#mire wallpapers

[soulmateszedits]

Tri.Be ; W.A.Y ᓚᘏᗢ

✧ Pt.3

✧ Era

✧ Nako

[estrelinha-s]

★. . tri.be lockscreens 𖹭

☆. . like or reblog if you like, save or use! hey, don't republish without  credits!!

[imogen-nocturne]

Writing Practice 1

The grounds stank of sulfur and decay as if every plant living nourished itself on the corpse of its compatriots. It was a stale scent that permeated everything like a pool of stagnant water soaking into black earth. The scent of poison gases that burned blue and led travelers to drown in the mire under the new moon. 

As I made my way through the living willows and dead oaks, my inheritance came into view. Clack. Clack. Clack. One of the shutters signaled the impending maelstrom, its twin only hanging on by one hinge. The grimy glass was intact and offered a sanctum, but why? The rest of the home was as rotten as the landscaping; the windows should be replaced with plywood or jagged maws letting in the elements. 

A thunderclap and the first patters of precipitation force me forward. Outside is certain danger. Inside is . . . clean? The dark oak wood glistens in the light of my cellphone flashlight, the curved reflections in its carvings a thousand tiny grins. A greeting. Though its outer core sloughs off, the arsenic green wallpaper is straight and flat, hugging the walls like the day it was applied. I take a few steps forward. 

"Hello?" The words leave my mouth before my mind catches up. The hair on my body prickles. Why? The door was locked. The lights were out. Why did I feel I needed to say that?

[stardust-211]

I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope, For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith... And the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing. East Coker by T.S. Eliot

By chance, I stumbled upon these profound lines from Eliot while listening to an episode of Tim Ferriss's podcast. Their resonance is undeniable, especially as I grapple with my unrequited love for Mimu. His silence, a gesture of politeness and gentlemanly restraint, prevents any false hopes or misunderstandings from taking root within me. I admire this act deeply; it is, perhaps, why my feelings for him have grown so strong. Yet, I know that I must move on, keep faith in life, and disentangle Mimu from my world. The misery persists as long as I tie my hopes and love to Mimu—a man who will never be mine.

Even though his picture still graces my phone's wallpaper, I know that words are easier than actions, and I can't erase him from my memory overnight. It will take time. Eliot's poem suggests, "Wait without hope, for hope would be hope for the wrong thing." Perhaps it teaches me that, given enough time, I will realize Mimu isn't right for me. My feelings may stem more from admiration and fantasy than genuine love—or at least the kind of love I wish to share with him. It's all about possibilities and maybes.

Yet, having waited over 30 years for true love without finding it, how can I remain positive, calm, and still? I often feel a profound sense of unfairness, but life is inherently unfair, and acceptance is my only recourse. I strive to practice gratitude and acceptance, even as it means enduring many rainy, gloomy days and confronting dark thoughts, with loneliness as my constant companion.

I must accept this reality. I often find tears streaming down my face without reason, or perhaps for the singular reason that has persisted all these years: loneliness. It envelops me like a mire, and the more I struggle to escape, the deeper I sink. No one truly understands. An endless battle rages within me—a fight between myself and my solitude.

[alexiahomedesign]

Cara Mengubah Kamar Tidur Tradisional Kecil

Ide dekorasi tradisional dapat dengan mudah menggabungkan aksen antik untuk menciptakan ruang yang anggun. Gabungkan cetakan, detail ukiran, dan aksen berlapis emas untuk menghadirkan kekayaan pada ruangan.

Ide Wallpaper Kamar Tidur Tradisional

Gunakan ide wallpaper bermotif yang serasi dengan tempat tidur Anda untuk memberikan ruangan tampilan yang koheren. Menggunakan pola yang berani dapat membuat pola menjadi norak, jadi batasi jumlahnya dan campurkan padatan untuk keseimbangan.

Biasanya dipasang berpasangan di sepanjang sisi tempat tidur, sconce dinding menyediakan titik terpusat untuk lampu baca fungsional. Pilihan pencahayaan kamar tidur serbaguna ini dapat dipasang atau dipasang untuk mengakomodasi tata letak rumah apa pun.

Pertimbangkan untuk memilih perangkat yang kompatibel dengan sakelar peredup agar Anda dapat mengubah kecerahan berdasarkan suasana hati Anda. Misalnya, pasangan tempat lilin kontemporer ini menawarkan pelat belakang melingkar yang ramping dan sentuhan akhir klasik agar sesuai dengan berbagai gaya interior tradisional.

Manfaat menambahkan Tanaman Hias

Menambahkan tanaman membantu kamar tidur tradisional terlihat lebih bersahaja dan alami. Pothos emas (juga disebut tanaman ivy setan) adalah pilihan yang baik untuk jendela kamar tidur karena menghilangkan racun seperti benzena, toluena, dan formaldehida dari udara serta menambah kelembapan. Namun berhati-hatilah karena ini sedikit beracun bagi hewan peliharaan.

Warna-warna gelap menipu mata untuk berpikir bahwa ruangan lebih besar, dan cocok dipadukan dengan tanaman hijau.

Menambahkan cermin adalah ide kamar tidur sederhana yang meningkatkan cahaya dan menambah proporsi. Jika memungkinkan, pilih pasangan yang meniru bingkai jendela untuk efek terpadu.

Pertimbangkan cermin dekoratif berbingkai yang berfungsi ganda sebagai sandaran kepala untuk tampilan menarik yang juga membuat ruangan terasa lebih besar. Atau, cobalah cermin besar berukuran penuh di atas meja rias yang dapat digunakan untuk memeriksa pakaian dengan cepat.

Trik Mengoptimalkan Tempat Tidur

Mengoptimalkan penyimpanan di bawah tempat tidur membantu mengurangi kekacauan dan membuat ruangan terasa lebih luas. Carilah wadah yang dirancang khusus untuk digunakan di bawah tempat tidur dan pertimbangkan pelapis yang menyembunyikan tempat sampah biasa. Jika ruang di bawah tempat tidur Anda rawan debu, pilihlah wadah berpenutup.

Atur pakaian, seprai, atau selimut ekstra dalam kantong penyimpanan bawah tempat tidur berritsleting besar yang dapat dikompres untuk mengurangi jumlah besar. Ini juga bagus untuk menyimpan barang berharga seperti kerudung dan gaun pembaptisan.

Meja nakas terapung adalah pilihan gaya untuk kamar tidur tradisional. Desain minimalis ini mudah disesuaikan dan dapat menyembunyikan kabel pengisi daya di balik bagian belakang rak yang miring.

Banyak ide - ide untuk kita mendesain kamar tidur kita salah satu caranya bisa kita dapatkan model kamar tidur atau rumah yang sudah memiliki desain kamar tidur mewah melalui situs penjualan idrumah.com.

[themarquesman]

Laser-Personalized Targeting vs Mass Brand Awareness

There are two macro themes that seem to be ever-present in every marketing, advertising and graphic design challenge – how to build brand communication that resonates with the masses, and how to reach, and resonate with, consumers on an individual level.

This gets me thinking about the tension between these two objectives. How do I work in the way that I do in relation to these goals?

How do I design and create content that is going to have wide appeal, while being cognizant of, and sensitive to the macro trend of personalization?

When I consider a billboard in Times Square, New York or an ad in a tube carriage on the London underground, for me this communication represents top-dollar spend on the part of the brand, product or service. But I think to myself, is it money well-spent? Is it just expensive wallpaper in the background of busy lives? Or does it provide valuable awareness that will later influence purchase considerations?

‘Pisa Photography’ (2013), Lights and Ads of Times Square in the city night. Available at: https://www.shutterstock.com/image-photo/new-york-city-jun-12-lights-145296544 (Accessed September 6th, 2022)

As Hoffman (2020) puts it, ‘the advertising industry has been fixated on two themes: the creative side of the business has been preoccupied with "storytelling," and the media side has been hooked on "personalization."' His view is that these two agendas are arch rivals. He argues that storytelling is about wide, universal narratives that everyone can relate to, whereas personalization is about narrow communication targeted at the individual.

Hoffman (2020) laments that we have lost all awareness of the relationship between marketing and the fundamentals of human communication because we have become so mired in our own solitary feedback loop. He argues that you cannot support storytelling while opposing mass media.

Valentinetti, D., Flores Muñoz, F. (2021) have a contrasting view. They believe that both storytelling and personalization can, and should, co-exist. They see 'wide' media as things like broadcast and out-of-home advertising – often associated with brand building. They see 'narrow' media as specifically targeted communication, particularly in the digital/social arena – often associated with the sales of a product/service.

Valentinetti, D., Flores Muñoz, F. (2021) highlight Big Data's power in all of this. The ability to track every message, every text, every image, every email, every attachment, with sniper-like accuracy is a power that can be leveraged for both 'wide' and 'narrow' brand endeavors. Essentially, they argue that this ability for brands to optimize and personalize makes for more relevant and engaging experiences.

This intersection of agendas is central to my field of study because it provides lenses through which we can consider efficacy. How effective was the design of an ad, or piece of brand communication? Did it create awareness? Did it move someone towards a purchase?

In terms of how I develop solutions to creative problems, I certainly experience the tension between these objectives.

But I’m not convinced that these agendas are at odds with one another. Here’s what I mean…

Several years ago, I had the privilege of working for Shaun McIlrath. He was, and still is, the Global CCO at Iris Worldwide. He shared with me his ‘Consumer Consideration Funnel’ which I’ve sketched out as best as I can remember it below. His opinion was that all brand communication, and graphic design should be considered through the filter of where the piece sits in the consideration funnel.

The intent is that content at the top of the funnel is wide, mass communication that exists to ‘yell’. Its strategic function at the top of the funnel is ‘awareness’. In Hoffman’s vocabulary, this is where ‘storytelling’ would happen. I feel that it’s absolutely fine (and even necessary) for themes to be broad and universal.

McIlrath believes that the function of any piece of design or creative communication is to move someone down the funnel towards a purchase. The ‘yell’ content will typically exist away from personal devices on canvases such as billboards and TV ads.

As people are moved down the consideration funnel, they are targeted in the digital communication arena, where messages can be accurately tailored, and brands can far more effectively ‘sell’ in a way that is most resonant and relevant to the consumer.

I would consider the Aerie billboard in the image above in Times Square to be performing a ‘yell’ role for the brand. It clearly isn’t personalized to anyone viewing it, but it is creating brand awareness.

This research got me thinking, Aerie could decide to get way narrower with their messaging, and a lot more laser-focused in their targeting online. On Facebook, for example, they have access to each individual’s metadata. Arguably, they could ‘sell’ more effectively by targeting females, aged 18-25 years old, considering their interests, friends, where they live, their birthday, etc. They could tailor copy and swap the images out with culturally and age relevant models.

Tangential to this research but potentially of creative interest would be for Aerie to have considered overlaying a lens of time-and-weather-sensitive content. If I look at the shot of the Aerie billboard in Times Square closely, I see that it was pouring with rain at the time that the photograph was taken. It’s also pitch-black nighttime in New York. Wouldn’t it have be better if they had imagery and messaging that was able to be swapped out for night and day relevance as well as good and bad weather sensitive? I think so.

Sources:

Hoffman, B. (2022) Storytelling Or Personalization – Pick One. The Ad Contrarian.

Valentinetti, D., Flores Muñoz, F. (2021) Internet of things: Emerging impacts on digital reporting, Journal of Business Research, Volume 131, pp. 549-562

[detective-inspector-her]

Show

Book?

Anyways, book three.

Investigating a crime scene with a dead body where she purposefully averts her eyes because she finds it disturbing.

Is nearly drowned by a Sea Hag and then has to carry a dead body, one that's been decaying for years.

Gets held hostage by Sanguine and has a razor pressed against her throat.

Watches a guy gets possessed by a bunch of Gods.

They break into the Sanctuary (they'd been fired in the last book) and face a bunch of assassins and then the other good guys because they look like the bad guys.

There's a bit that I don't know how to describe so I'm just going to put the end result of the incident here. For context, her tooth had been knocked out and she'd been acting like everything was fine.

She sagged. Skulduggery took the key from its hiding place in the tailpipe, opened the car and got in. Valkyrie slid in beside him, buckled up without enthusiasm and Skulduggery started the engine. “Starts first time,” he said happily.

And then later:

Kenspeckle was in one of the labs, drinking a cup of tea and eating a scone. He muttered when he saw them approaching, but his eyes narrowed when Valkyrie neared. Up until now, she had been pretty brave about it, but the look of concern on Kenspeckle’s face brought tears to her eyes and she couldn’t help it. She started crying. Skulduggery stepped back like she had stung him, but Kenspeckle rushed forward.

Save my girl, she deserves the world.

Anyways, moving on. She gets told that there's a vision where Skulduggery gets a new partner, a girl with dark eyes and hair, and she dies fighting a terrible darkness by his side. Something along the lines.

She goes down to the caves again and the ghost of the man who built the mansion tries to keep her with him as his queen because she's alive. Bear in mind he'd be the king. That whole chapter was a disturbing read actually. Isn't phase 1 for younger teenagers, why is this line here?:

The wallpaper changed, becoming a thousand faces, all Mire’s, glaring at her and echoing his words. “My enemies suffer,” the ghost and his thousand faces said. “My enemies bleed. They scream and beg and cry.”

Bonds to the Sceptre and can now turn things to dust, which she does to several bookcases.

Gets chased down by a Sanctuary operative and is being arrested for breaking into the Sanctuary. She fourteen. She ends up getting into a tractor with a non-magical person she knows because it's illegal to reveal magic. Remus Crux (the guy chasing her) knocks him out in front of her.

Get's put in a cell with a man who wants to kill her. Is he good at killing people? No. But neither had their magic, she didn't have her protective clothing and Valkyrie is fourteen, if it had been anyone else, she'd have died.

Watches someone nearly kills Mr Bliss, saves him and nearly dies herself doing it.

Fights the assassins again.

Slashes someone's belly open with a sword.

Three gods come through a portal and she nearly goes insane looking at one.

Gets chased by a god.

Kills two gods and then the Sceptre breaks.

Gets chased by a god again but this time she's bait. Oh right and this little thing:

Now that the link was gone, the gateway started to rapidly close. And then a tentacle slid out and wrapped around Skulduggery’s ankle. It tugged and he fell. He clutched at the ground as he was dragged quickly back. “Skulduggery!” Valkyrie screamed, sprinting towards him. He looked up and reached out to her, but it was too late. He disappeared through the gateway.

This affects her so much that she doesn't go home for days. I'm pretty sure it mentions her not eating.

Book three sparkle sparkle

[kpop-locks]

꒰ ˀˀ ↷ kemire ; simple+edit ”♡ᵎ ꒱

like/reblog | @keroppiwon

don’t repost our work or claim it as yours

[soft-mygstuff]

✧ mire ┆ lockscreens ! ★☆ psd by: @noirpsds & iapetite on da

[kiwibomb]

mire lockscreens! please, like or reblog if you save it! 🌿

[lenlen2006]

TRI.BE WALLPAPER

[soulmateszedits]

Mire × Tri.be ᓚᘏᗢ

✧ Girlfriend Material || Requested

✧ Nako

[jinsoulsstuff]

•.¸♡ 𝐌𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐬 ♡¸.•

PSD;@kpop-locks

𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓!!!

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Back by unpopular demand: my weird javejita asks

But dany I was thinking... what do you think javejita’s apartment looks like? It can be their shared apartment in the future (??? *muffled crying noises coming from the background*) or it can be abejita/javi’s own apartment? Is there dishes stacked up in the sink? How often do they clean? Is it empty/impersonal or are there some personal knick knacks lying around? When they can finally spend time there do they like it or not? Any photos on the fridge/walls? Would any of them be annoyed with the other if they lived together? What behaviors would they hate? Does abejita keep fake flowers in her apartment also? Does javi keep the one she gave her? Does he still have that bee magnet connie got him? Okay, okay. I was going off track but I mean it, I’m curious about it especially since we got some little snippets about their apartments like the bee magnet or THE incident or how they’ve talked about where abejita is staying a bit... and I can keep going

You don’t have to give anything away ofc but I’m just curious about any bits of information you can give us

Okay So because we are going to see Abejita’s apartment in future chapters, I’m gonna talk about Javier’s apartment in Chapters 21-Onward, AND About Javejita’s Future Dwelling

Javier’s a p a r t m e n t when he gets back to Bogotá - I hope you like cardboard boxes! - There are a lot of them - He’s unpacked his clothing - And approximately 9 things for his kitchen (a plate, a knife, a spoon, a fork, a frying pan, a pot, a glass, a tumbler, his lil bee magnet; he bought new cooking utensils when he got there and the guy isn’t expecting company)

- But Javi... Hasn’t unpacked much else, he’s been busy since he got there and he’s found himself mired in red tape with work, he’s in a more senior position now, he’s busy - When he’s in his apartment it’s to sleep and change and shave and eat really fast and then he’s going again - Most of the cardboard boxes are in the living room, along the side wall, next to the television - You can get around the living room without tripping over them but he doesn’t uh... Entertain like he used to, let’s say that - He doesn’t have to clean often because he spends more time in his office than he does in his apartment - Maybe he’ll fish through a box for an old notebook or something, but... I know Crosby told him to take some time, settle in. He didn’t do that. Javejita’s future apartment house (I’m goin’ house, I’m picturing like a one story ranch style house something like this) - So.... We already know about the bee kettle - And don’t you worry, the bee magnet has also made the trip, it is in permanent residence on the fridge. If there is an important note, something that one wants to make sure the other remembers, it is left under the bee magnet (This is me not trying to sing Under the Bee to the tune of Under the Sea from The Little Mermaid) (Damnit now that’s stuck in my head, aw beans) - I like to think that Javier is actually surprisingly fussy when it comes to how things are arranged and making sure something is put back where it was picked up from - Like dude will get huffy if the tv remote is not put Back In Its Spot at the end of the night - And Abejita is like ‘oh this is a side of you that I did not know existed you adorable grumpy old man’ she’s like ‘Sir it is a tv remote’ and he is like ‘yeah and it lives on the tv hutch, not the coffee table’ - Abejita has a home office that she works out of, where she can be a little less organized and put things wherever she wants to (though sometimes she misplaces something and Javi is like ‘see if you put it back in the same place—’ ‘Can it and get out of my office, Peña.’) - Both Javi and Abejita have a lot of knick-knacks. Abejita’s got ones that she picked up herself in her travels; Javi has ones that were mostly given to him (See: Bee magnet) - They each have a few photos in frames on the wall in the living room, but it’s not terribly cluttered - Abejita gets a little huffy when she’s cooking and trying to get a meal together and Javi just sweeps through and mutters, “That doesn’t go there,” When she puts something down. - He always comes back when she’s done and puts things back ‘where they’re supposed to go’ (in his estimation) - If Abejita’s feeling really petty she’ll put something in a really weird place. - Like... I don’t know, putting a spice that they rarely use under the sink, and seeing how long it takes for Javier to find it. - And she knows he found it because one day she comes into her home office and it’s sitting on her desk. - When they were picking out home decor, Javier started jokingly putting anything bee or hive related in their cart, but ultimately, they have very few bee-like things around the house. - Though their dishtowels do have sunflowers on them, though. - And... eventually, so does the wallpaper in the nursery. Tag List: @justanotherblonde23  ; @pascalesque  ; @revolution-starter ; @the-feckless-wonder ; @angels-pie  ; @lcandothisallday ; @xletmetaste-yoursmilex ; @kaelyn-lobrutto24 ; @superwholockmarauder ; @blooo0ooop @bridiemh ;  @mylittlelonelyappreciationtoo ; @windfallss  ; @urbankaite2 ; @lunaserenade  ; @jedi-mando; @darthdameron ; @paintballkid711  ; @mjby  ; @captn-andor  ; @mando-amando  ; @wonderlandgabby  ; @sarahjkl82-blog ; @ajeff855 ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @trash-dino-5000 ; @littlemissoblivious ;  @psychedelic-star ;  @anrimdjarin  ; @pedritobalmando  ;  @cocotetsdespinacs ; @lou-la-lou  ; @wantingtobekorra ; @coldlilheart ; @daisychainsinknots ; @teamgeiszler-gottlieb ; @leonieb ; @artsymaddie ; @blueeyesatnight ; @tardis-23 ; @mamacitapascal ; @amidjarin ; @mcueveryday ; @dionysuskid21 ; @xx-small-town-witch-xx ; @yespolkadotkitty ; @elen-aranel ; @randomness501 ; @blo0dangel ; @hnt-escape​ ; @poedameronsbeard​ ; @spideysimpossiblegirl​ ; @beskarhearts

[bibliocratic]

variants on a scenario or: ten Martin Blackwoods walk into a house.

episode 170 spoilers, like BIG SPOILERS. 

jonmartin, one sided Martin/Lonely

In every universe, eventually, he finds the house we've built for him.

1.

There is a smudge that copy-cats the shape of a man, and they wander the corridors. Sweep from room to room, dust-mote slow and purposeless. They are the colour of the wallpaper on our walls, and a sludgy heartbeat follows the metronome of our clock, and their eyes reflect back only the fog-rent vistas of our rooms. We cosset them in mist, give them the means to bury themselves forgotten.

They are not happy, but much happier. They are not safe, but much safer.

We have loved them like children love toys; loved to faded-ness, to sun-stained faint watercolour, to dereliction, dilapidation.

Once, the Avatar stalked past them in the corridor, shouting a name long rusted. The Avatar did not see them, and the man-shaped being didn't remember that was their name anyway.

It is better this way, we think.

2.

It is a poorly observed phenomena, how closely we ally with so many of the others. Seep in at the corner of their shades like a fading gradient. We are beloved of the Mother, The Choke, The Everchased. The One-Who-Sees has bordered us close-knit, and though its gifts of awful revelation and exposing the terrible as-it-is have never found much fertile soil  with the Not-as-They-Should-Be, we at least have always been on pleasant terms with the Twisting Deceit.

The Stranger's lessons are in our fog, which refracts light and image like carnival mirrors. We build cliff-faces of falsehood, impassable paths bricked along with lies designed to distract, waylay, confuse.

This is your house, we whisper to him.

You have always been here alone, we promise.

We recite to our beloved that he has never been loved, and our winds, our walls, our winding mists tell him so often that eventually he believes us.

3.

It is cruel. A kindness we had thought to spare him.

We tailored this room, these walls, this house for him to wear, fitted and befitting, yet he picks at the seams, rubs patches into the weft of us through the friction of his insistence.

He always remembers eventually. Cycles round in conversational fits and starts, spasms and shocks, frowning at the tape recorder in his hand. He always remembers, and the intrusion of the wanting Eye, like a splinter, a broken bone, a half-glimpsed glimmer through our fog, won't let him rest, won't allow him to drift away properly.

Oh, hello there, he will smile at the little recorder. And steadily, his numbness will recede to fear, his blankness to panic, his silence to desperate declarations of a selfhood we have long worked on eroding.

Is this – this isn't my house, this can't be, why am I …. Jon! J-Jon, I'm here, I need you to find me Jon, please.

Before the realisation surges back out, gripless as tide. Memory washes away just as easily with the surf, we have found.

Oh, hello there.

Round and round and round he goes. Ad infinitum. It would be kinder just to vanish.

4.

Sometimes we are lucky. Our traps snaring multiple.

After all, we have so many rooms going spare. Enough for both of them to join us.

5.

The feast we desire walks into our open mouth.

His hands are chilled, frost-touched, trembling; he is babbling because he is nervous, because he smells the brine and sea-breeze and chemical tang of hospitals, because he knows he is enclosed by our teeth.

He does not fall behind. He does not lose his grip, does not stray from the hallways, the corridors. Our fog clouds his ankles but he doesn't stumble.

He leaves us, holding his anchor like a talisman, and our jaws are left wanting and empty.

6.

He never chooses us willingly.

He never wants us, not like he did. He does not yearn for silences, for the world to be washed colourless and simple and painless, not like he used to.

It hurts, how often he rejects us.

7.

The Avatar rips the clock from the wall. Shatters chair legs, tears down the lining of wallpaper, the carpeting, colouring the air with the name of the one we have taken.

He Sees into the heart of us and still cannot find him.

He is furious, powerful, but he is also insensible with terror, mired in guilt and recrimination and loneliness, and this only serves to help us dig our teeth in. He may be king in this world but he cannot conquer tide. He never deserved him, he who we claimed long before, our tendrils deep-rooted, historical. We have had our beloved all his life. 

8.

Not now, Martin.

You're a bad son. You put her there, and she hates it, how could you do that to her, your own mother –

Not now, Martin.

Useless. Forgetful. Clumsy. Loud.

Shut up, Martin.

Boring. Poor company. A placeholder for better friends.

They're all better off without you.

We don't have to tell him many lies. Life taught him to lie to himself far better than we ever could.

9.

He is a work in progress, work of art, our masterpiece.

Over time-honed hours we sand away the corners of his recollections. After-work drinks, and inside jokes, and drunken songs shared between three. We touch up the shading so his mind does not stray to remembering small triumphs, earned successes, hard won victories. We scrub at the stubborn stains of his mother's disdain, the gnawing panic left by a series of jobs that left him empty and frustrated and desperately trying to make the budget match up, the easy everyday dismissals he believed he deserved.

We sand off the more recently applied paint of carefully cultivated loves and wishes and hopes, the whitewash of acceptance he thought he could finally claim. The Archivist's love has upholstered parts of him we had already weakened, but we are patient, we have time aplenty to sow our seeds and watch our meadow flourish, and we toil and scrape and wear him down until we can see the raw wood of him peaking through.

When we have finished, we are the only thing he can ever remember being.

10.

We know we have failed this time when he finds his name.

I am Martin Blackwood, and I am not lonely anymore.

When he refuses to be quiet, when he shouts his value, his worth, the things that we have failed to wipe from him so they echo and shake our walls down.

I am not lonely anymore. I have friends. I am in love. I will not forget, I will not.

He clears the borders of our domain with his head held high, his anchor walking by his side, and we know we have lost him for good.

[unsettlingshortstories]

Terra Incognita

Vladimir Nabokov (1931)

The sound of the waterfall grew more and more muffled, until it finally dissolved altogether, and we moved on through the wildwood of a hitherto unexplored region. We walked, and had been walking, for a long time already—in front, Gregson and I; our eight native porters behind, one after the other; last of all, whining and protesting at every step, came Cook. I knew that Gregson had recruited him on the advice of a local hunter. Cook had insisted that he was ready to do anything to get out of Zonraki, where they pass half the year brewing their von-gho and the other half drinking it. It remained unclear, however—or else I was already beginning to forget many things, as we walked on and on—exactly who this Cook was (a runaway sailor, perhaps?).

Gregson strode on beside me, sinewy, lanky, with bare, bony knees. He held a long-handled green butterfly net like a banner. The porters, big, glossy-brown Badonians with thick manes of hair and cobalt arabesques between their eyes, whom we had also engaged in Zonraki, walked with a strong, even step. Behind them straggled Cook, bloated, red-haired, with a drooping underlip, hands in pockets and carrying nothing. I recalled vaguely that at the outset of the expedition he had chattered a lot and made obscure jokes, in a manner he had, a mixture of insolence and servility, reminiscent of a Shakespearean clown; but soon his spirits fell and he grew glum and began to neglect his duties, which included interpreting, since Gregson’s understanding of the Badonian dialect was still poor.

There was something languorous and velvety about the heat. A stifling fragrance came from the inflorescences of Vallieria mirifica, mother-of-pearl in color and resembling clusters of soap bubbles, that arched across the narrow, dry streambed along which we proceeded. The branches of porphyroferous trees intertwined with those of the black-leafed limia to form a tunnel, penetrated here and there by a ray of hazy light. Above, in the thick mass of vegetation, among brilliant pendulous racemes and strange dark tangles of some kind, hoary monkeys snapped and chattered, while a cometlike bird flashed like Bengal light, crying out in its small, shrill voice. I kept telling myself that my head was heavy from the long march, the heat, the medley of colors, and the forest din, but secretly I knew that I was ill. I surmised it to be the local fever. I had resolved, however, to conceal my condition from Gregson, and had assumed a cheerful, even merry air, when disaster struck.

“It’s my fault,” said Gregson. “I should never have got involved with him.”

We were now alone. Cook and all eight of the natives, with tent, folding boat, supplies, and collections, had deserted us and vanished noiselessly while we busied ourselves in the thick bush, chasing fascinating insects. I think we tried to catch up with the fugitives—I do not recall clearly, but, in any case, we failed. We had to decide whether to return to Zonraki or continue our projected itinerary, across as yet unknown country, toward the Gurano Hills. The unknown won out. We moved on. I was already shivering all over and deafened by quinine, but still went on collecting nameless plants, while Gregson, though fully realizing the danger of our situation, continued catching butterflies and diptera as avidly as ever.

We had scarcely walked half a mile when suddenly Cook overtook us. His shirt was torn—apparently by himself, deliberately—and he was panting and gasping. Without a word Gregson drew his revolver and prepared to shoot the scoundrel, but he threw himself at Gregson’s feet and, shielding his head with both arms, began to swear that the natives had led him away by force and had wanted to eat him (which was a lie, for the Badonians are not cannibals). I suspect that he had easily incited them, stupid and timorous as they were, to abandon the dubious journey, but had not taken into account that he could not keep up with their powerful stride and, having fallen hopelessly behind, had returned to us. Because of him invaluable collections were lost. He had to die. But Gregson put away the revolver and we moved on, with Cook wheezing and stumbling behind.

The woods were gradually thinning. I was tormented by strange hallucinations. I gazed at the weird tree trunks, around some of which were coiled thick, flesh-colored snakes; suddenly I thought I saw, between the trunks, as though through my fingers, the mirror of a half-open wardrobe with dim reflections, but then I took hold of myself, looked more carefully, and found that it was only the deceptive glimmer of an acreana bush (a curly plant with large berries resembling plump prunes). After a while the trees parted altogether and the sky rose before us like a solid wall of blue. We were at the top of a steep incline. Below shimmered and steamed an enormous marsh, and, far beyond, one distinguished the tremulous silhouette of a mauve-colored range of hills.

“I swear to God we must turn back,” said Cook in a sobbing voice. “I swear to God we’ll perish in these swamps—I’ve got seven daughters and a dog at home. Let’s turn back—we know the way.…”

He wrung his hands, and the sweat rolled from his fat, red-browed face. “Home, home,” he kept repeating. “You’ve caught enough bugs. Let’s go home!”

Gregson and I began to descend the stony slope. At first Cook remained standing above, a small white figure against the monstrously green background of forest; but suddenly he threw up his hands, uttered a cry, and started to slither down after us.

The slope narrowed, forming a rocky crest that reached out like a long promontory into the marshes; they sparkled through the steamy haze. The noonday sky, now freed of its leafy veils, hung oppressively over us with its blinding darkness—yes, its blinding darkness, for there is no other way to describe it. I tried not to look up; but in this sky, at the very verge of my field of vision, there floated, always keeping up with me, whitish phantoms of plaster, stucco curlicues and rosettes, like those used to adorn European ceilings; however, I had only to look directly at them and they would vanish, and again the tropical sky would boom, as it were, with even, dense blueness. We were still walking along the rocky promontory, but it kept tapering and betraying us. Around it grew golden marsh reeds, like a million bared swords gleaming in the sun. Here and there flashed elongated pools, and over them hung dark swarms of midges. A large swamp flower, presumably an orchid, stretched toward me its drooping, downy lip, which seemed smeared with egg yolk. Gregson swung his net—and sank to his hips in the brocaded ooze as a gigantic swallowtail, with a flap of its satin wing, sailed away from him over the reeds, toward the shimmer of pale emanations where the indistinct folds of a window curtain seemed to hang. I must not, I said to myself, I must not.… I shifted my gaze and walked on beside Gregson, now over rock, now across hissing and lip-smacking soil. I felt chills, in spite of the greenhouse heat. I foresaw that in a moment I would collapse altogether, that the contours and convexities of delirium, showing through the sky and through the golden reeds, would gain complete control of my consciousness. At times Gregson and Cook seemed to grow transparent, and I thought I saw, through them, wallpaper with an endlessly repeated design of reeds. I took hold of myself, strained to keep my eyes open, and moved on. Cook by now was crawling on all fours, yelling, and snatching at Gregson’s legs, but the latter would shake him off and keep walking. I looked at Gregson, at his stubborn profile, and felt, to my horror, that I was forgetting who Gregson was, and why I was with him.

Meanwhile we kept sinking into the ooze more and more frequently, deeper and deeper; the insatiable mire would suck at us; and, wriggling, we would slip free. Cook kept falling down and crawling, covered with insect bites, all swollen and soaked, and, dear God, how he would squeal when disgusting bevies of minute, bright-green hydrotic snakes, attracted by our sweat, would take off in pursuit of us, tensing and uncoiling to sail two yards and then another two. I, however, was much more frightened by something else: now and then, on my left (always, for some reason, on my left), listing among the repetitious reeds, what seemed a large armchair but was actually a strange, cumbersome gray amphibian, whose name Gregson refused to tell me, would rise out of the swamp.

“A break,” said Gregson abruptly, “let’s take a break.”

By a stroke of luck we managed to scramble onto an islet of rock, surrounded by the swamp vegetation. Gregson took off his knapsack and issued us some native patties, smelling of ipecacuanha, and a dozen acreana fruit. How thirsty I was, and how little help was the scanty, astringent juice of the acreana.…

“Look, how odd,” Gregson said to me, not in English, but in some other language, so that Cook would not understand. “We must get through to the hills, but look, how odd—could the hills have been a mirage?—they are no longer visible.”

I raised myself up from my pillow and leaned my elbow on the resilient surface of the rock.… Yes, it was true that the hills were no longer visible; there was only the quivering vapor hanging over the marsh. Once again everything around me assumed an ambiguous transparency. I leaned back and said softly to Gregson, “You probably can’t see, but something keeps trying to come through.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Gregson.

I realized that what I was saying was nonsense and stopped. My head was spinning and there was a humming in my ears; Gregson, down on one knee, rummaged through his knapsack, but found no medicine there, and my supply was exhausted. Cook sat in silence, morosely picking at a rock. Through a rent in his shirtsleeve there showed a strange tattoo on his arm: a crystal tumbler with a teaspoon, very well executed.

“Vallière is sick—haven’t you got some tablets?” Gregson said to him. I did not hear the exact words, but I could guess the general sense of their talk, which would grow absurd and somehow spherical when I tried to listen more closely.

Cook turned slowly and the glassy tattoo slid off his skin to one side, remaining suspended in midair; then it floated off, floated off, and I pursued it with my frightened gaze, but, as I turned away, it lost itself in the vapor of the swamp, with a last faint gleam.

“Serves you right,” muttered Cook. “It’s just too bad. The same will happen to you and me. Just too bad.…”

In the course of the last few minutes—that is, ever since we had stopped to rest on the rocky islet—he seemed to have grown larger, had swelled, and there was now something mocking and dangerous about him. Gregson took off his sun helmet and, pulling out a dirty handkerchief, wiped his forehead, which was orange over the brows, and white above that. Then he put on his helmet again, leaned over to me, and said, “Pull yourself together, please” (or words to that effect). “We shall try to move on. The vapor is hiding the hills, but they are there. I am certain we have covered about half the swamp.” (This is all very approximate.)

“Murderer,” said Cook under his breath. The tattoo was now again on his forearm; not the entire glass, though, but one side of it—there was not quite enough room for the remainder, which quivered in space, casting reflections. “Murderer,” Cook repeated with satisfaction, raising his inflamed eyes. “I told you we would get stuck here. Black dogs eat too much carrion. Mi, re, fa, sol.”

“He’s a clown,” I softly informed Gregson, “a Shakespearean clown.”

“Clow, clow, clow,” Gregson answered, “clow, clow—clo, clo, clo.… Do you hear,” he went on, shouting in my ear. “You must get up. We have to move on.”

The rock was as white and as soft as a bed. I raised myself a little, but promptly fell back on the pillow.

“We shall have to carry him,” said Gregson’s faraway voice. “Give me a hand.”

“Fiddlesticks,” replied Cook (or so it sounded to me). “I suggest we enjoy some fresh meat before he dries up. Fa, sol, mi, re.”

“He’s sick, he’s sick too,” I cried to Gregson. “You’re here with two lunatics. Go ahead alone. You’ll make it.… Go.”

“Fat chance we’ll let him go,” said Cook.

Meanwhile delirious visions, taking advantage of the general confusion, were quietly and firmly finding their places. The lines of a dim ceiling stretched and crossed in the sky. A large armchair rose, as if supported from below, out of the swamp. Glossy birds flew through the haze of the marsh and, as they settled, one turned into the wooden knob of a bedpost, another into a decanter. Gathering all my willpower, I focused my gaze and drove off this dangerous trash. Above the reeds flew real birds with long flame-colored tails. The air buzzed with insects. Gregson was waving away a varicolored fly, and at the same time trying to determine its species. Finally he could contain himself no longer and caught it in his net. His motions underwent curious changes, as if someone kept reshuffling them. I saw him in different poses simultaneously; he was divesting himself of himself, as if he were made of many glass Gregsons whose outlines did not coincide. Then he condensed again, and stood up firmly. He was shaking Cook by the shoulder.

“You are going to help me carry him,” Gregson was saying distinctly. “If you were not a traitor, we would not be in this mess.”

Cook remained silent, but slowly flushed purple.

“See here, Cook, you’ll regret this,” said Gregson. “I’m telling you for the last time—”

At this point occurred what had been ripening for a long time. Cook drove his head like a bull into Gregson’s stomach. They both fell; Gregson had time to get his revolver out, but Cook managed to knock it out of his hand. Then they clutched each other and started rolling in their embrace, panting deafeningly. I looked at them, helpless. Cook’s broad back would grow tense and the vertebrae would show through his shirt; but suddenly, instead of his back, a leg, also his, would appear, covered with coppery hairs, and with a blue vein running up the skin, and Gregson was rolling on top of him. Gregson’s helmet flew off and wobbled away, like half of an enormous cardboard egg. From somewhere in the labyrinth of their bodies Cook’s fingers wriggled out, clenching a rusty but sharp knife; the knife entered Gregson’s back as if it were clay, but Gregson only gave a grunt, and they both rolled over several times; when I next saw my friend’s back the handle and top half of the blade protruded, while his hands had locked around Cook’s thick neck, which crunched as he squeezed, and Cook’s legs were twitching. They made one last full revolution, and now only a quarter of the blade was visible—no, a fifth—no, now not even that much showed: it had entered completely. Gregson grew still after having piled on top of Cook, who had also become motionless.

I watched, and it seemed to me (fogged as my senses were by fever) that this was all a harmless game, that in a moment they would get up and, when they had caught their breath, would peacefully carry me off across the swamp toward the cool blue hills, to some shady place with babbling water. But suddenly, at this last stage of my mortal illness—for I knew that in a few minutes I would die—in these final minutes everything grew completely lucid: I realized that all that was taking place around me was not the trick of an inflamed imagination, not the veil of delirium, through which unwelcome glimpses of my supposedly real existence in a distant European city (the wallpaper, the armchair, the glass of lemonade) were trying to show. I realized that the obtrusive room was fictitious, since everything beyond death is, at best, fictitious: an imitation of life hastily knocked together, the furnished rooms of nonexistence. I realized that reality was here, here beneath that wonderful, frightening tropical sky, among those gleaming swordlike reeds, in that vapor hanging over them, and in the thick-lipped flowers clinging to the flat islet, where, beside me, lay two clinched corpses. And, having realized this, I found within me the strength to crawl over to them and pull the knife from the back of Gregson, my leader, my dear friend. He was dead, quite dead, and all the little bottles in his pockets were broken and crushed. Cook, too, was dead, and his ink-black tongue protruded from his mouth. I pried open Gregson’s fingers and turned his body over. His lips were half-open and bloody; his face, which already seemed hardened, appeared badly shaven; the bluish whites of his eyes showed between the lids. For the last time I saw all this distinctly, consciously, with the seal of authenticity on everything—their skinned knees, the bright flies circling over them, the females of those flies already seeking a spot for oviposition. Fumbling with my enfeebled hands, I took a thick notebook out of my shirt pocket, but here I was overcome by weakness; I sat down and my head drooped. And yet I conquered this impatient fog of death and looked around. Blue air, heat, solitude.… And how sorry I felt for Gregson, who would never return home—I even remembered his wife and the old cook, and his parrots, and many other things. Then I thought about our discoveries, our precious finds, the rare, still undescribed plants and animals that now would never be named by us. I was alone. Hazier flashed the reeds, dimmer flamed the sky. My eyes followed an exquisite beetle that was crawling across a stone, but I had no strength left to catch it. Everything around me was fading, leaving bare the scenery of death—a few pieces of realistic furniture and four walls. My last motion was to open the book, which was damp with my sweat, for I absolutely had to make a note of something; but, alas, it slipped out of my hand. I groped all along the blanket, but it was no longer there.