like him. He had lived in darkness for so long, hoping to see light shine in on his world. Now, here she was doing just that with her value of others, of the innocent. His heart swelled for her and before he knew it, he was cupping her cheek and pulling her close. He kissed her passionately. 

Though a little surprised at first, she reciprocated eagerly, curling her hands up into his hair tenderly as she did. 

Elijah didn’t know how long they stood there wrapped up in each other, but by the time they parted, both of them were absolutely breathless. He took the opportunity to whisk them away to another area of the institute, holding her hand in his the whole way.

“You know, I’ve spent the past thousand years doing as I pleased,” he found himself telling her as they went. “Justice for the Mikaelson Family has always been based on self-preservation or selfish pursuits, including killing those that dare oppose us, humans included. Niklaus is the most ruthless of us, but we’ve all killed, maimed, tortured whenever it suited us. Even I’m not excluded from such...darkness.”

“I know,” Eternity said. “The darkness is powerful. It is easy to give into it, to let your darker nature prevail, especially when you have a brother who is a master of it; of fear, or control, of revenge. Live like that long enough and it’s difficult to live any other way, even if you wish it. But there is always light, even in you, Elijah - in Niklaus. If you can find it, then you can be different, better.”

“Maybe I just don’t believe that,” he smiled humorlessly.

“Perhaps it is simply something you have to discover on your own,” she countered, “but in the meantime, may I suggest you consider this: would I be here with you, if you were such a monster? If you are not capable of more?”

Elijah gazed at her profoundly, considering her words, but he didn’t reply. Instead, he turned back to the tour of the Art Institute, trying to turn their outing back to a happier tone.

Soon, they reached the Far East exhibit and Eternity was enthralled by the art there, as she gazed at some old Japanese artworks from the Feudal Era. Their previous talk had been abandoned for the time being.

“My family is from Japan,” Eternity informed him casually with a fond smile. “They lived in the region before the Great War. We’ve adapted many of the customs and whatnot from our ancestral home on Earth.”

Elijah looked surprised, “Really?”

“I also have a different cousin from the one I mentioned before,” she said, “whom still lives there. She runs a small shrine and tends to the wounded and sick mortals who wander into her forest. Though it’s technically illegal, she does also revive people from the dead, but usually only children. However, that should always be an exception to the rule.”

“I’ve been to Japan, years ago, and now that you mention it, I do recall hearing about a mystical shrine that performed miracles,” admitted Elijah, after some thought. “I thought it was utter nonsense, as many tales like those are. I suppose I shouldn’t have been so hasty in dismissing the stories.”

“Perhaps, it’s for the best that you did dismiss them,” Eternity replied. “Kaname wouldn’t take kindly to a vampire entering her woods. Not even one that meant no harm. Dark creatures are simply not allowed there.”

Elijah couldn’t take offense to that. It was true, he was a dark creature; a being created with dark magic. No doubt, her cousin had the same purpose in life as Eternity did; to protect others from the darkness. 

With that thought, he began to wonder why Eternity was with him? He was a being of darkness, and she was one of light. They shouldn’t be together. She shouldn’t want to be with him. Yes, they had an arrangement, a temporary partnership. But it was more than that. She had allowed more and in a short amount of time. Eternity was right by his side, as his lover - a companion. He didn’t understand it. Yet, he wanted nothing else than her by his side. He believed she felt the same way. 

“I’m with you because I like what I see in you,” Eternity told him, reading his thoughts again. “You are a complex man, to be sure. You are fiercely devoted to your family. You care about their well-beings over all others, a noble cause. Of course, you’ll commit whatever terrible sin you must to protect your family and that can lead to terrible deeds. But I can see that you are capable of love and compassion and forgiveness, qualities that are of light, qualities that I can appreciate, despite your flaws.”

Elijah gave a small smile, reaching out to touch her cheek tenderly in appreciation, before moving on.

From there, they explored other parts of the institute, their conversations resuming their lightness. Eventually, they reached the food court and decided to take a break from their wanderings. There were others around, families and couples alike, getting food or sitting about conversing. The voices echoed in the vaulted room, making each conversation blend in with the others.

Elijah bought lunch for them and they sat together, at the outside seating with big green umbrellas at every table, where it was much quieter. He had ordered a couple cold sandwiches and juices for them to enjoy; though in truth, Eternity enjoyed the food more than he. He wasn’t exactly fond of the low quality rubbish that the institute provided. 

“Human food is amazing,” Eternity hummed appreciatively. “Their cuisines are so much better than most of the immortal worlds.”

“Is that right?” He replied, amused by the way she vigorously scarfed down the subpar ham sandwich as any ordinary person might. “I would think that theirs would be the superior cuisine.”

She scrunched her nose at him, “No, it’s not. It’s because most immortal food is produced through magic. The magic makes any food created from it taste artificial, stale even. It’s not appetizing in the least, believe me.”

“Is that why you come here to this world? To have decent food?”

“One of the reasons, yes.”

He chuckled humorously. 

Before anything else could be said, the loud sound of gunshots rang out into to the air. The sound had alerted Eternity, especially when many screams accompanied the continuous sound of firing guns. Elijah was mildly curious about it, but he didn’t get involved with the affairs of humans. Human matters were of no concern to him, an Original. Though from what he knew, he could surmise that it was either a robbery going wrong or a crazed madman going on a rampage. 

“It’s coming from outside the institute,” Eternity informed him needlessly, getting up swiftly.

“So it is,” replied Elijah with slight disinterest.

She didn’t seem bothered by his reaction. In fact, she looked understanding of it. “Normally, I don’t get involved in human affairs either,” she said hurriedly, ‘but that’s mostly because I’m not around to be involved. I’d like to see what I can do to help. I simply cannot abide by any innocent getting hurt.”

Of course, she couldn’t. 

Elijah sighed, “Well, perhaps if we go to the roof, we can see what we can do without letting the entire city know about us. I do like to maintain a low profile.”

“Just what I was thinking. Shall we?”

“As my lady wishes.”

With vampire speed, Elijah got them up to the roof of the institute. They moved to a spot where they could observe whatever was going on down below without notice. From their vantage point, Elijah could see a dozen police surrounding their suspect who had a hostage in his grasp - a gun pointed to the young woman’s head. From the looks of things, it also looked like a couple of people were wonder, bleeding on the ground. The smell of human blood was strong. It was good that Eternity’s blood was still sustaining him or else he wouldn’t have been able to remain so composed. 

The scene was full of onlookers and rescue teams. There wasn’t any way from him to do anything with so many witnesses. It was lucky for the humans that they happened to had a goddess watching over them in Eternity.

She swiftly assessed the situation. “The gunman is being controlled,” she observed. “I sense weak human magic - a dark variety of it.”

“A witch.”

“Aye.”

“Well, what do you suppose we do?” He asked, finally becoming interested in the situation, but only because one from the supernatural community was involved.

Eternity smiled, “I got this.”

Instantly, her outfit shifted into the corset and leather legging ensemble she always wore when going into battle. In her hands, her yumi bow and a single arrow already notched there appeared. The arrow head glowed bright blue like her horn did when she was a unicorn. She took aim at the possessed madman and let the arrow fly. 

To Elijah’s surprise, the arrow wasn’t meant to wound the man, but instead landed at his feet. Immediately, the blue light waffled up into blue vapors that swirled around the human. The gunman ceased holding the gun at the woman in his grasp and he slowly released her in a hypnotized sort of way. Within moments, he swayed and then collapsed in a heap on the ground. 

“The spell has been broken,” Eternity informed Elijah. 

It seemed to be true. The gunman recovered from his fall and began looking around him in confused horror, wondering what was going on. Then the realization hit and the man panicked, screaming that he wasn’t responsible for the crime, just as the police were moving in to subdue him. He begged and pleaded, but it fell on deaf ears.

“He’s a pawn,” observed Eternity, as the gunman was being carried off into the awaiting police car. “The lover of a vampire is he, but he doesn’t know that his lover is of supernatural origin.”

“This vampire probably angered a witch and the witch sought revenge through the human,” supplied Elijah. “I wonder if he or she is a member of the local vampire clan.”

“You refer to the one we’re to meet.”

“Yes. That very one.”

Eternity’s outfit shifted back into the lovely lavender dress from before. Her bow vanished as she changed as well. “Now I’m even more intrigued to meet this clan.” 

Elijah held out his hand to her then, “Yes, so am I.”

She took his hand without hesitation. The two of them headed down off the roof. Their exploration of the institute was over. Though the tour of the city was still on the agenda. There were other places that Elijah knew she would find interesting. 

They spent the rest of the day, going around the city, with Elijah telling her of the history, of his own personal experiences there. He also took her to the shops around town, letting her explore the human world at close range. The people they passed all stopped to stare in awe of Eternity. Some were curious and others were wary. Children were the most amusing in their admiration. They would stop and look with wide eyes and excitement. It was as if they could see what she really was, despite her human visage. Maybe they could. Either way, it was fascinating to see.

Eventually, the evening set in and Elijah took Eternity to a high end Italian restaurant, where they were served the best wine and far better food than that of the Art Institute’s food court. They sat and talked about a variety of things, nothing of great importance. It was just light talk, the same as it had been since earlier in the day. There was nothing but enjoyment in each other’s company. 

Then just as they were leaving the restaurant, Elijah felt the hunger stir inside him for the first time since he had tasted Eternity’s blood. Outside, he told Eternity, “I must feed.”

Eternity nodded understandingly, taking Elijah by his hand and leading him away toward the back of the building. Once they were concealed in shadows, she turned to him and said, “Feed on me.”

He didn’t hesitate this time. He pulled Eternity to him, embracing her tightly in one arm, while the hand of the other reached up to trace the column of her neck tantalizingly. He could feel the blood coursing through her beneath his fingertips, it caused the excitement of the feed to course at a greater pace through his own body. 

Without waiting another moment, Elijah descended up Eternity. His mouth traced open mouth kisses to her skin, his tongue reaching out to taste the soft flesh. He felt her sigh and relax against him, just before he let his vampire teeth sink into her neck. 

She gasped and tensed, but only for a moment, relaxing against him again almost immediately. She clutched him to her, a hand cupping the back of his head tenderly, while he pulled the blood from her. She moaned deliciously, the sound driving him. As before, the taste of her was exquisite and it warmed him to that same higher degree, making him feel far stronger and  completely sated than any human could. 

When Elijah eventually pulled away and looked down at the woman in his arms, Eternity had that glazed, flushed look about her again, giving the impression of drunkenness. “That was amazing,” she sighed contently. 

He grinned down at her, “You seem to enjoy my feeding on you.”

“I do,” she replied without hesitation. She smiled widely, while still clinging to him. 

Elijah chuckled, keeping his arm securely around her to keep her from falling. She simply didn’t seem to be able to support herself. “Come on, Sweetheart, let’s get you home. We can rest there until it’s time to meet with my acquaintance.”

Eternity nodded. She let him guide her out of the shadows and back out into the open. Together, they headed home to wait for the midnight hour to strike and their meeting with the vampire clan to commence. Little did Elijah know, what adventure awaited them when they arrived there.

[jeremystrele]

A Look Inside Patricia Piccinini’s Epic New Exhibition At Flinders Street Ballroom

A Look Inside Patricia Piccinini’s Epic New Exhibition At Flinders Street Ballroom

Art

by Sasha Gattermayr

Patricia in ‘Celestial Field’, one room out of the 11 her new exhibition ‘A Miracle Constantly Repeated’ occupies. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

The exhibition treads new territory for Patricia, who is incorporating sound, video and glasswork into her immersive scenes. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

4,000 white ‘plants’ fill Patricia’s Celestial Field. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

Colourful glass chimeras locked in an ambiguous embrace sit at the centre of this room, which is filled with 4,000 white ‘plants’ that grow up from the ground and hang from the ceiling. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

These puckered fleshy slugs are gross and cute at once! Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

A scaly prehistoric rodent sits on the forest floor of one room. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

Each room is its own landscape, either a full-scale immersive diorama or a lone sculpture in the centre of the sweeping space. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

even the humnoid creatures are unearthly. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

This wrinkly, fuzzy skin creature shows the level of skill and attention to detail each sculpture requires. How does one make silicone look so fleshy?! Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

Glass works, silicone and neon combine in this electric installation. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

Patricia literally glows! Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

This room is a real stylistic departure for Patricia. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

One of her older works of a woman cradling a baby creature stands atop a balcony looking over visitors from above. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

SO life-like! Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

The uncanny people are so real and sensitive, it’s almost disturbing. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

In these stripped back rooms, the sculptures take centre stage. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

The fantastical sit among the ordinary and mundane. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

A man piggybacking an alien being illustrates Patricia’s fascination with the emotional and physical connection between humans and non-human species. Photo – Bri Hammond for The Design Files.

The last few years has seen one of Australia’s most famous artists, Patricia Piccinini, launch her epic balloon artwork Skywhalepapa into the Canberra skies, and oversee a solo show that’s been touring Denmark, Sweden, Finland, Estonia and Austria.

But the thing that’s really kept her busy over the past twelve months is a commission for RISING, Melbourne’s new arts and culture festival. A Miracle Constantly Repeated occupies eleven rooms of the disused and dilapidated Flinders Street Ballroom. Each is its own discrete landscape: mythical beasts in a Dandenongs-like mountainscape, a celestial field populated with 4,000 white ‘plants’, or a forest inhabited by large, scaly rodents.

Some rooms are dioramas completely transformed with sound, video and light, and some contain just a single sculpture alone in the sweeping space. Patricia has been working on most of the installation since the beginning of last year, and some since 2015.

Now, it’s finally here.

Hey Patricia! This new exhibition is such an exciting concept. Describe it to me.

To be honest, I’m never really sure how many works I have in a show, but there are 11 rooms, each with a fairly substantial installation featuring one or more works. Some rooms just have a single work, which others have half a dozen. I’ve made a new single channel video work, ‘We walk together’, featuring [actor] Jillian Nguyen that looks at ideas of resilience and inter-species connection, for example.

A lot of the rooms will be familiar to people who know my work, although always with new elements, but the Ballroom is a real departure for me. I felt that it demanded a very site-specific response. The work contains a lot of new glass pieces that I developed as part of a residency at Canberra Glassworks earlier this year, including some neon elements that I’m very excited about. It includes this very guitar and drums-heavy soundscape by Jess Green and Bob Scott that makes it very much the party at the end of the exhibition.

What is significant about the Flinders Street Ballroom as an exhibition space?

The area above Flinders Street Station is this legendary space that many have heard about but few haver actually visited. The spaces run off this massively long corridor that stretches the entire length of the platform, transitioning from office spaces to rooms that were once a library or the billiard room or gymnasium and eventually the ballroom.

The space has been unused since the mid 1980s, and was in pretty rough shape when we moved in. But this roughness is really quite beautiful, and the walls are scarred with the history of the place, with graffiti and old signage. The ballroom itself has only just been rescued from the results of years of overflowing gutters, but it has these wonderful proportions and details that are really special.

RISING describes the exhibition as an ‘ecosystem’ of your work. What does that mean?

I guess each of the rooms is a landscape, with flora and fauna and often fungi. I try to create these spaces where there is a certain internal logic, where things seem to fit together even if they are hybrid or imagined.

For example,’Celestial Field’ is a landscape of four thousand pure white hybrid plants that grown from the floor and hang from the ceiling, creating this compressed environment occupied by very sleek, animal-like sculptures locked in an ambiguous embrace. Neither of these elements are very natural, yet they seem to fit naturally together.

What is behind the name ‘A Miracle Constantly Repeated’?

The title comes from a quote by Lyman Abbot, who was a nineteen century liberal theologian interested in reconciling science and spirituality. I love the way it captures the everyday marvellousness of nature, the way that every sunrise is this event that is both extraordinary and the very definition of ordinary.

I hope that the show highlights just how lucky we are to be living in this world of miracles.

‘A Miracle Constantly Repeated’ will be on during RISING, from May 26th and June 6th. The exhibition has been extended beyond the festival, and will be open from June 7th – August 31st. Book a ticket here!

Learn more about the RISING program here, and Patricia’s work here.

[ladyherenya]

Books read in November

I like it when I read a bunch of books with similar-coloured covers in a row . I love it when those covers are all blue.

This was another successful month of reading, including three YA short story collections, two graphic novels and one audiobook (and all the rest).

I’ve asterisked my favourites.

(My longer reviews and ratings are on LibraryThing. And also my Dreamwidth blog.)

Almost Midnight: two festive stories by Rainbow Rowell, illustrated by Simini Blocker: This is super cute. Delightful. “Midnights” is about Mags and Noel over several years of New Year’s Eve parties. I liked how Rowell-ish the story is, and loved the illustrations. They brought the characters to life and gave the story a really strong sense of place. “Kindred Spirits” is about being a Star Wars fan. Elena camps outside the cinema in the days before The Force Awakens’s release, and the experience is not what she expects. This story is geeky, delightful and surprising.. My only disappointment is that there’s no more about these characters.

My True Love Gave to Me: twelve winter romances edited by Stephanie Perkins: After I read “Midnights”, I borrowed the anthology in which first appeared. I’m not a fan of the whole cheesy, commercial idea of Christmas and winter - but I enjoyed these stories more than I expected. They present different experiences of, and attitudes towards, the holiday season. My favourites included Kelly Link’s “The Lady and the Fox”, Stephanie Perkins’ “It’s a Yuletide Miracle, Charlie Brown”, and Gayle Forman’s “What the Hell Have You Done, Sophie Roth?” I really liked Myra McEntire’s “Beer Buckets and Baby Jesus” and Ally Carter’s “Star of Bethlehem” and liked Lainie Taylor’s “The Girl Who Woke the Dreamer” for its prose.

Summer Days & Summer Nights: twelve summer romances edited by Stephanie Perkins: I didn’t enjoy this quite as much as the winter anthology. But I liked that Perkins’ “In Ninety Minutes, Turn North” was a sequel to her story from the previous anthology. That was unexpected and delightful - and the story itself was one of my favourites. My other favourites were “Inertia” by Veronica Roth and “A Thousand Ways This Could All Go Wrong” by Jennifer E. Smith. And I liked how “The End of Love” by Nina LaCour unfolded, and the way time repeated in “The Map of Tiny Perfect Things” by Lev Grossman.

The Prisoner of Limnos: a novella in the World of the Five Gods by Lois McMaster Bujold:  No way was I waiting for the audiobook! This is both a standalone adventure and the third installment of a larger story, following on from Penric’s Mission and Mira’s Last Dance. It’s an interesting case of themes and variations. Another member of Nikys’s family requires rescue, and although the circumstances are different, the politics behind it are not (Her brother has enemies in high places). Penric takes inspiration from Desdemona for another disguise. Nikys is given another example of people whose relationships are successful despite being unconventionally complicated. It’s a much better place to leave everyone than Mira’s Last Dance.

* Shattered Warrior by Sharon Shinn, illustrated by Molly Knox Ostertag (graphic novel):  I’m not really a graphic novel person so I wasn’t excited until I saw the artwork. Colleen’s planet has been invaded by aliens, society and infrastructure have crumbled and her family are dead or missing. I loved the worldbuilding, how expressive everyone’s faces are and how the pictures tell the story. I really liked the balance between action and emotion - this is as much about the choices and connections Colleen makes as it’s about how she rebels. I also appreciated that darker aspects are not ignored but neither are they allowed to dominate. This is a story about hope.

The Witch Boy by Molly Knox Ostertag (graphic novel): In Aster's family, girls become witches and boys become shapeshifters. Everyone discourages Aster’s interest in witchery but he keeps learning in secret. A solid, diverse story about being different and finding acceptance. I'd have stronger feelings about it if the artwork’s aesthetic had appealed to me more. I didn’t dislike it - I loved Ostertag’s illustrations for Shattered Warrior and it’s only the colour palette (and worldbuilding) that’s different here - but I didn’t love it, either? Graphic novels are not my preferred mode of storytelling, so maybe I’m just not very interested if I don’t love the artwork...

A College of Magics by Caroline Stevermer: I've wanted to read this ever since I read the companion novel/sequel years ago. In hindsight, taking so long to find this was actually a good thing, because I couldn’t remember anything remotely spoiler-ish. And I wasn’t disappointed by how much of it is about Faris after she leaves college. This is a mystery about magic and a coming-of-age story about responsibility. It is vivid and poignant and there’s something really lovely about it. I enjoyed the parts about college life, and Faris’ friend Jane is an utter delight. I’m so pleased I finally got to read this.

When Dimple Met Rishi by Sandhya Menon: Two Indian-American teenagers meet at a summer app-development convention. Their meeting is arranged by their parents, but while Rishi believes Dimple has agreed to meet him, to see if they’d suit, Dimple is unaware of their parents’ plans. I enjoyed this, but not as much as I was expecting to. All the comments I’d seen suggested this was funny. And it wasn’t. It was still entertaining and likeable, I just didn’t find it humorous. Because humour is subjective, I guess. Also, I wished there was less focus on the romance - or rather, more focus on other parts of the story.

Provenance by Ann Leckie: Leckie’s new story is about family - the things people do for them and the things people do to get away from them. There were a lot of things I liked. Characters, scenes, ideas. There were moments that made me laugh or took me took me by surprise. I also like how Leckie presents elements of her worldbuilding and leaves the reader to put the pieces together. However I found I had to concentrate extra hard to follow what was going on, and, although I liked them, I didn't feel strongly about the characters. I was expecting that I'd care more...

* Till We Have Faces: A Myth Retold by C.S. Lewis (narrated by Nadia May): The Cupid and Psyche myth, from the perspective of Psyche’s older sister, surpassed my expectations. It is surprising, powerful and occasionally heartbreaking. Orual is fierce in love and anger and her relationships are complex, often more so than is first apparent. She’s not so much an unreliable narrator as a biased one, which I found really interesting. Also interesting is all the ways in which she does not conform to conventional ideas of womanhood - neither as a woman of Glome nor as the protagonist of a novel written in 1956.

The City in the Lake by Rachel Neumeier: A coming-of-age story written in a style that reminded me less of Rachel Neumeier’s others novels and much more of Patricia A. McKillip, and maybe Robin McKinley. An the City, the Prince disappears. Meanwhile, on the other side of the great forest, Timou’s father, the mage Kapoen, leaves for the City and does not return. This is lovely. There’s a dreamlike quality to parts of it, but at its heart, it is very real and emotionally relatable - this story is about losing (and finding) family members. 

In the Greenwood by Mari Ness (short story): Published on Tor.com. This Robin Hood retelling is sharp and unexpected and fraught, in a way that I appreciate in short fiction or poetry but tend to find unsatisfying in novels.

This Adventure Ends by Emma Mills: Sloane, a high school senior, has recently moved to Florida. There’s a lot of different things going on here, from Sloane’s mission to find a painting by her new friends’ mother to her father’s adventures in fanfiction. At first, there didn’t seem to be quite enough space to explore everything properly - although I didn’t mind, because Sloane is witty and I was entertained. But as I read, I realised all of these are actually about love: family relationships, friendships, romantic relationships and the things people are passionate about. I really liked the way everything fitted together.

* Winter of Ice and Iron by Rachel Neumeier:  A tense, atmospheric and utterly gripping story of power and sacrifice. It is almost too dark for me to enjoy it - almost, because there’s thoughtful restraint to how the darkness is handled. The most unusual and complex aspect of the worldbuilding is the influence of Immanent Powers have on politics and those tied to them. But the characters were the reason I cared. By the time Kehera and Innisth’s paths cross, I was completely invested - and conflicted, because they each have the ability to help each other but their goals are different. Neumeier writes beautifully. This is amongst her strongest books. 

Words in Deep Blue by Cath Crawley: Rachel and Henry were best friends until Rachel moved away and stopped replying to Henry’s letters. But after her brother drowns and she fails Year 12, she ends up working in Henry’s family’s secondhand bookshop. Meanwhile Henry has just been dumped and his parents are arguing about selling the shop. This alternates between Rachel and Henry’s POV, which means there’s a lot less suspense as the reader knows what both of them are thinking. On the other hand, knowing what they think of each other gives a sad story about endings - of life, of relationships, of dreams - a hopeful inevitability.

The Extremely Inconvenient Adventures of Bronte Mettlestone by Jaclyn Moriarty: When Bronte was a baby, her parents left her with an aunt before gallivanting off on adventures. Ten years later, she receives the news that her parents have been killed by pirates. Their will insists that she set out alone on a journey to deliver a gift to each of her aunts. This is quirky and entertaining, and what begins as a episodic adventure eventually twists together in Moriarty-fashion. I suspect I would have stronger feelings about it were I still Bronte’s age or if it hadn’t been so light-hearted. All the same, I’d happily read more.

[thesundaymorningpost]

The Sunday Morning Post

September 3, 2017                                                          10th Edition

Current News:

Yuri on Ice: ShitBang

On August 31st, if you love Yuri on Ice, your feed may have blown up with stories and artwork created as a means for writers and artists to come together and work on a project together.

What is the Shit Bang you ask? It is an amazing event for writers and artists to come together and write and draw about the amazing anime we all love: Yuri!!! On Ice! But a little more than that this is a direct - non-hateful - response to THAT blog. You know the one I’m talking about. Yup. THAT one. - @yoi-shit-bang

The amount of stories and artwork has been astounding. From one-shots, to multi-chapters, all written by amazing authors. Then there is all the amazing artwork that has come with it, by some amazing and very talented artists.

Please keep in mind that many subjects may trigger, please read all tags before reading a story. 

Story Recommendation: we have loved the stars too fondly by @thehandsingsweapon

“We live in a blue planet that circles around a ball of fire next to a moon that moves the sea, and you don’t believe in miracles?”

After an academic career at MIT and Oxford, Yuuri Katsuki eschews job offers at places like NASA and CERN to go work at the Very Large Array in what Phichit Chulanont lovingly calls The Actual Middle of Nowhere, New Mexico, monitoring radio frequencies from light-years away. He's loved the stars for as long as he can remember, and the universe feels so big sometimes that Yuuri is sure it would be a cruel mistake for humans to be all alone.

Enter the latest scientist to join the staff of the VLA, enigmatic Russian genius Victor Nikiforov, around whom Yuuri’s entire universe seems to bend to make room, and the strange, recurring dreams Yuuri keeps having, where something like love carries him across the stars.

Does love travel faster than light? Do souls?

“The cosmos is within us. We are made of star-stuff. We are a way for the universe to know itself.”

"Yuri, on Stars!!   This lovely short story will resonate with anyone that lives the heavens.  Dreamscapes thought to be a figment of Yuuri's imagination turn out to be a more real than tangible science, and Viktor is patient with all his insecurities.  With just the right amount of angst to give it depth, this vignette will take you into the endless cosmos!" - @darkrivertempest

Artist Spotlight:

we have loved the stars too fondly by @shadhahvar

Comic:

Good boy by @floccinaucinihilipilificationa  (Click title to reblog)

Support: 

This week’s Ko-Fi shout-out goes to Discoursemoth | @lowercasewrites  (Click to buy coffee)

im sei! im a non-passing trans boy with unsupportive parents, and im using this account primarily to pay for things that could help me pass better, such as a packer and binder. you obviously dont have to donate but i would really appreciate it!                                

Patreon: YukiPri | @yukipri  (Click name to become a patreon)

Hey there!! Thanks so much for visiting my Patreon. I'm Kazu, also YukiPri on Tumblr. I'm currently a freelance translator and illustrator who is HOPING to support myself primarily through art. My passion is telling my own unique stories through visual media, and I love world-building, costume design, and overall extensively over-thinking all of my stories. This patreon is a step towards hopefully better sustaining myself off of art so I can continue to grow as a professional artist and produce content that you can enjoy! I am unbelievably grateful to every patron who helps me continue to do what I love doing. My wish is for the majority of my work to remain public, but I also desperately need to support myself, and also have a variety of content that I'm not comfortable posting publicly for various reasons. As thanks for your support, my patrons will get access to exclusive content, including WIPs/sketches, previews, art progress/tutorials, higher resolution art, early access, and nsfw content!

Fun and Games:

10 Questions Every Fic Writer Secretly Wants to be Asked by @wyseink  (Click Title to reblog)

There are a lot of fic questions that float around online, but rarely do they ever ask specific questions about the fics themselves. Ask any writer one or more of these ten questions to learn more about the fic and show support.

1. Of the fics you’ve written, which is your favorite and why?

2. Which scene was your favorite to write in [title of fic]?

3. Which part of [title] was hardest to write?

4. If you could change anything in [title], what would it be?

5. Did you make an outline for [title]? Did you stick to it?

6. Which scenes did you cut, and which were added in [title]?

7. Who was your favorite character to write in [title]?

8. Which came first, the title or the fic?

9. Which idea came to you first in [title]?

10. What are some facts readers may not know about [title]?

Story Prompt:

Monochrome by @diamondwinters An AU where people who are sad, down, depressed cannot hide it. Whenever you get sad, you start to loose your color. Your skin turns pale, your eyes loose their color, and turn gray or white, and your hair turns gray. Like an old black and white tv show, you loose all your color when you’re very sad. A little bit of sadness might dim your natural colors, but you wouldn’t loose them. It’s during a time when you feel heart broken, or very depressed that you go Monochrome. Such as a big break up, a death of a loved one, deep depression, etc. Monochrome is the medical term used by the doctors in this AU to describe turning gray in a world of color.

Some people who are unable to get happy, may use make-up, contacts, and hair color to hide the fact that they’re depressed, but eventually even those things will loose their color and will need to be replaced.

The best thing to do is to find your happiness. Be with friends, and family who can help you bring your color back. The brighter you are, the more vivid your colors are, the happier you are.

Art Prompt:

Imagine your OTP by @bumble-beany

Person A: Are you awake?                                         

Person B: I am now                                         

Person A: I was just wondering...                                         

Person A: What do you think it'd be like to be a pregnant male seahorse?

Person B: Really?! You woke me up for that?

W.I.P. Motivation:

Liquor Stash by @severeminx​

I want him.

When the full realization hit him, Yuri felt as though he couldn’t breathe. Detached and fleeting thoughts that had passed through his mind finally took shape in these three words at that exact moment. The I being himself, Yuri Plisetsky, age 17, a Russian figure skater with a list of impressive accomplishments to his name that seemed pretty pointless right now given the context. The want being desire, the need to bury himself, the thought to consume, but never actually act out except behind locked doors in empty beds or shower stalls. The him being the person standing across from Yuri sipping coffee from a take-away cup with creased brows, the low sunlight hitting his face just so to light up his otherwise dark eyes. Someone he considered to be his best friend, who came all the way from Almaty just to spend a week with him and who was blissfully unaware of the fucking turmoil Yuri was feeling in the pit of his stomach. Or at least, Yuri hoped he was unaware.

In which Yuri Plisetsky invites Otabek Altin over to stay with him in Saint Petersburg, freaks out over his feelings and delves into Lilia's liquor stash.

Please go read and support this artist. They are looking for kudos and comments to get them back into finishing this fantastic story!

Fandom Week:  (Click each line to go to blog)

Zarkon Week! September 3rd - 9th.

Yuri on Ice Music Week! September 4th - 11th

NSFW Yuri Plisetsky Week! September 11th - 17th.

Guang-Hong Week! Voting will be Sept 15th - 21st

SeungChuchu Week! October 16th - 23rd.

Help Wanted:

Needed: Tumblr theme editor. Please contact Diamond Winters for details.

Story recommendations!! If you find a story that you absolutely love, and you want to see it get some recognition, please submit a link to it with a 2-3 sentence review of the story. This way it could get in the spotlight in a future edition of the SMP. Requirements are that it’s completed, or a one-shot.

Artist Spotlight!! If you find a piece of artwork that needs more love, please submit a link to it so it may be considered for future spotlights in the future.

WIP Motivation: Please send your support to these writers or artist to encourage them to continue their story or artwork. No good story or piece of art should be left unfinished. - If you know of a good story that hasn’t been updated in a while, and would like to offer encouragement to the author, please let me know, so that I can link to their story here.

If there is ever any section of the Sunday Morning Post that you feel you can contribute too, please send an Ask or Submit to either the SMP, or @d2diamond so that it has a chance at making in a future post. Thank you!  

@yoi-shit-bang | @thehandsingsweapon | @darkrivertempest | @shadhahvar | @floccinaucinihilipilificationa | @lowercasewrites | @yukipri | @wyseink | @diamondwinters | @bumble-beany | @severeminx

[mikawa-province]

Just Deserts

Title: Just Deserts Fandom: Samurai Love Ballad: Party/Tenka Touitsu Koi no Ran: Love Ballad Pairing: Tokugawa Ieyasu x MC Rating: PG-13 Word Count (MS Word): 1170

杓子果報　（しゃくしかほう） [shakushikahou] (adj-na,n) coming by ample servings of delicious food; being blessed with good fortune

Requested by my friend Sayou. Inspired by this artwork.

He didn’t care anymore if he looked like he was inhaling the damn daifuku.

After a particularly stressful war council that morning in which Sakai Tadatsugu had to intervene and call for a break. With the old man sensing that the Lord of Mikawa was slowly losing his composure, Sakai had suggested that he go back to his room to calm himself. Just before he exited the hall, he had immediately demanded his female retainer to make a plate of daifuku.

Unsurprisingly, she delivered quickly and had brought twelve pieces of daifuku, along with a small ceramic pot of tea and a teacup for him in record time. At that point, he had no idea if she had managed to turn the snacks into strawberry daifuku, or if it was just plain daifuku.

Privately, he did not care what he ate, as long as it was made by her.

The moment he bit the first mochi and tasted the familiar and contrasting blend of red bean paste on fruit, he knew she had went through extra lengths to make it for him. With summer slowly making the weather more unbearable, it was getting more and more difficult to get strawberries for his favorite dessert. While he never indicated that he was satisfied with any type of red bean dessert, she would always make sure that the daifuku she served had strawberries in it.

He was halfway into devouring the daifuku when he heard her chuckle beside him.

He was about to ask her what she found so funny when Ieyasu found his eyes widening upon feeling her hands on either side of his face.

“Ieyasu-sama, slow down.” She smiled at him. “The war council doesn’t convene until the afternoon. You still have time to eat, you know; look at you, you’ve got mochi powder on the sides of your lips.” using both her thumb, she began to wipe off what he assumed to be where the powder had dusted his face.

For the life of him, he did not know what possessed him to suddenly grab her right wrist to steady his hold on her and lick her powder-coated thumb. As if on cue, her face turned a bright red at his gesture, yet she uttered no word of protest. He did the same to her left thumb, though this time around, he had no need to hold on to her wrist as she herself ran her thumb over his lips.

Just when he thought he was done with surprises for today, he found himself getting a kiss from her as she leaned forward from where she sat and gave him a light peck on the lips.

“… You had some powder on your lips as well, Ieyasu-sama.” She said it so quietly that he had a hard time hearing her words properly.

Or was it because his own heart was beating madly against his chest?

He didn’t know.

All he knew was that he had to respond properly.

“All those kisses I gave you, and all you could manage was a peck?” grabbing both of her wrists, he pulled her closer to him, with her ending up on his lap. “And I thought I was doing everything I could to teach you.”

Before she could even manage a shaky gasp from his rather bold maneuvering, he stole the breath from her lips. Unlike the previous kisses he always subjected her to, this particular kiss was one of his ways to ‘punish’ her. He demanded for her mouth to open for him with his tongue, and upon seeking her, he proceeded to slowly but surely tease her by sucking on her tongue gently. It did not escape his notice that she was moaning against him and that she was holding unto his kimono for dear life whenever he pulled back a bit to taste her lips; in response, he ran a hand on the curve of her back and slowly lowered it to her hips. The contact had made her gasp out loud, but she made no move to brush his hand away.

It took a while for them to part, and when they did, they were both trying to catch their breaths, their foreheads pressed against the other.

“T-the daifuku—”

He resisted the urge not to laugh as not to break the mood.

Of all the things she was worried about, it had to be food.

“If you’re that worried about it getting spoiled, then why don’t you feed it to me? Either that, or we continue this until it’s time for the war council to resume?”

Her answer had been immediate. “D-daifuku…! P-please let me feed you daifuku…!”

“Shame. I would’ve wanted to continue the kissing…” he smirked upon seeing her face turn a beet red after hearing his rather bold statement.

While he both loved the two things he mentioned, there was no doubt in his mind that he loves kissing way more than strawberry daifuku.

With the right person, kissing was enjoyable.

More so if it was deep kisses that involved her.

As the war council reconvened later that afternoon, everyone present had quietly noticed that the head of the clan looked more relaxed and calm than ever before.

Everyone except the most senior retainer of the clan, who had actually been bold enough to loudly remark on his good mood.

“It’s so nice to see you in a better mood, Ieyasu-sama.”

The younger man gave a shrug. “All I needed was some strawberry daifuku. Isn’t that right?” the question was aimed at the very person who was in-charge of all his meals, desserts included. Immediately, all eyes were on her, who automatically turned red.

Everyone assumed that the reaction was from embarrassment, as she was not used to the attention given to her.

Little did they know that the supposedly sweet smile on their lord’s face hid a rather naughty intention involving his female retainer, along with his favorite dessert.

“If possible, I would want to have strawberry daifuku all the time.” All but one had missed the subtle innuendo as their lord stated his intention for more sweets to be made whenever possible. Most people in the room agreed that it was better for him to have his share of sweets in order to get their lord in the best of moods.

As for her, she wanted the tatami to swallow her whole, as she was feeling rather embarrassed whenever her mind replayed the events that happened earlier. Discreetly, she fixed the collar of her kimono, knowing that if she was careless in her movement, someone might get a glimpse of what she was keeping hidden from plain sight.

The smirk on his face… as much as she wanted to rip it off his face, she knew she couldn’t.

But maybe, just this once, when he was caught off-guard she would be able to wipe that smug smile off his face.

Just you wait.

One of these days, she would get even.

Author’s notes:

I really like Atamoto’s rendition of Tanuki & Kitsune. My friend and I imagine Tanuki as Ieyasu while Kitsune is MC; you might think MC may not have it in her to be sly and sneaky, but she managed to manipulate Ieyasu into agreeing to go to a hanami with her by simply mentioning that if Ieyasu doesn’t go with her, she’ll invite Toramatsu instead. That did the trick. (｀･д･ﾉﾉﾞ☆ﾊﾟﾁﾊﾟﾁ

I was supposed to title this fic as ‘Afternoon Delight’ but that’s just too blatant. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

My personal limit in eating strawberry daifuku is two pieces; any more than two, and I get really ill. Ieyasu eating so much without stopping to sip tea is a miracle in and of itself.

Ieyasu’s favorite dessert is strawberry daifuku, but Sakai mentioned that red bean desserts are his favorite, so that can range to, well, a lot of Japanese sweets, if I have to be honest.

On a completely unrelated note to the content of the fanfic, the title may seem like a typo, but I’ve checked and checked, and according to Grammarist.com: “The phrase is the last refuge of an obsolete meaning of desert—namely, something that is deserved or merited. But because most modern English speakers are unfamiliar with that old sense of desert, the phrase is often understandably written just desserts.”

Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed this short fic!

[voidsettle]

København: Christmas Markets

                                                                                                      December 2017

I hate traveling during winters to anywhere that's not over +20. Excluding Copenhagen. Because really, how can you not fall in love with it immediately?

Christmas decorations on display and for sell at Tivoli

Have you ever experienced a Julemarked? You should; it's here that you get the best holiday spirit even as a grown-up. Sweets, hot wine with spices, knitted sweaters. They have everything to keep you warm, body and soul.

Who wants to be happy anymore when there's hygge? That's special Danish word that means you don't care there's cold and wind that get everywhere - you still feel warm and totally relaxed. Gløgg for everyone!

Plan your trip tight but relaxed - Denmark is not the country that likes to be treated touristy. Copenhagen has it all: castles from different eras, vivid architecture, traditions big and small.

But don't forget to relax just like the Danes do. Grab a beer or a gløgg. Take a blanket. Sit outside. Apparently, you have no right to call yourself a viking if you're afraid of cold.

Walking Down Strøget

We arrived to Copenhagen deep into the evening. Our hostess lived quite far away, so we decided to take a walk in search for some food into our empty stomachs - and were immediately enveloped in the soft warm lights of the night city.

Kronprinsensgade, Copenhagen

The bad thing about most European cities (especially as you move north) is that life nearly dies out in late evenings. The pedestrian zones that are usually crowded seem abandoned and empty - but there are brightly lit window-cases and Christmas lights to keep you company.

This first glance at the night Copenhagen is probably why I fell in love with the night city - that's what I remember best when thinking of the Danish capital. Next morning was dull and grey, as winter mornings tend to be. We fought through the chilling wind with coffee and Danish pastries from the small local store.

Downtown was busy and bustling as we took a walk around before our free tour started. I love these tours since guides are usually really enthusiastic about their cities. (And somehow they are usually not natives? Part of the charm I guess). Our guide, a youngish boy originally from London made us remember a couple of things about the city. First, the fires ravaged through it near half a dozen times (we were literally asked to cry out loud what happened to the city in that year or the other, and it was always 'it burned down!'). Second, written Danish is as far away from spoken Danish as possible. And, finally, Copenhagen is full of angry cyclists who will definitely crush into you if you stand in their way - and they'll be right.

I can still see the image that was painted before my eyes: a guy mounted on his bike, with a Christmas tree clasped under his arm, screaming 'What do you want for dinner!' into a cell-phone while trying to navigate the busy crowds of downtown. You don't want to be in his way, whether he wears a horned helm or not.

The rest of the city is just what you know about old European cities. Narrow winding streets, slim brick houses in bright colors glued together, peaking churches as you move from square to square heavily clad in history. You will lose yourself somewhere in between them - I'm not sure I remembered the name of at least one of the squares aside from Kongens Nytorv. But at least it's easy to find your way in the triangle between the domineering castles (count in the gloomy Baroque-Neoclassical Christiansborg, the witty Renaissance Rosenborg, and the current royal residence, Rococo Amalienborg).

And then the're's the city's symbol, Nyhavn. This place looks like an open-sky museum piece - which it actually is. The popularity of the place is nearly frustrating (even outside of the summer season you cannot get a decent photo without other people popping into the frame).

Nyhavn, Copenhagen

It appears the Danish superstar Hans Christian Andersen fancied Nyhavn so much that he moved from one house to the next - we've counted three of them where he lived during his life.

Oh yes, Andersen. There's no place in Copenhagen you can go without his name mentioned. Museums of his name, sure; we've seen the places he lived in, the shops he frequented, and dined at one of his favorite places. One of our favorite places now, as well.

Evening Entertainments: Street Food and Tivoli

Smørre­brød with smoked salmon and cream cheese

Copenhagen in early December is a place of winds, but also street food - they have a whole island dedicated to that purpose alone. We walked along the river bank to get to PapirØen, or the Paper Island and get us some of those delicious smørre­brøds. The only dispiriting part was the crowds - we had to wait for half an hour to get our hands on a couple of those beauties. Maybe we should've planned our visit outside the weekend.

And we didn't stop on sandwiches. The best part of visiting old Europe in December is that, roaming the streets, you will find food, and the smells beckon you to eat all the time. For some time we completely forgot about the architectural beauties of the city, too busy enjoying the food. The Christmas market on Kongens Nytorv got us tipsy and happy with some gløgg and lots of sweets, from caramelized apples to nougat, the Danish specialty.

As our sated bodies finally refused to accept any more food, the night fell, and we headed off toward Tivoli, the oldest amusement park in Europe. I'm not usually a big fan of this type of attractions, but Tivoli is famed not only due to its rides but also the beauty of the Christmas decorations. It's like falling down into a fairy tale - the attention to detail and the craftiness is astonishingly meticulous.

If you're like me (not a fan of rides, that is), there are still things you don't want to miss in Tivoli: the food, the souvenirs and the absolutely gorgeous light-and-water show that runs every hour from dusk till 11PM. This year, they staged Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker, so beautiful that it strung every string in my heart. Or maybe that was gløgg speaking.

The Three Castles

Frederiksborg Slot, Hillerød

Three castles in one day is a bit too much. Alas, when you only have 2 and a half days in Copenhagen and a burning desire to 'see it all', you sacrifice your comfort in favor of your curiosity.

We started our castle run at Rosenborg, a former summer residence of the Danish royalty. Veiled in a sleepy atmosphere, the palace boasts an impressive collection of armory, artworks and some really spectacular crown jewels in the dungeons. Curiously, it does have the feel of a summer house, with its surrounding gardens and cozy secluded rooms at a stark contrast with the bustling city outside its walls. We were eager to see the next castle to make our comparisons, and that's when a sudden challenge struck us.

Keep mispronouncing the words. That's the Dane way.

Despite the cold winds, people in Copenhagen are surprisingly relaxed. That's probably why they don't bother to pronounce the whole word - they start saying it, and than, meh, you know what I mean. For tourists, that's exactly the trap you don't want to fall into. Riding on a train, we had to learn how our stops are written - and read the names on one of the many scoreboards. We would never get off where we needed otherwise.

Do I even need to spell out my happiness at the parking habits of the Danes?

It's a miracle we didn't get lost in the whole train system - but we arrived at Hillerød and even found our way to Frederiksborg Slot.

Mind the names. Frederiksborg Slot (castle) is not the same as Frederiksberg Palace. Yep, I'm still confused.

The castle is huge (the largest Scandinavian Renaissance residence), full of impressive artwork, architectural decoration and - my personal favorite and an addition to the collection - features the sculpture of Uranus consuming his child. Gives me the tingle every time.

Also, Hillerød is that typical small European town full of medieval-to-renaissance architecture that we all love so much. Definitely worth a stroll.

Yet it was the next place that served as a cherry on the top - Kronborg, the famed castle of Hamlet. Well, not really, but that's what they advertise it as, so let them. Besides, it was an extremely thrilling experience that I wouldn't expect from a marketing trick like this one.

The reason's simple: it was genuinely spooky. We left it for last since it was open the longest, already after the sun set and the spectacular dusk fell onto the small town of Helsingør. The wide roadway to the castle was aligned with large bowls of cracking flame, a fine replacement for the torches under the seaside winds. The castle itself was engulfed in the Christmas atmosphere - but given it's huge chambers, it was half empty, with people clustering in the small souvenir rooms. The place looked ghostly, adding to its charm. We wandered around the half-lit rooms set in medieval entourage, looked through the fogged windows upon the gulf facing Sweden (with cannons aiming at the potential attackers) and listened to the loud echoes of our footsteps. As the darkness settled in, we came out to the square courtyard. The soft sounds of Christmas carols from the warm tents, the set of windows with flickering lights inside, the gusts of wind throwing snow into our faces - the ambiance of the place was impossibly authentic.

And that's not to mention the dungeons. We went looking for the legendary giant Holger sleeping under the castle - the one destined to wake up to protect Denmark from the foes. I found him in one of the rooms (although I am tempted to describe it as an underground cave), and then I got lost in the dungeons. Low ceilings, dirt-to-sand ground, no lighting whatsoever and a labyrinth of uneven rooms used for storage of food and prisoners. In the middle of my way through the labyrinth there were footsteps behind my back, and a convulsive beam of light chasing the shadows: the castle was closing for the night, and the officers were tasked with catching all the tourists out of the premises. But well. It literally was running through the dungeons away from the castle guards.

That sticky feeling at the back of your head when you're drowning in the darkness and feel the chill creep up your spine - yes, that's what all castles should have.

It was only natural that after such a thrilling chase I needed to wash away the adrenaline. So, teaming up with another tourist, we found our way to the shore and dipped our hands into the freeing waters of Øresund. Quite satisfying and integral to our north experiences.

The Weed Freetown

There's a place in Copenhagen that absolutely screams of modern democracy. I've seen some freetowns around Europe (the idea's gaining popularity, eh?), but it's Christiania that made me think they might've gone a bit overboard. Can you even imagine a whole neighborhood selling weed just like that, in the open? The air in this place is sweetly intoxicating.

Don't try to take photos of people selling the goods. You'll be asked to delete the photos if not stripped of your phone.

Church of Our Savior, Christiania, Copenhagen

But that was not the main reason we came to Christiania. Instead, our major goal was the Church of Our Savior and its winding staircase.

Proceed with caution! The staircase around the spire is dizzying. It narrows down with each step, the rails are frail - looking down is not for people afraid of heights.

Jamming away our ennui on leaving Copenhagen with some Danish flæskesteg sandwiches, we roamed the streets for the last time. Wandered into some nerd merchandise stores, bought some sweets for souvenirs, and gave away our last krone to the carol singers just because they were that good. Truly a trip worth of a lingering nostalgia.

What to see:

Nyhavn

Tivoli

Strøget

Rundetaarn

Frederik's Church

City Hall

Kongens Nytorv

the Little Mermaid (but only if you want to be disappointed)

St Alban's Church

Copenhagen Opera House

Amalienborg

Rosenborg Castle

Christiansborg Palace

Kronborg (the famed castle of Hamlet, the Dutch prince)

Frederiksborg Castle (Hillerød)

Freetown Christiania

Church of Our Saviour

Copenhagen subway (it's not fancy but it's autopiloted)

Paper Island (this one strictly for street food)

What to eat:

traditional roasted pork with a crispy crust (flæskesteg)

apples in caramel

gløgg (spirited, naturally; otherwise you cannot experience hygge or anything close to comfortable)

pickled herring

smørrebrød (Denmark is the birthplace of this fishy sandwich)

traditional nougat

Pickled herring

So what?

Danish nougat. Christmas market at Kongens Nytorv

Not sure how this happened but I would definitely repeat a trip like this. Despite the cold weather, the wind under your coat, and (let's be honest) the crippling prices, it's one of the warmest experiences I've ever had. In short: you don't need to spend months in Denmark to learn about the most important part of the Danish culture. Just Keep Calm and Hygge.

[spaces--explorer]

Artists & Artworks

Below are the artists and artworks I have viewed as key informants for my work this year. 

(Note: The NightMind link(s) is/are included with several of the works as he has created explanation videos for those works that are interactive, online and hold mystery within them. I have included these as they are often what introduced me to the works or have helped me understand the works in a different perspective. If the work interests you I suggest viewing it and then the NightMind video.)

It is upon compiling the artists and works I have looked at over this year that I have found the correlation of the uncanny and a representation of real, public life within all of the works and how this influenced my own work.

Please click ‘keep reading’ to view all of the information.

Alan Resnick (and Wham City Comedy) (This House Has People In It + Sculptor’s Clayground, Unedited Footage Of A Bear, AlanTutorial, Live Forever As You Are Now, Children Of The Mirror) Links: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 NightMind 1 2 3 4

Alan Resnick and Wham City Comedy create complete alternate universes within their works. Resnick started with AlanTutorial, a youtube and twitter based immersive art work that left viewers questioning whether Alan and his problems were real. This invasion of the suspended disbelief a viewer enters is present in all of the works listed above, and bar AlanTutorial, use this and the innate curiosity of a person to created a twisted narrative that comments upon society and its controlling aspects on the viewer.

It is the aspects of discovery that I have brought into my work, with the websites for UFOAB, THHPII and COTM all have between 20 minutes and 2 hours worth of extra footage and hidden text that does not leave the narrative it is creating or reverts to the “artist’s voice”.

UFOAB is film and website that follows a mother as she goes insane and pushes the fake medicine of Claridryl and can see to be commenting upon Big Pharma and our reliance on medications that cause more problems than what we are medicating for.

THHPII is a huge mass of information behind the initial video. Using security camera footage and logs we view the family, the newly connected family with the children being one of each parents and the baby being both of the parents’ child. After digging into all of the information with Sculptor’s Clayground it can be suggested that the work could be commenting on society and advertising pressures. The family are concerned about the contraction of a fake disease which is put into their brains by the media they consume and may be finally represented by Madison and the non-family members sinking into the ground.

The expanding sense of discomfort and confusion upon viewing just the videos is heightened when viewed in their original time slot (again bar AlanTutorial) at 3am on the American channel Adult Swim as part of their infomercial series (see below). However there is an understanding that all of these works do not have a definitive and absolute explanation and reasoning behind and within them and it is the viewer’s interpretation that creates the narrative also.

Also discussed in my dissertation.

Joe Pelling & Rebecca Sloan (Don’t Hug Me I’m Scared) Links 1 2 3 4 5 6 NightMind

Another video works that comments upon society, becomes chaotic and has many easter eggs within each video. DHMIS is the first work I viewed that informs my vein of work this year. First seen online July 2015 and also viewed at the cinema screening at Dismaland, we as a viewer are transported to a set like a children’s television show, and in each ‘episode’ we are given a barely graspable idea - Time, Creativity, Love, Internet, Health - that is introduced to children early in life and then something goes awry and we are greeted with a horror version of the show.

Nostalgia lulls the view into a false sense of security in the first video, the bright colours, puppets that are reminiscent of the Muppets or the Tweenies and the bright colours and simple set falls into the tpye cast of children’s TV show. The obnoxious lies that are then presented with these visuals jar against each other.

There are any interpretations of what DHMIS means, such as a comment on society and its use of control through advertising, the brainwashing of children through television and brand influence on presentation of individuals. It is the multiplicity of meaning that I have aimed to use in my work and the false sense of security and nostalgia of the child like appearance that is used in parts of all the installation-intervention works I have created.

Jeffrey Cranor & Joseph Fink (Welcome To Night Vale, Alice Isn’t Dead) Links 1 2 3 NightMind

WTNV is a podcast which developed into a touring show and several books that then lead to other podcasts such as AID. A fictional town described as “if Stephen King and Neil Gaiman created a town in The Sims and left it running”, Night Vale is a faux radio show hosted by Cecil Palmer giving out community information and news, which can be both ordinary and extraordinary for the viewer but treated as normal by Cecil and the townspeople.

WTNV’s use of just audio to create such a vivid mental image for the viewer is incredibly inspiring. Disparition and the voices selected for the characters create a perfect combination that created a universe that the viewer can easily fall into until the odd happenings question the ease in which you enter the town.

This has influenced some of the creepier comments and aspects in my work, loosely created the basis for the eye logo. Night Vale is one of the overarching background influences for my work as well as a piece I thoroughly enjoy itself. 

EverymanHYBRID Links 1 2 NightMind Playlist

EverymanHYBRID is a ARG work, part of the lore that has created Slenderman. Filmed and presented in a documentary/real life style drawing the viewer into the narrative it weaves. Multiple inputs and links from around the web as well as real life events that can be found on the web (the trials).

Aspicio Omniam Links 1 NightMind

An audio-visual piece that uses sound well to create an atmosphere, visit the apartments from hell, with ‘educational videos’ that explore the apartment in relation to the sound track with it.

Spectacular Organic Links 1 2 3 4 NightMind

A faux company that offers you a product that you never truly know what it is or recieve. This work holds the chipper and over exaggerated ‘happiness’ that I have emulated in the audio piece for Artist (i)nformation and in several of the posters in ETB.

The Modular Body Links 1 2 NightMind

A website and advert that shows the latest creation in biology. A creature that you can build.

The production value of the video is high and the technical aspects of creating a machine that can emulate the idea of a biological creature is interesting to be but the suspended disbelief is broken on the website however.

Abstractions Links 1 NightMind

I did not view this work much/for long, but the use of images and layering (the subtitles, the contrast and such) is intriguing and the act of having to search for meaning in an image or work is something I have used within my work just to a different degree.

Infochammel Links 1 NightMind

An over-exaggerated mockery of infomercials and advertising. A channel that can actually be streamed to television which on the surface seems like it can make sense but viewing the individual videos gives the sensation of your brain being fried but no knowledge being contained within them.

Adult Swim’s Informercials Links 1 2 3 4 5 6

Adult Swim has commissioned a variety of artists to create 11 minute long videos to be shown at 3am. Many of these videos parody a form of popular entertainment and showings typical of the 3am time slot - Too Many Cooks parodies the 80′s television themes and casting, Icelandic Blue and Miracle Man parody the style and content of infomercials, religious or consumer (Alan Resnick’s work was shown as part of this section as well) - and imply that these infomercials are not fake and are truly part of our universe and society.

The15Experience Links 1 2 NightMind

The15Experience plays with what is true and what is not and what is live and what is prerecorded and created. The viewer is given access to 15 cameras in an abandoned house, told by the creator/installer to be viewing a haunting. We are then privy to a group breaking in to the house and a demonic possession occurs.

The blending of true and fiction is important to me and my work and the horror aspect interests me.

Darren Cullen Links 1

Cullen’s key work for myself is Pocket Money Loans. It is a faux shop from that displays loans for children in return for their pocket money, mocking the loan shark culture of the work and the destruction of Romantic childhood ideals. His play in the space between real life and art is interesting to myself and the realisation of my work. The outcry he had in response to PML as people found the work either too realistic (therefore believing it) or too hard on the point it is putting across is something I wish to emulate in the future with my own work.

Also discussed/Discussed further in my dissertation.

Dismaland

Dismaland is a key exhibition/art work that has influenced my works this year. Showing several of the works on this list (Wasted Rita, Darren Cullen, DHMIS) Dismaland creates/reflects the overbearing ‘Big Brother’ state that I have emulated as the corporation of ‘(i)nformation H(eye)ghway’ . The merchandise and atmosphere is recreated and influential on the stickers and business cards in Elder Tour(i)sm Board. 

Yet another work that asks the viewer to suspend disbelief and enter the world it creates, Dismaland uses images we recognise and ones we don’t and manipulates them into a realistic but uncanny valley portrayal of theme parks, advertising and consumerism.

Also discussed/Discussed further in my dissertation.

Janice Kerbel

Kerbel uses language, wording, typography and staging to create art pieces. Nominated for the 2015 Turner Prize for DOUG, Kerbel subverts the tradition presentation of storytelling.

Her works comprise of audio, print and performance which as elements I have used within my own work.

Joëlle Tuerlinckx Links 1 2 3

While last year Tuerlinckx’s work was incredibly important to the creation of my own, this year her influence has lessened.

Her use of language and manipulation of language has influenced the duality I have created in my work, whether explicitly through the language - Expens(iv)es being a combination of expensive and expenses and how the reading and pronunciation of the word effects how the written piece is read - and the manipulation of thoughts and interpretations of the viewer themselves.

He combination of gallery and studio spaces in the exhibiting of her works has also helped with my realisation of the presentation of ETB. 

Also discussed/Discussed further in my dissertation.

Johan Deckmann Links 1 2 

Deckmann paints short statements onto book covers which hold somewhat private thoughts or information. The covers are then framed and photographed and aired to the world.

Katrina Palmer

It was Palmer’s work that cemented for me that writing and longer form writings can be art. Statement artists such as Wasted Rita, Lawrence Weiner, Johan Deckmann and Seamus Gallagher all told me that short but precisely focused statements can be presented as art outside of the literary sense of words, but Palmer’s works such as Geraldine The Goat  presented ‘story-telling’ as an art form outside of the traditional view of the narrative. 

Lars Laumann Berlinmuren Links 1

With Berlinmuren being a mockumentary of sorts following the true stories of two women in love with the Berlin wall.

The oddity of real events is something I want to replicate within my work while combining it with mundanity and ‘true’ extraordinary ideas.

Lauren Wolcott Some of The Lied I Have Told Links 1

The use of own thoughts and hidden feelings helped in creating the graffiti in all of my installation-intervention works.

Lawrence Weiner

Weiner has been a heavy influence upon myself, many through his discussion of what is art and how it is created or perceived or situated with Siegelaub and the others (see notes on the Siegelaub interview and the Lawrence Weiner book).

However I did not come to his work until late into this year, but his use of text as art to create a dynamic between thought and space is incredibly interesting to myself, and with a quick google search is apparently so with a mass of artists worldwide.

Mark Wallinger Link 1

Richard Littler Links 1 2 3 

Littler is the creator of Scarfolk, the blog, youtube channel and book that shows the town of Scarfolk that is stuck in the decade of the 1970s.

Scarfolk is a major influence for me: ‘for more information’, the use of posters to imply information without actually giving any, the over arching power of the town council and how they control the output of the town. 

With the book it is presented as a found document of writings by a father who is searching for his missing sons in Scarfolk. The legitimacy of Scarfolk is pushed by the printed document and its layout of the book makes it feel like a real guide to Scarfolk and his history as well as a documented search.

Littler makes the works look relevant to the time they are supposedly from while referencing current events as well (such as the election of Trump). The posters and audio-visual works on the youtube are convincing enough some people state that they remember them from their childhood in the 1970s, even though they were not created until 2009-now.

Also discussed/Discussed further in my dissertation.

Richard Prince Links 1 2 

Prince’s ideas on appropriate in art/as art have always been a point of contention for me. The copying exactly of a piece (in his sense redeveloping an image) does not create a new art piece, or an art piece you can apply your own name to, but using ‘found’ images to create different works in a major part of my work. Such as using the idea of bubblegum broccoli from McDonalds or the image of Apple’s Macbook.

Samuel Beckett Links 1

The performance an execution of Not I aided the production of the script and performance of (I)nformation H(eye)ghway. Beckett demanded perfect speech of the script but a continuous babble of words becoming unable to be understood, while the actress is strapped into a harness and suspended above the ground for the entire performance. Her endurance is part of the performance and the only object the viewer is given is the gaping mouth.

Seamus Gallagher Links 1 2

I discovered Gallagher’s work on instagram mid-November, and the worry became that the work I was producing at the time was too similar to his (the classifieds).

However both of us have developed down different avenues from a similar starting point over he same span of time.

His work has shown me how the ideas I have can work through a different aesthetic and process and has influenced some of the book covers made for A(I) and ETB.

Wasted Rita Links 1

Her fly-posters were the most interesting to me at Dismaland. The miminalistic images she creates through the use of private-made-public statements on faded papers are incredibly pleasing to me.

Also discussed/Discussed further in my dissertation.

[survivingart]

ART HAS NO PURPOSE, ONLY CONSEQUENCES 

An interesting sentence, uttered by a friend of mine while we were chatting over drinks, was that “Art has no purpose, only consequences.” and these six words really struck a chord with me. In today’s blunder therefore, I’d like to explore this statement, because I think a lot of us may posses a misconstrued understanding about our artistic production that could (and probably does) influence our ability to reach the right audience and consequently grow as artists.

But why does art not have any purpose? If you’re a regular of this blog, you’ve probably noticed me state several purposes pertaining to art throughout my writings and podcasts, and so the idea of art without purpose might seem a bit off. 

To be honest, this fact is precisely why I had to write and explore this novel perspective, as it seems that just such a misrepresentation or miscommunication could be the culprit of a lot of convolution among us artists (not to say the art world in general)!

My personal view of life is that everything has either purpose or capability; the later being a given, as physical reality cannot be without capability (if nothing else the capability of being or existing), and purpose as the basic conception of said reality, projected upon it by beings.

An art piece, regardless of whether it is a painting, drawing, installation or any excuse for a real work of art, like the stuffed shark that made headlines decades ago, seems to posses some form of purpose. Were it not so, how could one possibly explain all the weird works that serve no utilitarian function, have no real graspable concept of what their purpose was (except maybe to be sold at outrageous prices on the secondary market)?!

And such riddles can — as with anything in our beautifully convoluted world of art — quickly be explained away by some form of concept. All we really need to understand even the most unintelligible work of art, possibly even completely void of meaning at the time of its conception, is just a glint of meaning that can be quite easily provided by just expanding ones context regarding any particular work, and eventually ending up at a feasible (albeit usually quite banal) explanation of what it should be representing.

A wonderful example for this is the function of an artwork’s title, and who better to direct our attention to as an example than the famous taxidermist of the art world himself, Damien Hirst. 

Hirst’s work has always been accompanied by incredibly poetic titles and this was by far no coincidence or merely a reflection of the depths of his romantic, world-pondering soul. His decisions to name a rotting cow head with flies and an insect zapper, incapsulated inside a glass tank with the title: “A Thousand Years” was almost genius.

Maybe not in the sense of the renaissance idea of genius, and definitely not in the sense of master craftsperson, but fitting to the times, Hirst’s work was exactly on point: 

Make art that creates a spectacle — preferably based on shock factor, so you can divide your audience into two disparate factions — and let people quarrel over your work until full media coverage saturation has been reached. Then repeat.

Anyone fond of Guy Debord’s book The Society of the Spectacle will quickly notice that such an approach cannot be sustained indefinitely (and alas, after Hirst’s worldwide Gagosian show and most prominently after his last Venice gig, even history itself stands as an undeniable statement of such logic). 

Let’s therefore look at how and why Hirst’s career took such a turn (and why a lot of contemporary art will face the same music eventually):

Let’s start with why it failed, because his why was actually interlaced with what interests us the most — purpose. Damien Hirst’s work does not have any purpose, but what is even more problematic than that, it had no capability to ever have a purpose — at least not in the usual sense of how artworks become integrated into society.

While nothing really has purpose on its own, things achieve purpose because people project function upon them. If done individually, such a mechanism produces singular tools, like hammers, spears and axes, and if done communally (meaning by a group of likeminded people), such mechanisms create systems.

These systems are more or less just collections of particular tools and their interrelations, that, exactly because of these interrelations, produce much more complex and profound meanings and usage scenarios, than if the tools weren’t part of a singular system (think Gestalt theory) .

Simply put, the fax machine when it was invented was useless, just like the phone was useless, because such a tool’s only purpose was to connect to other similar tools. If you’re the only guy or gal with a fax machine, it just doesn’t make sense to have one. You need others to have it too, and only by a myriad of other fax machines in operation does you own fax machine become a valuable asset — the more fax machines there are, the more valuable yours is.

And it’s similar with art, too. A painting is only as valuable (in monetary and historical/cultural terms) as the amount of people that share the belief of it being valuable.

You can also think of the amusing joke that used to circulate the internet (and probably still does in some places), where a distinction between religion and clinical insanity is drawn by comparing how many other people also believe and can communicate with an imaginary man, living in the sky. If you’re the only one one, you’re most likely crazy and should be hospitalised, but if it’s thousands or even hundreds of thousands of people, well, then it’s OK, because it’s a religion.

But I don’t wish to press any buttons here, religion has its place in society (take it from a no-nonsense atheist).

But to get back to our example about Hirst; his works, while incredibly amusing, profoundly shocking in their nature and extremely well done, did lack one important part — a perpetual common ground amongst the art goers that saw them.

Without it, they would (and did) vanish into oblivion, because if a work of art does not possess the ability to latch-on to a particular aspect of its contemporary cultural context (or in hindsight the same context, but viewed in retrospect), the work cannot hope to stay significant after the initial shock has lingered and the magician turning the knobs and leavers behind the green curtain gets outed by the public.

To propose a more general example, imagine a portrait painter of the 18th century — anyone really, it doesn’t matter — because our hypothetical (or real) portraitist will be of the “crowd pleasing” verity, meaning his or her (but let’s not kid ourselves, it’s the 18th century, it’s his) art will most not be created to embody any deeper meaning or message, apart form the obvious goal of portraying his commissioners in the best manner possible.

Such works will most likely be shunned by his contemporaries and the only possibility of ever attaining significance in the grander scheme of things will be if after let’s say one hundred years or so, historians establish our crowd-pleasing artist’s era as a time of empty shenanigans and meaningless debauchery.

In the grand image created, his work might become a prominent example of his time, because the merit upon which quality has been decided has changed for the usual “how much impact does any particular thing or person have on its society” to “how much of a particular thing or person is (or was) present in society” — to say differently, quality has morphed into quantity.

And this phase of understanding Hirst’s body of work is still to come, as much more time has to pass for the collective thought to become detached from what has been in the context of what is now, to notice and propose such an understanding of art (and everything else we produce).

But the gist of the starting remark was that art has no purpose, only consequences, so let’s explore how that fits into everything we’ve talked about so far.

Art — like everything we create to be part of our society — has purpose, because everything that is observed intently by a being ultimately has some purpose.

Even if just a tiny, insignificant one, like the purpose of a pebble that was moulded by millions of years of environmental change and turmoil, only to be tossed into a lake by a child at one time in its existence. 

It’s really the system in which art is exhibited that helps it attain some form of purpose; as we’ve stated, for anything to have “a purpose”, it first has to be noticed, and with an ineffable amount of things floating in the universe, noticing any particular thing is quite the statistical miracle.

Galleries (and museums) help here, because they serve as undeniable locations where art and art-like objects can be found. After any object has been placed inside a gallery or museum, it kinda becomes art — if nothing else, it gets a chance to be scrutinised by members of the inner sanctum of any particular art society (or even the whole art world if we’re talking mega-exhibitions).

The way such progressions form is by first attaining the status of “maybe it’s art”, then evolving to “yep, it’s art” and sometimes to “magnificent art”. In rare cases, a work will even become “the best of its time”!

Here’s a rough draft of how that happens:

The art-like objects can usually be found in galleries (especially lower tier ones). Because they are located inside of the gallery (sometimes they can also be found outside), they get the status of “maybe it’s art”. After the show opens, they are judged primarily by a smaller group of people, and if they pass, they are given the “yep, it’s art” stamp of approval — albeit a tiny stamp to be honest.

But the journey doesn’t just end there, now, if a person of higher status and stature finds them particularly interesting, they might get another chance at a bigger gallery and for a larger, more important crowd (usually they judge how well they can be incorporated into contemporary society in the context of not only the “now”, but also the past and sometimes even the future).

If they pass that part too, they might become “good art” or “magnificent art” and if eventually they end up in any permanent museum collections, they attain the label of “certainty” and such artistic objects usually go on to become “the best of their time”— that’s why artist’s works grow more important if they become part of any museum’s permanent collection.

But, all of this is still only talking about purpose though, there is still no sign of consequence. My personal take on why this is so, is because the consequence part is only true at the initial phase of the artistic process — when we are creating art — and we haven’t been talking about that at all.

We rarely even see that part of the artistic process, it we’re being honest! The problem is, that at the end of a long painting session or after the completion of a sculpture, the status of the finished object transforms from personal and intimate exploration of self, into a public trace of the process that has unfolded.

This of course doesn’t ring exactly true for performance art, happenings and the like, where the process of personal exploration itself becomes the literal (and ephemeral) trace — the artwork — but regardless if anything you create has a physical body in some way or another or if it’s just a fleeting moment in time, it’s all the same as far as questions of purpose and consequence are concerned.

The process of creation bears as its consequence the trace; that’s the art work. This is the intimate part of creation, the part that no-one can really explain away by saying “You did it, because of this or that.” 

Its existence is not a consequence of any particular concept or desire, it is a consequence of being. This is the place where no-one can judge a good or bad expression, what matters is that whatever it is that needs to go out is actually expressed, and that it’s done so fully and without constraints.

This is the space where play happens, where we let go and enter into a state of just being.

But after playtime is over, after we regain full consciousness and contextualise ourselves again in the grander scheme of society, time and space, our creations, the traces of our free expression can become imbued with purpose, but only if we so desire. If we do, we present them to the public and insert them into the system that we call “The Art World” (though sadly it’s now more or less referred to as “The Art Market”).

If they appreciate our creation and we have the right combination of good timing and luck, our creations beget purpose, because people create it because of them and project it onto them. If not, they stay consequences, consequences of pure will, determination and the ability to let go and synchronise with the moment.

In either case, it’s always a combination of courage, skill and craft. Without courage, artisans create empty shells, without skill and craft, artists create bollocks. But in the middle, there lays the promised land of not only appreciation and monetary independence, but also of a life fully lived.

from Surviving Art https://ift.tt/2LMGyXX via IFTTT

[tommyoboe]

FINAL YEAR - WEEK 28.

Well, I don’t know about you folks, but I think it is time for a break.

It has been a long, long term, rather relentless in places, but we have made it to the end, and now two rather more relaxed and fun weeks are in store.

This week bared the word ‘relentless’ in a couple of places, but along with this came much more enjoyable and humbling moments.

Firstly, and rather significantly, I was in Switzerland as we said hello to the new week, Geneva to be precise, hedging my bets at an opportunity of studying there as a Master’s student this coming year.

Well, that went... Yeah, not so good.

I had breakfast the morning of my audition at this lovely little café, offering fresh bagels and pastries, to which I took full advantage. These with a cappuccino gave me an equally fresh outlook on the day, filling me with hope and ambition for what lay ahead.

With a ‘merci à tout’ I was on my way to the audition, embracing sunny Geneva and the pretty sights all around me. I was taken aback by the view of the mountains nearby, something I’m certainly not accustomed to.

As I saw the conservatoire’s logo as I reached the street on my Google map, I turned this off and headed inside. It was a small and quiet building, with no sign of auditions going on.

I headed to the audition room not having really warmed up, with no warm up room signposted anywhere. How odd, I thought, as well as the fact that I could hear oboes but not coming from the room I was meant to be in. It was a distant through the wall sound, and as my ears identified this, my eyes stumbled on the sign that said ‘Rue du Stand 56′.

Shit. My audition’s in Rue du Stand 58, I thought. I was in the wrong building. With this, I limped with my heavy overnight bag, oboe and music next door to find what was still a small and quiet building, but with signs of life in it. By this point it was past my audition time and I was knocking on the door to no answer. The steward, or what I thought was the steward anyway, signalled that the panel were engaged in the room and I was shown to the warm up room just opposite.

I walked in to a couple of other oboists warming up, saying a simple ‘bonjour’ and finally having a proper warm up, now waiting to be summoned. I tried not to be put off by evidently better players as I did my usual run up and down the instrument and a few long notes, but it unfortunately got to me quickly, as well as the heat and humidity in the room.

The audition room itself, although cooler, did not lend itself to beautiful oboe playing one bit, with my reed quickly hardening up and my control and expression just not evident. I knew as soon as I walked out the room after playing just two of my three pieces I hadn’t got it.

The email confirming this the next day was not a surprise.

However, the rest of my trip was wonderful. Apart from walking through a park with no streetlight the evening I arrived (creepy as fuck), the rest of the trip was beau, beau and more beau.

The weather was lovely and the scenery was moreso, particularly Geneva’s famous Jet D’eau. And to top it off I had potentially the most amazing iced coffee in my life at this super cute café with toy pandas and crates and tall glass windows leading to the natural fresh outdoors. It really was the best, even if some pasta in a tub cost me 9.80 Swiss Francs.

So after another whirlwind trip I wasn’t exactly on a playing high going into the rest of the week, and I even admitted this in my lesson on Friday. But at least I now know things to do to improve my playing, predominantly getting back on it with making reeds, which is what this weekend has offered me the chance to do.

Saying that my current reeds have carried me through some other notable aspects this week, the most notable being our quintet CD launch and my final project.

In some ways it was a miracle this came together, as on Tuesday I realised that submitting artwork to duplication companies takes more than giving them a Word document with pictures on it. Therefore, realising that I had only two days to figure out how to format my artwork correctly and send it off to the duplication company, I had a bit of a fit of panic, leaving me with no real choice but to ring the company and get them to help me with this as quickly as possible. Unsurprisingly this cost quite a bit more than what was ideal but it was completely worth it as by Thursday afternoon I had my CDs and they were great.

Good thing I had them as well, as they received some nice comments at the launch and I sold ten of them! Hopefully there will be more to sell in the months to come.

The launch itself was a small but pleasant affair, with the music coming across nicely in scenic St. Paul’s Church, and the atmosphere was just as nice. It was an added bonus having my dad and Rachel at the event; I was really grateful to have them there with my parents understandably but rarely being able to make my concerts these days.

A lovely way to end four years of brilliant chamber music with my quintet. I can only hope this is not the end of this joyful venture!

Breakfast out with my dad, Cameron and Rachel was well deserved after the stress of the days before. Chicken, bacon and waffles along with a macchiato kick started my day just right.

That evening I played in my first jazz project, along with an eclectic mix of fellow classical and jazz musicians. It was interesting to see the fusion in an array of Scandinavian inspired tracks based on specific events and moments. Although desperately needing food and sleep by the concert’s end, it was overall a success and offered an insight into this exciting fusion that I hope to see more of in future gigs.

I somewhat redeemed myself with stewarding this week, using my customer service skills to good use at the box office on Tuesday, and attempting but pretty much failing to tell people not to take videos of children this afternoon. Some people just need to do as they’re told. I was seething as soon as this woman resumed her video the moment after I told her specifically not to. So fucking rude.

But apart from that, I already feel more competent at the job and have a good feeling this will continue with the more work I take on. Looking forward to improving on every shift.

So term two of fourth year is done! We have one more until I graduate and that is frankly a scary aspect, but also one that excites me with what could possibly come next.

Next week I am taking off but the week after I may have something very special indeed.

Until then!

T

[bigboobshaunt]

Have you ever made a top 10 list of vidya you like? I enjoy reading your insight into games and I think it would be interesting to see that list and your reasons for liking them.

What is your favorite… sibling? Body part??

OK like, technically I did already make one, on this very site a long time ago (technically I reviewed the 10 that made the cut, separately), but I’m not super crazy about my analysis skills then and many that were on that list just ended up changing with time - both because I played more games and because I just ended up realizing I liked different games better.

Given that I absolutely love running my horrible mouth for probably way too long, your ask made me want to do one again, which was already an idea somewhere on the back of my mind.

A couple of disclaimers before we actually get into it: 

No game is perfect. Games are made by human beings, who carry personal biases and intrinsic flaws. I love a ton of games and they are All flawed in different ways and amounts. If anyone tells you a piece of media is straight up perfect, you should run. I am not claiming any of the games on this list are perfect, and I am well aware of their issues. I have eyes and can read.

This is my list, the barometer for it is Me. If anyone reading this takes issue with picks (which is something I keep seeing happen and it still makes no sense) just simply don’t interact or make your own list. Not looking for arguments here.

These are not, of course, gonna be in-depth for all of the games, just what exactly makes me like them so much, which was what I was asked. There are only so many spoons an enby can have, after all.

I tried keeping it to one game per franchise (barring one arguable exception) because otherwise this would get much, much harder than it already was.

Additionally, I failed to round out 10 of them, only managing 9. I beat around the bush a LOT about what the 10th one was gonna be, but no matter what choice, I always felt like I was gonna betray myself in the end, so I have reserved a section for honorable mentions at the end. These are also not numerically ranked, because while I have a long-standing Favorite game of all time, which is the last one I’ll get to, the other ones occupy uncertain, ever-changing spots.

I’m currently sitting atop a good pile of games I’ve been meaning to check out for ages, and since 2 games I’ve played recently made this list, I think it’s prudent to also make a spot for games I plan on playing to completion soon.

Here you go, anon! (And anyone else who might be interested)

Stardew Valley:

This game is both the most recent release to be on this list and also the newest entry, since it literally hasn’t been a month since I’ve finished it, and that’s part of why I placed it first here.

Though saying I “finished it” is kind of a lie, and that in itself reveals the magic, even after the “soft ending” I just keep going back to it every day, because it’s a world that just puts me in such a relaxed state… I want to spend time in my farm with my bisexual husband every day and I’m already planning two other playthroughs even if my first one is already creeping up on 100 hours!

See also: I’m… not particularly into farming sims? I’ve tried getting into them before but I just found them a little inane and unfocused, if that makes sense, so if my love for a game can transcend even a genre itself, I’d say that’s a pretty well-executed game, generally speaking.

I just also find it super endearing that the entire game was made by one person. From the artwork, the writing and the soundtrack… it’s crystal clear that a LOT of love and genuine effort went into it, and that’s very heartwarming and gives me hope.

Speaking of love, it’s also the entry in this list that has the most queer representation in it, and that’s a huuuuge plus for me, as a nonbinary bisexual. It’s a pretty cute game, and it also still manages to juggle a lot of complex themes which are very personally relatable to me with surprising tact.

Pokémon Black and White:

This is going to date this post pretty hard, but I’m actually replaying this one riiiight now. It’s actually right next to me on the table. How quaint!

These have been my favorite main Pokémon games since their release, and it’s largely a case of me being awed by its story and characters when I didn’t expect to be. I also really appreciate the risk these ones took by excluding Pokémon of previous regions to post-game content, since it forces you to get to know the new ones (which are both plentiful and incredibly creative imho!!) as you make your team.

I really appreciate the moral themes explored in this game, and how they even toyed with core concepts that had been with the series from the word go, questioning the morality we were just supposed to accept from the onset of this franchise, to the point that I’ve seen many people feel guilty about opposing this game’s main antagonistic force, N (who’s one of my favorite characters in fiction, at that).

If we’re talking strictly about casts as collective, this one has my favorite, without a doubt, in terms of rivals, antagonists, gym leaders, and even other minor npcs. I liked how they managed to effectively tie in the gym leaders with the plot, which really should be done more often, and I feel the games suffer when that doesn’t happen (hey X and Y! what’s up). The character development a lot of characters get in the sequel (which while still good, I’m not as fond of) is also very good!

Am I also still salty about folks passing this one up and then posting misinformed, under-researched opinions about it, or even deriding the Pokémon designs? Maybe! …Yeah, okay, I am. I have vivid memories of forum posts at the time, okay?

Pokémon Mystery Dungeon: Explorers of Time/Darkness/Sky:

So this was the exception I was hinting at before, in the disclaimers. It’s a spin-off that’s quite different than the main series in gameplay, so I’m counting it. I really couldn’t live with myself if I made a list of my fave games and didn’t put this one in it, seeing as it’s one of the most surefire ways to make me cry there ever were.

Much like the previous entry, this one is yet another case of the writing taking me entirely by surprise. It would have been very easy to make this spin-off a quick cash-in just using the Pokémon name, but hot damn does this one’s narrative deliver in good writing.

The previous Mystery Dungeon game was absolutely no slouch in touching very dark themes, but I do feel like those were executed both better and more uniquely in the “sequel.”

Every part of this game past the time travel is just lip-smacking, and although it starts slow, you can definitely see pleeeenty of foreshadowing nearly everywhere, which makes replaying this one very fun. It’s definitely also on my “Must replay at least once a year” list as well.

I think every game in this list has a great soundtrack, but this one takes the cake in utilizing it to heighten my emotions. I think everyone reading this who’s familiar with the game knows what I mean when I say that the farewell scene (and the track that plays in it) is completely heartwrenching and beautiful. Definitely one of my favorite scenes in gaming.

I’m also gonna give a shoutout to the relationship between the player and the partner here for being super endearing and genuinely touching, whether you see it as romantic or platonic.

Sidenote: I will have the liver of that one reviewer who stopped at Apple Woods and then said this game was nothing special.

The Legend of Zelda: Majora’s Mask:

The prize for reused assets done well goes to…

I would follow that up with a joke, but I’m not gonna. This is legitimately a good thing imo. I think it’s incredible that this game was made in one year because they had to rush it, and there’s a lot you can learn about game design and creatively cutting corners by the way Termina was created, too.

The fact that this game came out as great as it did is almost a miracle, everything considered! I really like the setting here, it’s so delightfully weird, and it makes me care about the fate of even its incredibly minor characters, which makes their impending doom and that of Link’s even more harrowing.

I could see how the time-management aspect of it wouldn’t fly with a lot of people, and admittedly I’m most familiar with the 3DS remake, so I can’t comment too much on how it used to be originally, but I think it largely synergizes well with the story. This IS a world about to end, so it feels warranted in a way that could be tough to justify otherwise.

This game also does something very well with horror, both in-game and in backstory, which is that it doesn’t spell out every implication and event out for you, but it implies juuuust enough that your mind makes you even more anxious and paranoid, as nothing could ever be as scary as your mind actually makes it out to be, and toying with this is way better than outright throwing scary shit at you… even if this game does that as well, what with those mask transformations and whatnot! Jeez.

Undertale:

I don’t know how to start this entry without outright saying this in some shape or form, so it’ll have to do - I don’t care about the fandom. I just don’t. They’ll do whatever the fuck they want with those terrible AUs and character biases, and I’ll bemoan it as usual, but I actively refuse to stop loving Undertale as it is because of them.

This game is a brilliant commentary on video games as a whole and has a great metanarrative! Pretty brilliantly and excellently executed, to be honest. It’s also yet another game that makes me cry frequently, and also makes me introspect more than I already do.

The gameplay itself can be hit or miss for me, but I don’t feel like it hurts the strength of what is there in other areas like storytelling, worldbuilding, soundtrack and character writing. It’s a bit like pinching a very hearty, stout elephant!

The different endings offer very, very different experiences that ultimately contribute to this setting and its commentary as a whole, even if I’m too much of a goody-two-shoes to ever do the No Mercy Run, but I enjoy the fact that it exists AND that the game itself calls me out for not doing it myself but watching it on youtube. Boy, did I get read for filth with that one. 

It’s also a game that masterfully implements a very specific kind of humor that I can’t get enough of, and it does so while simultaneously developing its characters and giving each of them just enough time to shine. It’s a great cast, all in all. I just wish people would appreciate more than one of the characters.

Fire Emblem: Awakening:

Like the game that made me etch a symbol on my fucking flesh forever wouldn’t make the cut. Come on.

I feel like this is the game in the series that comes the closest to getting the balance of qualities I appreciate about gaming right. It could always be better in a multitude of areas, but there’s a reason why it’s one of my most replayed games in general. The more whimsical tone? Doesn’t actually come close to bothering me, at the end of the day.

A lot of people don’t really attempt to get to know the characters like, at all, and then go on to say really dumb shit about them on social media that I’ve been known to flip the fuck about, just a little. But there’s just so many little details and anecdotes about them that you can learn through supports that make them feel more familiar to me, personally, than other casts even within the same series.

This game is also the one responsible for getting me through a really hard time in real life, so of course I still hold it extremely dear while growing out my critical lenses about it simultaneously (Yes, this can in fact be done). It did something similar to the franchise, too, which is always incredible and noteworthy!

It’s also responsible for me being on this site, so you really can say that its impact on my life is the biggest on this list, and I’m… not at all ashamed of admitting that.

I’m pretty sure I’ve spent over 500 hours with this one, without even counting the hours spent re-reading supports and other convos for my writing. This is a lot of goddamn time, but I don’t necessarily want it back, and that’s a good thing.

Udobure owns my soul.

Castlevania: Order of Ecclesia:

If you were to suck out my brain into this fucked up jar thing and make it spit out my aesthetic biases in creative goop that creates games, two of them would come forth from this messy birth - Castlevania: Order of Ecclesia and Bloodborne.

Given that I’ve actually played OoE myself, it goes on the list! End overview.

…Now, that’s not exactly untrue, but I would be underselling the game if I left that as is, so I’ll clarify other aspects about it that I enjoy.

The main character, for one, she’s one of my favorite protagonists, and it makes me glad she seemed to be popular, but I’m not exactly thrilled with how what a lot of people (and the company) remember about her is fanservice. 

Her story really struck a chord with me. She’s been robbed of her own emotions and memories at the start of the game, and when she regains slivers of it throughout the game, they still feel foreign to her, but even when things look to be at their absolute lowest (REAL nice plot twist, by the by!) not even that will stop her from performing her duty.

Another thing I enjoyed about this one was the difficulty. Normally, I’m not one to prefer the higher settings just because, and even when I try them, I frequently find myself in the position of questioning the absolute bullshit some games pull to fake any actual difficulty, but it works here because it’s actually balanced really well with what you can do and what you have available to you, making you actually think strategically.

Another thing I liked about this title that makes it stand out from the rest of the series is the map variety, since Shanoa isn’t constrained to Castlevania for the entire run, the game has an actual opportunity to show different locales, which is nice, even if they sometimes get reused in a boring way with just a different paint job.

Bayonetta:

Thiiiiis one gets on here for the longest period of courtship, without a doubt. I’ve been wanting to play it ever since it came out, but only got around to it this very year, since it was finally released on a platform I owned.

Well, alright, that’s one of the reasons, the other reason it’s here? It’s fun as FUCK to play! Every movement you make, every action flows into another and the combos all feel very natural, easy, but not devoid of strategy or thinking behind them. Beyond the gameplay, the entire thing is so darn over-the-top in typical Platinum fashion. It’s a very enjoyable ride that never forgets video games are supposed to be fun, above all.

I absolutely adore Bayonetta herself as a character. She is so amazing and multi-faceted despite the fanservice packaging. She’s quipping like the best of them in one scene, like nothing ever affects her, and then also ripping your heart out later when she shows believable vulnerability. 

I would be remiss to not mention the soundtrack, since it’s one of my favorites in gaming (beaten only by the very next entry on here) and is also my go-to for writing; Between fun, catchy themes like Mysterious Destiny and Tomorrow Is Mine, reimaginings of older songs that imho are better than the originals, like Fly Me To The Moon and Moon RIver and utterly jaw-dropping boss themes like Blood and Darkness and The Greatest Jubilee, the OST conveys every beat of the action spectacularly and makes the experience even more memorable than it would have already been.

Bayojeanne forever.

Legend of Mana:

I swear I’m not trying to be hipster-y by having my favorite one also be the least popular one on the list (by a long shot) but it’s likely that the fact that content for it is so rare somewhat influenced how close this game is to my heart, in a way. I think it made me cherish it more.

You won’t find another game quite like this one, I don’t think. The setting is extremely unique in that… you build it. You have to decide where every area in the game goes and all. It’s actually implied you’re rebuilding this world after all the magic in it has gone to shit. It’s something I really like, for sure.

It definitely makes you work for its story, and though the gist of it is presented in a cumbersome way, being exposited in history tomes you can acquire and view in a specific location… even they don’t completely spell out the backstory of this world, but in a good way rather than the usual “we blatantly didn’t finish this” kind of way. It helps that there is a lot you can learn about it from environmental storytelling and interpretation, as well. I like that, being asked to think about symbolism and what it means.

Another good point about this game that’s difficult to articulate is that it manages to create an entire world with its own set of morals and philosophies that, if taken at face value, can sound completely alien to us, but the game immerses me so deep into its world, that I end up understanding what they mean by it anyways and sympathizing where I might have not. I think that helped shape my introspective nature a lot, in retrospect. 

 There’s also the fact that although the four biggest story arcs aren’t actually linked at all, they do still absolutely play into the same major theme… even if a lot of people end up missing what it is due to how obtuse this game can be (It’s love, my dudes. Love and its classical understandings are the theme that permeates this game’s setting).

It’s also absolutely impossible for me to talk about Legend of Mana without gushing about its art design. Even if the graphics themselves aren’t great, the way it implements backgrounds still completely floors me every time I play. It does really interesting things with perspective, which you don’t see often. Hell, even the aptly-named Junkyard is unreasonably gorgeous.

The soundtrack, then? It’s Yoko Shimomura at her absolute best. It goes all the way between upbeat melodies and soul-rending compositions and it’s just intensely distinctive. A special note goes to the song City of Flickering Destruction, which still makes my heart tighten even after so many years.

Whew uh, this got long… if you’ve read this far, congratulations! You certainly can put up with an untold amount of bullshit. I’m sorry this became so disorganized, but I also… really enjoy sharing these. Really, I do. I hope I at least piqued your interest with even one of these entries. That alone would make writing this worth it a thousand times over.

Honorable mentions: Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones, Fire Emblem: New Mystery of the Emblem, Earthbound, Bloodborne, Monster Hunter 4 Ultimate, Pokémon Emerald, Pokémon Sun, Pokémon Ranger: Shadows of Almia,  The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time, The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword, The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess, Metroid Prime 3: Corruption, Digimon World Dusk, Super Mario Sunshine, Super Mario Galaxy, New Super Mario Bros., Super Smash Bros For 3DS, Silent Hill 3, Resident Evil, Resident Evil 4, Resident Evil: Revelations, Resident Evil: Revelations 2, Bravely Default, Night in the Woods, Shovel Knight, Zero Escape: 9 Hours 9 Persons 9 Doors, Okami, Sonic 3 & Knuckles.

To play list: Dragon Age: Origins, Transistor, Bastion, The Darkness II, Skyrim, Hollow Knight, Dark Souls, Dark Souls II,  Sonic Mania, Resident Evil 5, Resident Evil 6, Alan Wake, Sonic Mania, Kingdom Hearts.