#naturalist communities near me

[deadvnstudios]

Hello! This is for the character question week! I like being outdoorsy, so I would like to ask how would everybody react on a camping adventure?

"...I now understand survival of the fittest…"

Noel is once again reminded he might be the only capable person in this group, and he is forced to constantly take over tasks the others are failing at.

The next morning, Noel takes an "everyone for themselves" attitude in regard to cooking breakfast. He departs from the campsite before dawn and heads to the trails most renowned for bird watching, hoping to find some peace and quiet.

It's right as a rare bird settles in the sites of his binoculars that Mona and Vein appear from behind, their laughs piercing the air and startling the bird away. Noel turns, considering homicide, only to decide there are too many witnesses, when they both slyly suggest he might want to return to camp.

At a breakneck pace, he heads back to camp, arriving at the harrowing sight of flaming mallows being waved around and improperly secured sausages sliding off their roasting sticks and plopping into the fire.

To no one's surprise: he winds up cooking dinner.

"Nature, the finest work to be crafted by the gods! Shall we see what mysteries they've left for us to find…?"

Still dressed entirely in her dark outfits, Mona roasts beneath the sun–but she faces the heat with a dogged determination.

She volunteers to collect firewood, only to disappear for an hour because a unique cluster of mushrooms caught her attention. When she finally returns, she has no firewood, but she does have several pages worth of mushroom sketches.

This surprises no one. In fact, a contingency plan was put in place the minute she volunteered, and she delightfully curls up in front of the fire someone else constructed. There, she shows off her sketches to anyone who glances her way–particularly Sorin.

After this, much of her camping adventure is spent exploring the nearby woods (where, according to Mary, a sacrificial site can be found) and sketching every creature she comes across. In the evening, she eagerly shoves the sketches into Sorin's face in an attempt to cheer him up.

"Did mankind not begin their construction of abodes so we could avoid wallowing in filth…?"

Dripping in sweat and unable to find a clean surface to sit upon, Sorin finds maintaining his princely demeanor difficult while camping.

Having no experience and even less interest in camping, Sorin is… very little help around the campsite, unless you consider staying out of the way helping.

The only joy he seems able to find is standing near the stream's edge, watching small minnows and tadpoles drift along with the current. This joy is doubled when the sun finally sets and the moon's pale light glimmers across the water's surface.

"Really, we came all the way out here to listen to Tempest's whiny-ass songs around a campfire? We get enough of this at home."

Mary prefers to stay with her creature comforts and only agreed to go on this trip because it was a break from the commune's monotony.

She quickly discovers while she hates how needlessly complicated camping is, she greatly enjoys all the opportunities camping presents to spook the other members.

This often takes the form of disappearing at night, only to crack twigs and create odd noises near the tree line. Once everyone has gone to bed for the night, she'll grab a flashlight and create scary shadow creatures on everyone's tents.

"Aw, fuck! Another mosquito just fucking bit me! But, hah, even mosquitoes think I'm tasty. All part of the charm, I guess."

Tempest wants to believe himself a hardened naturalist, and he tells the others as such, but he is really just a stream of annoyed complaints: there's too many bugs, he's getting sunburnt, the stream water tastes funny (Noel: "…you need to boil it first."), the tent instructions don't make any sense… etc, etc, etc.

When he has to dismantle the tent for the third time, he abandons this task completely in a fit of frustration and goes to pout by the stream with Sorin. He is not safe here, either, because immediately, the bugs start gobbling him.

Eventually, he decides he will be the de facto entertainer. He takes up what seems like permanent residence by the firepit where he sings and plays his guitar, confident this will help lighten the mood.

"Nothing cozier than a nice fire and friends! Huh - we can't make a fire? Aha, oh well - nothing cozier than friends and a good game night."

Vein doesn't find much enjoyment in sweating and physical activities, but she does enjoy playing games and having everyone trapped and at her mercy in a single area. She loves hanging out–and this is the perfect excuse to hang out with no distractions.

When no one was looking, Vein loaded up every outdoor game they could find into their vehicle. It's only once things are being unloaded at the campsite that it's discovered Vein removed the group's firestarter in place of… you guessed it: another yard game.

She starts camp set-up by delegating tasks, only to eventually do most of the work alongside Noel.

[legend-collection]

Am Fear Liath Mòr

Am Fear Liath Mòr is the name for a presence or creature which is said to haunt the summit and passes of Ben Macdui, the highest peak of the Cairngorms and the second highest peak in British Isles after Ben Nevis.

Pic by mlappas on deviantart

Although there have been many purported encounters with the Big Grey Man, few eyewitnesses have actually seen the creature. It is reported to be very thin and over ten feet tall, with dark skin and hair, long arms, and broad shoulders. Most often, the creature remains unseen in the fog of the mountain, with encounters limited to the sound of crunching gravel as it walks behind climbers and a general feeling of unease around the mountain. Tangible evidence of its existence is limited to a few photographs of unusual footprints, so the majority relies on the credibility of eyewitness encounters.

The figure has many similarities with the Brenin Llwyd (English: Grey King) of Welsh mythology, this figure is also semi-corporeal, silent and uses the mists as a cloak to prey on unwary travellers. Unlike the Am Fear Liath, Brenin Llwyd is found in mountainous locations across Wales, and is particularly noted to prey on children.

In 1925, J. Norman Collie gave the first recorded account of a Grey Man encounter. A noted hiker, professor, and member of the Royal Geographical Society, Collie recounted a terrifying experience he had as he hiked alone near the summit of Ben Macdui years earlier in 1891.

"I was returning from the cairn on the summit in a mist when I began to think I heard something else than merely the noise of my own footsteps. Every few steps I took I heard a crunch, and then another crunch, as if someone was walking after me but taking steps three or four times the length of my own. I said to myself, this is all nonsense. I listened and heard it again but could see nothing in the mist. As I walked on and the eerie crunch, crunch sounded behind me, I was seized with terror and took to my heels, staggering blindly among the boulders for four or five miles nearly down to Rothiemurchus Forest. Whatever you make of it, I do not know, but there is something very queer about the top of Ben Macdui and I will not go back there again."

Collie's account was reported in the local press, which started a debate between sceptics and believers within the community. Other climbers came forward with their own encounters, which they had previously been afraid to share. One climber, Hugh D. Welsh, said that he hiked the summit with his brother in 1904, where throughout the day and night they heard "slurring footsteps, as if someone was walking through water-saturated gravel." Both felt "frequently conscious of something near us, an eerie sense of apprehension."

In 1945, Pete Densham was participating in rescue work in the Cairngorm mountains during World War II. One day, he reported hearing strange noises, mist closing in on his location, and increasing pressure around his neck. He fled before seeing anything concrete. A friend of his, climber Richard Frere, wrote about his sense of "a Presence, utterly abstract but intensely real" on the mountain and heard "an intensely high singing note" a few years later in 1948. Frere also presented the encounter of another mutual friend, who wished to remain anonymous, while he camped on Ben Macdui. He reported waking up feeling an inescapable feeling of dread, and looked out of his tent to see a large figure with dark hair standing in front of the moon in silhouette.

In 1958, naturalist and mountaineer Alexander Tewnion published an article in The Scots magazine about an encounter with the Grey Man in 1943.

"I spent a 10-day leave climbing alone in the Cairngorms. One afternoon, just as I reached the summit cairn of Ben MacDhui, mist swirled across the Lairig Ghru and enveloped the mountain. The atmosphere became dark and oppressive, a fierce, bitter wind whisked among the boulders, and... an odd sound echoed through the mist – a loud footstep, it seemed. Then another, and another... A strange shape loomed up, receded, came charging at me! Without hesitation I whipped out the revolver and fired three times at the figure. When it still came on I turned and hared down the path, reaching Glen Derry in a time that I have never bettered. You may ask was it really the Fear Laith Mhor? Frankly, I think it was.

No photographs of the Big Grey Man have ever been taken. Photographer John A. Rennie supposedly found a series of footprints in Spey Valley, measuring 19 inches (48 centimetres) long and 14 inches (36 centimetres) wide. These were published in a book, but he later discovered that they were a natural phenomenon caused by rainfall eroding the snow.

[amvenvs3000w23]

The Arctic Interpreter

Nature Interpreters are essential for the education of the natural world to the public. They help people understand the natural world, the threats nature faces, and how we as humans can help minimize these threats. Nature interpreters have a difficult job as they need to effectively communicate education in a fun interactive way to the public. As stated by Mills (1920), “People are out for recreation and need restful, intellectual visions, and not dull, dry facts, rules, and manuals.” Doing so will help the guest have a life-changing positive impact on the environment, allowing them to take part in acting sustainably (Beck et al., 2018). A successful interpreter will be able to instill the passion of learning to the guest regardless of age, gender, or ethnicity. A good first step to become a successful interpreter is to follow The Gifts of Interpretation (Beck & Cable, 2011), which are a list of 15 gifts on how to approach interpretation and relate to the audience. 

I have spent four summers working at Rondeau Provincial Park as a Naturalist (nature interpreter) practicing my interpretative skills. One of the main things I learned was to teach what you are interested in, as this will give you the most passion towards your topics. As an interpreter I would focus on educating the public on climate changes impact on the Arctic tundra. Being a Canadian the arctic is near and dear to my heart and being the most rapidly changing environment due to climate change in Canada, it needs our help conserving. Growing up in rural Ontario I understand the perspectives of individuals who doubt climate change and believe that I can use their concerns to better educate the public without touching politics. Ideally, I would work at Polar Bear Provincial Park, as it is the largest of the provincial parks, in the arctic tundra and is currently unmanned. 

Being the first interpreter at Polar Bear Provincial Park, would provide me an amazing opportunity to use the cumulative knowledge from this class to create a solid foundation for its interpretative program. Having this program in the high arctic would allow visitors to see first-hand the accelerated impacts climate change has on the arctic biome. To accommodate to all learning styles, the visitor centre with be equipped with auditory, visual, and tactile/kinaesthetic learning stations. For auditory listeners, a recorded tour will be available, or an interpreter who can give a presentation of the visitor centre live. For visual learners the visitor center will be fill with exhibits demonstrating the arctic, such as diagram and photos as well as an underground display showing the melting of the permafrost. For the tactile/kinaesthetic learners as aspects of the exhibits will have interactive components such as arctic animal furs, a temperature changing permafrost exhibit (to tactile feel the temperature change) and a cold room, where the freezing arctic temperatures and storms can be experiences (with supervision). All these learning styles will be incorporated into each exhibit allowing for ideal learning conditions for everyone regardless of what learning style/combinations of learning styles best suit them. These combinations, will lead to an effective and successful interpretive centre.

Citations:

Beck, L. and Cable, T. 2011. The gifts of interpretation, Champaign, IL: Sagamore. 

Beck, L., Cable, T. T., & Knudson, D. M. (2018). Interpreting cultural and natural heritage: For A Better World. SAGAMORE Publishing.

Mills, Enos A. “The Adventures of a Nature Guide.” 1920, https://doi.org/10.5962/bhl.title.57806. 

[unhingedwomandiaries]

There's this friend I have who I call Vegan Mafia. We've been casual friends for almost a year, but she texts me constantly about her screwed-up dating life. I'm honestly not sure why she unloads all this on me. It's not like I have any insight into the mind of your average crunchy, granola-eating, compost-hating hippie woman. But whatever. I'll play along.

The latest drama involves some poor schlub she went out with from one of those apps where you have to swipe right if you want to meet up and mate. Very modern. Very 2024. They did dinner at some vegan joint, then caught a comedy show. Seems normal enough, right? Wrong.

Apparently, Vegan Mafia ended up with some hummus on her chin at the restaurant. No big deal because we've all been there. Except in her mind, this became a damning personality critique of her date. Because he didn't point out the rogue chickpea paste and apologize on behalf of the universe, she decided he must have a "blame mentality" and was raised by negligent parents who never loved him properly.

What sort of insane troll logic is that? Does she hear herself? My parents loved me. Sure, they're dead now, but that doesn't mean I require constant emotional hand-holding from every person I encounter. I'm a reasonably functional adult. If I have spinach in my teeth, I appreciate when my husband mentions it. But If he doesn't, I don't automatically assume he had an unhappy childhood in a loveless home.

But hey, here's where it gets really crazy: After dinner, they went back to the dude's place and hung out in the backyard. Vegan Mafia noticed he owned a compost bin and I shit you not she started ranting about how compost bins are more dangerous than "carbon monoxide or acrylamide." She claimed they create "sarsaparilla fungus" that can be deadly, as well as malaria (which doesn't exist anywhere near where we live).

At this point, I thought she was just messing with me. But she kept sending all these (likely bogus) scientific studies to back up her compost paranoia. Even my husband's science minded mates got a kick out of debunking her bizarre theories.

In the end, Vegan Mafia declared she would never attend a garden party at mine because of the apparent compost scourge threatening our community. Sometimes you just have to shake your head. Either she's crazy, or I'm losing my mind trying to follow whatever quasi-naturalistic cult she's trapped inside. Maybe both. All I know is that hummus incident really messed her up.

[matthanks272]

In Search of Wellness: Finding the Best Chiropractor Near Me

Introduction

Embarking on a quest for optimal wellness often leads individuals to explore chiropractic care, a holistic approach that emphasizes the interplay between the spine, nervous system, and overall health. This guide is designed to assist in the search for the best "chiropractor near me", providing insights into the essential considerations, principles, and practices that contribute to a transformative chiropractic experience.

Understanding Chiropractic Care

Holistic Wellness Philosophy: Chiropractic care is rooted in a holistic wellness philosophy that views the body as a complex, interconnected system. Practitioners focus on the spine and nervous system, understanding their pivotal role in overall health. This holistic approach considers the interdependence of physical, mental, and emotional well-being.

Natural Healing Principles: Chiropractors embrace natural healing principles, emphasizing the body's innate ability to heal itself. Through spinal adjustments and holistic interventions, they aim to optimize the body's functions, promote self-healing, and enhance overall wellness. This naturalistic perspective aligns with the quest for wellness without excessive reliance on medications or invasive procedures.

Factors to Consider in the Search for the Best Chiropractor

Credentials and Education: Begin the search by examining the credentials and education of potential chiropractors. A qualified practitioner should possess a Doctor of Chiropractic (DC) degree from an accredited institution. Verify licensure and check for any additional certifications or specialized training that aligns with your specific health needs.

Experience in Relevant Areas: Consider the chiropractor's experience, particularly in areas relevant to your health concerns. Whether it's addressing sports injuries, chronic pain, or specific conditions, an experienced chiropractor with a track record in the areas that matter to you is more likely to provide effective and tailored care.

Patient Reviews and Testimonials: Explore patient reviews and testimonials to gain insights into the chiropractor's reputation and patient satisfaction. Real-life experiences shared by others can provide valuable perspectives on the practitioner's approach, communication style, and the overall effectiveness of the care provided.

Philosophy Alignment: Align with a chiropractor whose philosophy resonates with your values and preferences. Some chiropractors may emphasize preventive care, while others may focus on addressing specific conditions. Choose a practitioner whose approach aligns with your wellness goals, fostering a collaborative and harmonious therapeutic relationship.

Accessibility and Location: Consider the location and accessibility of the chiropractic office. Opt for a nearby location that is convenient for regular visits, ensuring that the logistics of accessing care do not become a barrier to your wellness journey. Proximity can contribute to consistency and commitment to the recommended treatment plan.

The Chiropractic Experience: What to Expect

Comprehensive Initial Assessment: A reputable chiropractor will conduct a comprehensive initial assessment. This typically involves a detailed health history, physical examination, and may include diagnostic tests. The purpose is to understand the unique aspects of your health, identify any underlying issues, and tailor a personalized treatment plan.

Clear Communication and Education: Effective communication is a hallmark of a positive chiropractic experience. A skilled chiropractor will explain procedures, treatment options, and expected outcomes in a clear and accessible manner. Education about the underlying principles of chiropractic care empowers patients to actively participate in their wellness journey.

Personalized Treatment Plans: The best chiropractors create personalized treatment plans based on the findings of the initial assessment. These plans may include spinal adjustments, therapeutic exercises, lifestyle recommendations, and other complementary interventions. The personalized approach ensures that the care is tailored to address your specific health needs and goals.

Progress Monitoring and Adjustments: Throughout the chiropractic journey, the practitioner will monitor your progress and make adjustments to the treatment plan as needed. Regular assessments allow for adaptations to the care strategy, ensuring that the approach remains effective and aligned with your evolving wellness needs.

Conclusion

In the search for wellness, finding the best chiropractor nearby is a pivotal step towards optimizing health and achieving balance. By considering credentials, experience, patient testimonials, philosophy alignment, and accessibility, individuals can make informed choices that resonate with their unique wellness goals. The chiropractic experience, characterized by comprehensive assessments, clear communication, personalized treatment plans, and ongoing progress monitoring, contributes to a transformative journey towards optimal well-being. As you embark on this quest for wellness, remember that the best chiropractor is not just a healthcare provider but a collaborative partner in your pursuit of a healthier and more balanced life.

[investmentestate]

Best ABA Therpy Near Me 

Best ABA Therpy Near Me 

 Introduction:

Applied Behavior Analysis (ABA) therapy has emerged as a widely recognized and effective intervention for individuals with developmental challenges, particularly those on the autism spectrum. Developed in the 1960s by psychologist Dr. Ole Ivar Lovaas, ABA is rooted in the principles of behaviorism, aiming to improve socially significant behaviors through systematic observation and reinforcement. This article provides a comprehensive overview of ABA therapy, exploring its principles, methods, controversies, and success stories.

Understanding ABA Principles:

At the core of ABA therapy lie several fundamental principles. One key concept is the focus on observable and measurable behaviors. ABA practitioners meticulously assess and analyze behaviors, breaking them down into smaller components. This process, known as behavior analysis, enables a precise understanding of the factors influencing behavior and guides the development of tailored intervention plans.

Another foundational principle is reinforcement. ABA utilizes positive reinforcement to increase the likelihood of desired behaviors. This involves rewarding a person for exhibiting a target behavior, strengthening the association between the behavior and the positive outcome. Conversely, negative reinforcement involves removing an aversive stimulus, also to increase the likelihood of a behavior occurring.

The Methods:

ABA therapy employs a range of techniques to address various developmental challenges. One widely used method is discrete trial training (DTT), a structured approach that breaks down skills into smaller tasks. This method involves presenting a stimulus, prompting a response, and providing reinforcement for correct responses.

Naturalistic teaching strategies, such as pivotal response training (PRT), focus on creating opportunities for learning within the natural environment. PRT emphasizes motivation and self-initiation, promoting the development of communication, play, and social skills.

Verbal Behavior Analysis (VBA) is another approach within ABA, emphasizing the functional relationship between language and behavior. It focuses on teaching language as a form of communication, addressing the functions of words rather than specific rote responses.

Controversies Surrounding ABA:

Despite its widespread acceptance, ABA therapy has faced criticisms and controversies. One concern revolves around the idea of "compliance training," where some argue that ABA excessively focuses on making individuals conform to societal norms, potentially neglecting their unique characteristics and needs.

Critics also point to the historical use of aversive techniques in early ABA practices, such as punishment and coercion, which raised ethical concerns. However, contemporary ABA has evolved, emphasizing positive reinforcement and ethical guidelines to ensure the well-being of individuals undergoing therapy.

Success Stories and Positive Outcomes:

Numerous success stories attest to the transformative power of ABA therapy. Individuals who have undergone ABA interventions often exhibit significant improvements in communication, social skills, and daily living activities. Early intervention with ABA has been particularly effective in fostering positive outcomes for children with autism spectrum disorders, helping them integrate more successfully into mainstream educational settings.

ABA therapy is not limited to children; it has shown success in improving the lives of individuals across the lifespan. From reducing challenging behaviors to enhancing adaptive skills, ABA's impact extends beyond the realm of autism to other developmental disorders and challenges.

Challenges and Future Directions:

While ABA therapy has proven beneficial for many, challenges persist. Access to ABA services can be limited due to factors such as financial constraints, geographical location, and awareness. Efforts to increase accessibility and affordability are ongoing, with advocates pushing for greater inclusion of ABA in healthcare coverage.

The future of ABA therapy involves ongoing research to refine and expand its applications. Collaborations between researchers, practitioners, and families aim to enhance the effectiveness of interventions and address the diverse needs of individuals with developmental challenges.

Conclusion:

Applied Behavior Analysis therapy has become a cornerstone in the field of developmental interventions, providing hope and tangible progress for individuals with a variety of challenges. Through its evidence-based principles, diverse methods, and ongoing evolution, ABA continues to make a profound impact on the lives of those it serves. As awareness grows and accessibility improves, the potential for positive outcomes through ABA therapy remains a beacon of hope for individuals and families navigating the complexities of developmental disorders.

Any Information Related To ABA Therapy

contact - 84476794041

website - http://www.healthalliance.in/aba-therapy-in-ghaziabad/

[froshele]

Also, like, just... there's this idea certain performatively outdoorsy people have (be they rural or urban, mysticizing or deanimizing of the wildlife) that "being honest about the nature of [thing]" means "shitting on [thing] and destroying everyone who likes [tangential thing about thing] with facts and logic to demonstrate your own superiority". Or "reciting the dogma about [thing] word for word and steamrolling any kind of inquiry or critique".

A lot of them are where they are because neither urban nor rural society wanted them, and they were incapable of getting the message that this unwantedness has one common denominator -- which is just unfortunate, since sometimes they're also the first people the median wannabe naturalist can contact to ask about their Local Ecology. They will talk your ears off about their Local Ecology. The problem, and the reason you can't get comfortable listening to them, is that the ecology which is physically local to you two owns itself, but Their Local Ecology (an abstract concept) belongs fully and only to them. They don't know how to belong to a community; how can they belong to an ecology?

A good amount of my stepfathers have been this guy. The thing to know is that they aren't living in real life but in a monomyth about themself: I'm the hero, I'm the hunter, I have one stop solutions and objectively correct heuristics to every problem. A real "should have been shamed for his kills by his elders at a formative age" type of guy.

This is also why they're huge dicks to their stepchildren and vote for the candidate that makes them feel securely smuggest. (The most recent one harangued me completely unprompted for like an hour once about how wolves, none of whom he's met, really are, based on that alpha thing the author rescinded because it was dumb and not on any sort of contact with or serious zoological study of them -- as a prelude to, of course, a long Shapiroan forced-civil tirade about women.)

These sorts want simplicity, they want enemies, they want people to look down on. They vote as predictably as they behave towards animals they can't lionize (big predators) or spin into a prop for their own valour (impressive prey). The aforementioned guy, who found my mother on the internet two years or so ago, kicks and steps on docile little early-autumn lake frogs for fun, like some kind of child who hasn't learned why adults don't do that yet, only 45 or so years old. Because he can. Because it makes him feel like a man. It makes him feel like a man to hurt or kill a stupid little anuran that doesn't mean him any harm and just wants to exist. What sort of a man is that? I'm a better man than he is, and I'm a filthy gender ideologue half his age and a third his size.

These sorts treat people they don't know with the same indifference and scorn and projection of beliefs about life as they treat animals and wild plants, in which respect (because they swing the same hammer at everything) perhaps they really are fairer than people who've never seen a tick or a deer in person, cold comfort that that is.

No expertise borne of any kind of lived experience you have will be enough for them because you cannot have expertise; nothing a wolf could ever do will unmake her a near mythic symbol-monster of pure patriarchal virility; they will never eat anything you forage no matter what, and if you're too insistent they will decide you are trying to poison them and start behaving evilly to you; your loon call is hot dogshit even if the loons themselves respond.

For some reason we as a society allow these clearly damaged individuals to possess guns and often to share a title with ecologically responsible hunters. But I think that you probably couldn't stay that way if you were what they say they are, if you were really self-reliant and wise and thoughtful and spent enough time really looking around outside. The most important skill you can cultivate after finding your way home and discouraging predators is sitting still, and watching, and seeing; not being the main character of some sort of a linear hero narrative but just seeing it all for what it is. It's surprisingly difficult to see, but it's not an arcanely complicated skill at all.

My point here is that the sort of wannabe gruff outdoorsy person, the sort of posturing bloviator on the topic of their own superiority to city-slickers, to find it embarrassing to be awed or enchanted or even just pleased by the world and the people in it is also the sort of person to get aimlessly scared of a spider that isn't doing anything. The sort of person to shoot a fox that's a bit curious about them because that means it's rabid, or exaggerate and make into a monster a bear they can well avoid who's sitting in her beholding hole. The sort of person who absorbed how to be a hardass from other hardasses, and forgot to actually learn to live where they live along the way.

They don't even want to think about living in a world where a bear, mighty symbol of whatever the hell it is they believe in, might have a beholding hole -- because then the bear might have more in common with a generic, beercan-cracking Dad on a fishing trip than with them. They don't know how healthy adult people ought to relate to the world outside of town because they can't even see that world, just this sort of camo-drab filtered presentation of a nonexistent Wilderness that rewards its elect (them, of course) and is entitled to kill the weaklings (everyone they feel mildly threatened by, especially their wives, who incomprehensibly are always better people and naturalists and, due to women's biological advantage in that sphere, would also be better at shooting).

They need the world to be full of slavering monsters because they're monstrous and don't want to confront it in themselves.

The Wilderness doesn't exist, and there is no invisible hand in it that gives you things for being a special boy and kills you for not being. There is no moral arbiter of the great unknown, because everyone in the unknown is a conscious person making choices -- junkies, teenagers, lynx, bears and all. What kills you is either being an idiot or being unlucky, you know?

So you'd think, to minimize idiocy, everyone ought to learn about how everyone else thinks and behaves before going to where they all are, and to minimize the chance of being really unlucky, everyone ought to know where and when the local predators kill (for instance, in North America, cougar are particular about it) and how to not get Lyme. Alas, 'tis far from always so -- you often have to convince some of the only other people it firsthand matters to that bears, in fact, are part of "everyone", first of all. And that's not terrifically easy to do, for someone whose first response to anything you say is "Ha, you'll sing a different tune when that thing mauls you."

I (as a person who spent formative time with mandatory kiddie pamphlets detailing how not to get eaten, rather than a self-appointed arbiter of whose ass in the animal kingdom is hardest) would definitely recommend engaging with bears as little and politely as possible, although I think warmly of the few individuals I've seen an appreciable number of times. It's best for all of us if we stay tame and they stay wild.

But who's a "that thing" here, though -- the bear that lives here or the camo-jacket douchenozzle trying to shout you down about it?

more and more I feel strongly defensive about the animals that people hate or look down upon and view as evil, malicious, dirty, stupid, vermin, or otherwise worthless

[baileye]

(Via swiss-miss)

The following exercise in watershed awareness was hatched 30 years ago by Peter Warshall, naturalist extraordinaire. Variations of this list have appeared over the years with additions by Jim Dodge, Peter Berg, and Stephanie Mills among others. I have recently added new questions from Warshall and myself, and I have edited or altered most of the rest. It’s still a work in progress. If you have a universal question you think fits, submit it to me.

The intent of this quiz is to inspire you to answer the questions you can’t initially. —KK

30 questions to elevate your awareness (and literacy) of the greater place in which you live:

1) Point north.

2) What time is sunset today?

3) Trace the water you drink from rainfall to your tap.

4) When you flush, where do the solids go? What happens to the waste water?

5) How many feet above sea level are you?

6) What spring wildflower is consistently among the first to bloom here?

7) How far do you have to travel before you reach a different watershed? Can you draw the boundaries of yours?

8) Is the soil under your feet, more clay, sand, rock or silt?

9) Before your tribe lived here, what did the previous inhabitants eat and how did they sustain themselves?

10) Name five native edible plants in your neighborhood and the season(s) they are available.

11) From what direction do storms generally come?

12) Where does your garbage go?

13) How many people live in your watershed?

14) Who uses the paper/plastic you recycle from your neighborhood?

15) Point to where the sun sets on the equinox. How about sunrise on the summer solstice?

16) Where is the nearest earthquake fault? When did it last move?

17) Right here, how deep do you have to drill before you reach water?

18) Which (if any) geological features in your watershed are, or were, especially respected by your community, or considered sacred, now or in the past?

19) How many days is the growing season here (from frost to frost)?

20) Name five birds that live here. Which are migratory and which stay put?

21) What was the total rainfall here last year?

22) Where does the pollution in your air come from?

23) If you live near the ocean, when is high tide today?

24) What primary geological processes or events shaped the land here?

25) Name three wild species that were not found here 500 years ago. Name one exotic species that has appeared in the last 5 years.

26) What minerals are found in the ground here that are (or were) economically valuable?

27) Where does your electric power come from and how is it generated?

28) After the rain runs off your roof, where does it go?

29) Where is the nearest wilderness? When was the last time a fire burned through it?

30) How many days till the moon is full?

The Bigger Here Bonus Questions:

31. What species once found here are known to have gone extinct?

32. What other cities or landscape features on the planet share your latitude?

33. What was the dominant land cover plant here 10,000 years ago?

34. Name two places on different continents that have similar sunshine/rainfall/wind and temperature patterns to here.

[pearbody-squareheads]

20/08/23 (463 words)

54.703 words, 184 pages

I was with my brother, on a mountain almost identical to the one we go to in Bosnia. It was a... tense moment, like, as if there was a war going on there, or a catastrophe incoming... We were walking up a hill when I saw two arrows landing on the ground near the top, and I turned to my brother and told him "that's her, it's a signal" and we continued that way. The path was climbing up the mountain, on a grassy way. "Her" was an entity to which I was bonded, who I had met and seen before and maybe even talked with. Like I was her prophet, or contact. She is The Lady Of Light. And she had sent the arrows to make me go that direction, and we followed it. The terrain then curved and flattened, no more uphill. There my brother found, after a while, a bow and arrows, and I took them from his hands with a smirk and said "these must be mine". We found more arrows turning back, but most were went in an ugly way, contorted, almost unusable. They were black and thick. Then my brother said "look, it's her. Can you see her?" I didn't have my glasses on, I'm myopic, but I could see a white elongated spot in the distance. It was her. My ears went deaf, then weird, semi-robotic sounds began caressing them (I blame it on Radiohead). And we started to communicate. My brother disappeared. I could her directly in my ears. Suddenly I found myself in our house in Bosnia, though a bit modified. At first she had a robotic voice too, like a vocal assistant. I remember asking her where I could find something specific, or maybe it was a person? And an AI voice say "Yellow Mole". The 'conversation' went on. She told other crucial things for whatever there was going on, the war/catastrophe/etc. Then her voice switched to that of a she-narrator in documentaries. And she asked me "Do you know what Lorentz said?" "Which of the two?" Because there's the Lorentz naturalist, and the Lorentz physicist. "Kon"(rad) she said. "Yes". And then she started talking about adaptability in order to survive, like animals, that I had to remember it for my mission, role, for myself, something like that.

And then my mother switched off my fan and the loud STUMP! it did woke me up, cutting her speech, and waking me up. I wonder what else she could have told me.

[widowsofchaos]

Cabin Fever, i

summary: A mysterious drifter waltz into your homey life, asking for help. He seems kind, and generous. But what if he’s more than he lets on? pairing: dark!stucky x black!fem!reader warnings: Stockholm syndrome, eerie prophetic signs, kidnapping, dub-non con smut. Bearded lumberjack Stucky (a warning itself, woof.) a/n: A submission for @imanuglywombat & @nellblazer ‘s Lumberjack Challenge. Reading @darkficsyouneveraskedfor ‘s submission motivated me to flesh out this idea I’ve had for the longest. P.s. Thanks to Roo for helping me with the title. You always come up with the best titles! Also, thank you for beta!!  I love you more than anything.<3 ao3 // series masterlist do not repost my works

The sky was a murky canvas of clouded cinereal hue, shrouding the sleepy town in an aura of dreary yet comforting gloom.

Nestled in the secluded Canadian woodlands, tucked miles away from bustling cities, acres of breath-taking crisp landscapes; dense back-country for stylites, eremites, aging harvesters, rural families, naturalists -- retired veterans who seek a life of peace from raging wars in foreign lands, and politics.

A location that is often skimmed over on maps, too small but not entirely invisible to the passerby’s eye. A lone route that directs to major cities, and a dingy welcome sign are the only inklings to this inhabited territory.

A gritty hamlet --- a diamond in the rough. A pale tree rooted at the heart of the town. Streets built around it, proudly stood high, and mighty for centuries -- like a looming deity over generations; a reminder for aging residents of their mortality. A natural order surpassing their own existence.

The inevitable is merely out of mortal’s control.

Cadence of gruff murmuring fishermen loading nets full of fresh floundering fish, sluicing chilled water beats, and cradles against the boats floating near the coastal shore, high-pitched giggles of children dashing down the streets; youngsters who just got dismissed from school.

Howlin’ is a dive-bar on the main road --- a commune for burly beasts of men --- fisherman, mechanics, lumbers, less than a handful of deputies, and former militants; the livelihoods that are the veins of this tiny county.

Manitou is the only remnant of the town’s origins, named by the Aboriginal Canadian founders of this whistle-stop.

It’s an inn now for curious city folks, sparse tourists who parade with fake smiles, clicking cameras, and over-joyful admiration for “discovering this new little world.”

Local residents internally praise the heavens, sniffing tourists is a blue-moon occurrence.

This town was a device, a lurring hole of placid ease -- a festpool -- everyone has a past. A rabbit-hole to escape, and be free.

A gentle fury, stirring anxiously underneath his cavity, twisting around his heart. Brows indented, a menacing twist.

Nose flared wide like a furious bull, one palm perched tightly on the steering wheel, and the other clutching the map -- beyond wrinkled with fold lines.

A man of tradition -- too stubborn to install a modern GPS to help navigate his travels; or even get with the times.

Sweat now beads at his brows, a slight sheen now glistens on his bald dome, wiping his forehead by the back of his palm -- deep rich umber, or how his daughter jokingly dubs him ‘a milk dud’.

Nick Fury never admits it, but the memory of that affectionate tease eases him, a small smile curling at his mouth. It helps him relax in distressing times.

Murmuring low ‘fucks’ and ‘shit’ as shifty eyes scan over the map once more. Blues lines, and red printed letterings of route numbers, city lines -- unfamiliar directions of a country he has no ties. Red ink arrows scribbled around the unknown forest region.

This planned one-man trip is already hay-wire. All his traveling preparations have been once pristine, but now turned disoriented.

Faded Chevy truck --- chipped turquoise --- in dire need of a paint-job. A sigh of relief escapes Nick as he’s driving languidly towards a silva shielded entrance pathway.

The low static of the radio fluctuated into white noise, and low murmurs of out-of-the-way stations. Driving into this town, down the road passing by bars, the pier --- observing the walks of life passing by.

His calloused fingers dive into his backpack that was slumped in the passenger seat, fiddling through the contents for the tattered box of smokes; as he drives for the haven of a hostel.

A few days on the road was weighing down on his shoulders, his spine curving and achingly hunched over. Stewing in his aviator jacket, the luke-warm heat weighing on his bones.

Quizzical faces distort, glancing at the car, just a few curious glimpses at the foreign traveler. Flickering the zippo in his hands, the silver adorned with scratches -- a souvenir back from Vietnam, the only inklings of one of his fallen brothers. A wasteland of memories he doesn’t want to indulge.

Driving through the seemingly quiet streets, driving around the curb, a red brick building peers at the distance; motorbikes parked out front, a dismal aura. Murky fluttering yellow tubing “Howlin’ Boys” hangs high, and proud.

Parched throat, Nick wets his bottom lip -- he could use a drink. Just one, maybe. If his kid was here, she would scold him until her face turns blue for noon drinking; her absence is not rubbing him right. Loneliness seeping deep in his marrow, his companion during stress was always the sauce.

With swift precision, Nick serves a bit to park on the bar’s curb. Stretching his limbs a bit, a wail of satisfaction slips from his lips, trailing into a yawn.

Groaning with the back of his palms rubbing his eyes a bit, he retrieved his cigarettes. Caging just the cherry tip between his canines, with a flick of his thumb, the lid pops open, and a quick spark of flame ignites.

Inhaling deeply as nicotine surges through his lungs, hollow cheeks puff out, white smoke emits from his nose. The leaden sky clears, a vibrant surge of sun beams -- mindless eyes scan the bar, Nick notices a butterfly with wings painted with inky black and bright sunshine yellow.

Fluttering flight of its dainty flaps as it descends in the air, a placid smile curls at his lips as the cigarette dangles.

A peaceful fleet towards his truck --- it was an unforgiving flash, a hasty dash, a blur of nyx feathers violently hit against his vehicle. A shrill of a squawk jolts Nick, flinching back in his seat.

The blue paint of his hood now grated with claw marks. A couple of black feathers, and torn fragments of a butterfly wing trail behind on the crime scene.

Shouting ‘what the fuck?’ Dropping his burning smoke, collapsing on his denim, the heat burning through his skin creating a small burnt hole. Growling colorful profanities under his breath. Hurried hands smudging the ash off of him, a quick glance up, and he flinches.

Beyond in the distance, his vision clearing up a bit, there’s a glaring figure. Nick gulps, clearing in his perspective, startled as panic rises in his cavity -- a feminie figure standing a few feet away from the car.

Staring, glaring --- leering at him.

Nick peers behind his driver seat, twisting his head over his shoulder, out his window to catch if she’s gawking at anyone else but him. Slowly he steadies himself in his seat, facing back ahead of him, hues of greenery burning holes in his skull.

A woman, small yet stands with her chin out, with a maturity visage that graces her oval face. In her small frame, she embodies an essence of daunting, and yet tempting.

With burnished fiery tresses wisping in the wind, half-covering her cheeks, adding to the frightening allure --- a dark crimson jacket, that amples her milky breasts. The leather burns bright under the sunlight, there was a stretch of the jacket, a few buttons open --- a small bump.

Narrowing green eyes as if she’s piercing through his soul. Her trimmed brow arching, eerily ever so slowly cocking her head as if there was some glimmer of familiarity in her eyes --- as if she was privy to something he wasn’t.

Tightly wrapping around her slender legs was a little girl, her doe eyes too unwavering, and intense. Pouty cherub cheeks ensnared in wild chocolate curls, heart-shaped lips, and precious slope of a button-nose.

Clinging onto the woman’s hand, chubby fingers interlocked with slender spidery ones.

Nick's breath hitches in his throat, as the unknown woman’s lips move --- a frightful sight, her brows furrowed, a hungry curl of a smirk --- as if she was spewing an ancient hex under her breath.

Nick swore it’s as if she was condemning his entire blood-line --- from the graves of his ancestors to the unborn wombs of future descendants.

How ghastly the sun shining warps the greenery in her pupils. For a moment, he could’ve sworn her eyes revamped into a hellish maroon --- Nick harshly rubs his eyes with the heel of his hands for a moment. His tired lids refusing to steer away, his head light in a daze --- he just can’t stop staring.

Sharp pain punches in his ear, hissing, and wincing; white-noise pitching higher and higher. His brain felt as if a million wasps were urticating's within his skull by the tips of their stingers, penetrating through cartilage and bone.

Nick’s head hits against his car seat, banging mercilessly --- anything for the pain to stop. Praying to God, almighty to make it end. He couldn’t move, his limbs were numb yet forced to be still; frozen in his seat.

Gripping on the steering wheel, till the melanin of his knuckles shades straining white. Nick’s eyes peel open, more trails of sweat perspire, drenching down his dome. The pain vanishes as if the hellish migraine never engulfed him. A broken crack of a sigh leaves him.

Deja vu bewilders him, confused as if that was a day-dream or simply reality?

A blur, but a sour taste dawdles on his heavy tongue.

She was still there, but her lips stopped roving. The stare down ensues, but was interrupted by a slurring shout, a disheveled man was thrashed by the feet out the door of the bar; distracting Nick.

A drunk now cradled himself on the pavement, blubbering incoherent slurs. Man-handled by a man of similar dark complexion, who now shouted for the drunk to scram; hunching over, slanted squinted eyes.

Nick tore his gaze from the display, compelling his eyes to focus back. Turning his head to face the odd stranger once more --- but she was gone.

Disappearing without a trace, as if she was never there to begin with, a mere shadow. Hurriedly Nick snatched the keys out of the ignition, ungracefully dumping the keys in the pocket of his trench coat.

A flick of his wrist on taking his bag, and slinging it on his shoulder, he got out of the car. Stretching his limbs, Nick pats his chest by his open palm. A poor attempt at alleviating his beating heart. Not even an hour in this town, and weird shit is getting to him.

Nick inspected the hood, fingertips tracing the horrid skid marks, whispering ‘mother-fucker’. Four sloppy jagged lines, unable to miss. He groaned, his head lolling back, with a heavy sigh.

Waving off feathers, his thumb straining against the inside of his sleeve to wipe clean of tiny blood spots. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Nick’s arm limped, and dully slapped the meat of his thigh in defeat.

Turning his head to face the bar establishment, contemplating if it was a good idea to drink right now. He can’t afford it, bad timing --- no, it’s not a drink he wants. ‘Just ask for a nearby motel. That’s all I need. All I need.’ Nick muses to himself, a self-reminder; chastising tone.

Nick treks up to the bar, impressed by the parked Harleys that twinkle and shine underneath the mellow sun, parked in a row at the lot.

The autumn breeze appeases against his moist skin, caressing the nape of his neck, but the chilling air only adds to the shimmer down the crevices of his spine.

Still a bit jittery from those piercing daggers. Damn that bitch --- he’s not the type of man to be spooked. Nerves of cold-steel, trained, and built to handle any obstacle thrown at him.

His breath was easing slower now, air flowing easier too. Nick rubs his face by the cup of his palm, scowling --- to get a fucking grip, man.

Nick’s calloused fingers hook onto the silver metal handle, the front-door is painted black, but chipping at the edges --- worn out from changing elements of weather.

A quick haul of the door, Nick enters with a plods that is both placid and tenacious. Rugged habitués densely survey this stranger waltz in with a purpose, a natural aptitude to command the space he inhabits.

Few grunts, and hmmpfs in response, but it trails back into silence --- shifty eyes observing. The establishment has a wafting scent of ale, and a bit of sandal-wood. Waves of musky dew fogs his airways. The walls were wooden, and seemed a bit worn over time.

“May I help you?” A gruff timbre lingers beside Nick, turning his gaze over his left shoulder. Steady eyes trail over the bar counter, sinking in it’s dull color schemes, brown woodening that glistens with fresh polish --- he can smell the lemon pledge --- steady stools, and the wall organized with rows of tame bottles of spirits to the most rugged of firewater.

Leisure pose, Nick’s steps now tepid, his shoulder roll and shift under the subtle leather of his trench-coat. An attempt to ease his nerves; a tick in his neck, as a sense of a hot gaze radiates upon his body.

Seated by the corner is a red-head, smoldering green hues, and a dirty blonde male tucked to her side donning a rich lavender long-sleeved shirt, hovering over her as a loyal dog; but her pose is strong, brows furrowed --- she doesn’t need a guard to protect her.

A wave of heat beats upon his back, the leather of his jacket now weighs heavier --- the skin of his dome tingles.

As if his coat is his only sense of armor, a lone man in an unknown land. The tall-tale of his intuition on high-alert, his sense activated from the odd encounter that occurred outside with that weird creature of a woman.

“Yeah --- I just came in to ask for directions.” Nick twirls his feet by the soles with a repose, a friendly smile, his eyes falling upon a dark-skinned man, the very man who throttled the sloppy drunk out the establishment.

A clean-cut man, a neatly trimmed goatee, smooth skin, and toned. The grey cotton of his shirt strains just a bit against his biceps, as he cleans the inside of a glass with a white rag --- his stare unwavering.

“Alright, where to?” There was a quick pause, a flicker of a smirk, a cocky down tilt of his head. “If ya’ gonna ask which way is to Toronto, or Ontario --- don’t bother, ya’ way far past it.”

A teasing snicker, as if an inside joke Nick couldn’t catch nor privy to. A cautious smile falters just a bit upon Nick’s face, a chuckle through his nose, tucking his chin to his chest, eyes casted down.

“Nah, just back-packing, really. Got any good spots around in Canada to enjoy?” Nick’s fingers rap playfully on the bar counter, an ease in his tone, graceful movement, as if an olive branch of friendliness. A soft smile twitches at the corners of the man’s face, almost as if kind.

“My name’s Sam.” Sam places the cleaned glass mug gingerly on the bar top, tucking his chin to chest, “And to answer your question, yes.” His lips carve a somber smile, peering through his lashes, gesturing to an empty stool by a nod of his head.

Nick mutters a ‘thanks’ under his breath, his palm grips the withered counter, leaning down on the stool --- plush emerald green seats.

“There’s a few spots nearby, but not much,” Sam leans his hands on the bar, arms out-stretched, as his spine reclines outwards, his head tilts back with a sigh, deep in thought as he stares at the wall adjacent, “There’s --- uh, Dawson City, a bit small, but not too small. It’s beautiful, you’ll like it.”

He shrugs playfully, “Also, Prince Edward Island ---” Sam snickers, his head hangs low, shoulders shake with laughter, “Now, that’s small, about seventy-four locals, but when it’s summer, tourists flood.” His eyes rolled exasperatedly, with a curl of the lip, baring his teeth.

Nick hums a chuckle, “Sounds good, thank you. Dawson City is perfect.” Fingertips rap against the wood, as his eyes glimpse at the wall beyond him, a hitch of energy chills his skin --- an odd feeling warms his chest, bitter-sweet twinge heavy on his tongue, jagged memories cling to the tail-end of his mind.

Nick’s eyes catch displays of hung medals --- military earned. Each medal tells a story of honor, hung behind a sheen glass plated next to the wall of liquor, one in particular catches his eye, a blue silk ribbon, with thirteen gold stars, a gold medal of an engraved star, with the emboldened name, Wilson.

“Air-force, huh? Great metals.” His voice an air of praise, but his eyes sheen a bit, as if another story could be told.

“Yeah --- retired pararescue airman. You?” A placid, but tired smile, Sam’s head cocks to the side, admiring his honor, but his eyes fall downcast, pursing his lips --- as if he knows something.

“Me?” Nick’s brow arches, quizzly. Taken back, assuming to be a lucky guess, but an itch, a voice at the back of his head screams at him, an instinct that perhaps this stranger is more clever than he lets on.

“I can sniff out a soldier a mile away.” Sam chuckles, his eyes unwavering.

“How so?” Nick challenges with a curled smirk, enjoying this little game, his head tilted back. “It’s the mannerisms. How you talk ---” Sam trails off, shrugs nonchalantly, “you walk with a certain stride. You’re not a bullshitter, you remind me of my old man.” The tension that once occupied the space has now fizzled into ease, but a guard is still up --- testing each other out.

“Good eye. I’m a retired Colonel.” Nick’s lips stretch into a placid smile, his chest is a bit warm, but his tongue is heavy upon the words. A Colonel --- it seems to be a lifetime ago. Sam’s eyes widened, impressed --- thoroughly so.

A low whistle blows through his puckered lips, “What brings you here to this small town?” Curiosity shifts in the air, but the walls still stand guarded.

“Just searching for some peace. Backpacking in a different country was always a goal for me.” Nick groans a bit, as the heels of his palms lean against the counter, earning a small whine of the wood; one of his hands rub against the arch of his spine.

“Ah, do you seem like the rugged type to be one with nature.” Nick breathes through his nose, a chuckle, peculiar how this man can read him --- he didn’t know if it was obnoxious, or amusing; Nick wasn’t sure yet.

Murps, and nimble pitter-patters thump against the counter, an orange feline jumps on top of the bar, its shoulders flex with a stride, as if it owns the space.

An orange tabby strolls with sleepy ears. Its tail twirls with a curve, saunters with grace --- sharp soft eyes pours into his, as it nears Nick’s direction.

Sam’s fingers fondles the cat, toying with its tail in the cup of his palm, earning a small bite, and a meow --- its small furry dome rubbing against his inner wrist, as it tilts its head back, a string of meows.

Nick coos, fiddling his fingers playfully towards the cat, cautiously snaking to it --- it pauses, arching its paw, analyzing his hand --- as if processing his scent, it’s pink nose sniffs.

Airy kisses thrown at the cat, in hopes to lure it, to caress it --- reminds Nick of his late cat. It freezes, eyes now dilate to daggers, inky blackness engulf its pupils, growling low at the throat.

“Goose.” Sam warns, narrowing his eyes, “Be nice.” patting the cat’s behind, as if scolding a child.

A blur --- a quick dizzying epoch of time, as if movements ceased only for a second --- Nick jolted back, nearly stumbling over the stool, as he shields his right eye.

Steadying his footing, Nick crosses his arms on the wood, furrowing his brows, his eyes hissing at the crude creature, as Sam firmly pins the animal down by the palms, as it snarls --- the paws curling.

Hoarse chuckles emit from the corner tables --- a redheaded woman, and a mean mugging blonde man huddling together at a booth, nursing over their drinks. “Shut it, thing one and two.” Sam snarks, but a grin shimmies itself at the corner of his mouth; his fingers squeeze the cat in quick jolts.

A loud bang alerts, and echoes throughout the bar --- not even flinching, Nick simply turns over his shoulder, the back door was carelessly thrashed against the wall.

Waltzing through was a woman --- her blonde hair cut short, coiffed to the side, throwing kisses to the seething cat.

“Stop.” She says, as her fingers curl under the slope of the cat’s under belly, kissing her ears; cradling her against her chest. “Sorry about Goose, she’s just a little shit.” Goose meows crankily, the strings of murps sounded as if it was talking back --- like a bratty child.

“S’alright,” Nick waves it off, a force chuckle, “Cats are picky on who they trust --- I’m just a stranger in her space.” A smile, the atmosphere eases, as the blonde laughs, Carol approaches closer, Goose still pinned to her chest by the slope of her arm.

“I’m Carol.” Her hand out-stretches, kindly, “I’m Nick.” A sturdy hand-shake, a fleeting thought crosses Nick’s mind, Is she …? Her palm is strong. Carol’s gait has a certain stride, he’s seen women like her before in boot-camp a few years ago, when he did a favor for a past commarde on training recruits.

Tough tomboys, where a handful enjoys the company of women.

Carol asks questions to Nick, curious about this new face surfacing in this tiny town, chatting up on how it’s not tourist season; with Nick informing her that he’s just traveling for some alone time.

The air doesn’t feel right, the hairs on the nape of Nick’s neck rise, goosebumps pimple on his arms, the sensitive skin skims, and ticklish against the cotton stitching under his jacket sleeve. His sixth sense is itching.

“So, you said Dawson City, right?” It’s time to leave, no space in his schedule to linger about; Nick remains relaxed, but his grogginess is weighing him more now. He has gathered the overall energy of this place --- he doesn’t like it.

“Right, so there’s a back road --- kinda a second entrance to the town’s road, uh,” he pauses, his voice lingers into silence.

Sam looks around, eyes darting behind the bar where note-pads, and coasters are, patting his pockets, fingertips digging; he finds a pen, “Hold on, I’m going to draw you the directions.”

Sam treks to the end of the bar, where multiple maps stacked for patrons, “It’s a bit hard to explain since there aren't really many route signs for this back-way,” he shakes his head, uncapping the blue pen, “It doesn’t help that a lot of Canadian maps still haven’t really printed this place yet either.”

Sam began scribbling with precise arrows, chatting about turns, and how this direction is a faster trail to Dawson City, to a quiet highway, no stops.

Nick sat in high-alert, his institution is high-wired; he can sense eyes are all on him, from his peripheral vision, he can see the red-head, and dirty-blonde mugging him, narrowing eyes.

With just a tiny cock of his head, he turns to his left, seeing another two pairs of eyes gawking at him.

It’s as if a fish out of water, his fingers flex against the wood, preparing himself if someone is feeling antsy, his knuckles thirsty for a brawl -- it doesn’t faze him, it’s just fucking weird. But town hicks have always been weird in their own colors, he grew up in a sleepy town in the south.

But no one doesn’t do anything, don’t even make a move; but their eyes are the loudest.

“Be careful driving down that path. Don’t linger around, just drive straight through.” Sam casually suggested, his lids narrowing a bit. “You’re gonna be passing by owned land. The owners are a bit -- weary of travelers near their area.” A bit of amused caution was entangled in his words. Despite his humorless laugh, his eyes gleam with sternness.

“Why? Are they packing?” Nick gestures jokingly with his fingers of a shooting gun, trying to ease the rising tension. “You can say that. Just be careful.” Once a gap-toothed grin now forms into a tight straight line, his lush lips disappearing; dark hues now shadowed under a tense brow.

A queer shiver runs down the arch of Nick’s back, but he maintains his pose composure; under a passive gaze. “Uh --- sure. I’ll keep an eye out.” He tapped his fingers against the sticky bar counter playfully, glimpsing at Goose, who’s low hissing --- baring little tips of fangs. Paws itching for her missed target.

“Sorry again about her. She’s a cranky little shit to everybody.” Carol smirks, her slim fingers caress the feline’s spine, the orange fur spills through her roving fingers.

Dirty blonde strands kiss her lashes, as her eyes lower down to his boots back to his face --- he wasn’t sure if he was sizing him, or just simply curious.

Curious eyes, curious questions … curious people.

A stretching tension creeps up, he doesn’t even need to speak; the air is thick, the energy emitting from every soul is strong; it’s not an unwelcoming synergy, but they don’t want him here any longer than he needs to be.

Nick nodded his head in a curt goodbye, with a polite smile. That familiar eerie sense sheds off of him as second skin, as he sinks back to himself --- quiet, and reserved.

Itching to leave, his feet lead him to the aging black door, faint whispering ascend behind him --- he compulsively urges himself to turn around, but he won’t.

The curious murmuring drags on his coat-tails, but he refuses to fall for it.

---

The sky is unforgivingly bright.

The sun blares upon him, shielding his eyes by his open-palm, shadowing out the blinding sunshine; it seems brighter than when he went inside the bar. Groaning under his breath, already feeling the musty sensation of sweat smearing on his forehead.

Nick shuffles his shoulder, trying to wiggle the leather jacket off of him, as he treks to his car; mentally memorizing the little road turn to that little inn, to just settle in for the night.

The arch of his spine still aches from the long drive, keys jingling in his palm, as one arm was still caught in his sleeve, and the other is free with the car keys.

A wispy flash of silky inky black, splotches of navy blue and orange dew ---- butterfly wings flutter and dance with a tame frolic, landing on the bridge of his nose causing Nick to go cross-eyed.

A bloom of peace surges at the chest, a small smile curls; within the second moment of placidity, the butterfly flies, and twirls around his dome.

It made a bee-line to a meter that stood next to his car, but it didn’t move … it just looked at him. Nick squints his eyes, tilting his head in confusion, unconsciously he steps forward, and the butterfly flies just an inch above the meter, then right back down.

It awaits.

Another step, the wings edge just a bit.

Another step, another flutter.

His feet begin walking slowly, and the butterfly takes flight; it twirls mindlessly, as if enjoying the soft breeze against it’s little body.

Swings to the left, to the right --- as Nick loses himself into a haze, as he just follows the butterfly. His feet on auto-pilot --- what felt like stretched minutes, was really only five; his shoes scuff against the pavement as the butterfly just aimed up in the air.

His eyes trail after the butterfly, its wings open, and close tenderly as it sits upon a sign --- just a few seconds of just gawking at this butterfly; then it flies away. Deep rich brown eyes regard his surroundings, and vision clear now, a sign proudly towers over him.

Scarlet.

A little shop swaddled within the string of stores, it has an earthy energy --- black framing over the glass window, with little painting art of stars, and a small brown dog with spikey fur, signed in the corner with the blue and red initials: B+T.

Nick hesitates just a bit, but he gains his composure, pressing the heel of his palm against the handle, his fingers gripping; a moment.

He awaits, his brain is befuddled, but his psyche zeros back to reality. Nick tugs the door open, with a gust of air fans against his face.

His body weaves through the door --- it was a cute store with bookshelves, racks of clothing, and many shelves of artifacts; accompanied with green-teal walls.

Nick halts at his feet, tilting his head to the side, hanging upon the green-teal wall is a sign offering timed services of tarot and tea leaves readings, spellwork constellations, and mediumship; it doesn’t faze him.

‘Who would buy this?’ Not trying to be crude, but Nick can’t fully grasp superstition, and religions that involve praying to a desk littered with rocks, and candles; cards can’t simply define fate, nor interpret it.

‘It’s plastic cards, for Christ-sake.’

Frankincense is light upon his senses as it drapes upon the shop, claws of creatures decorate the shelves, boxed tarot cards, oils, crystals --- ambling by customers thrifting clothes, and inspecting the many mystical objects, as if it’s normal.

Miscellaneous collections of books are stacked upon book-shelves --- varying from demonology, herbal medicine, candle magick, folk magick originating from different cultures, on ritualistic runes, to books detailing occults, to myths and lore, poetry, fantasy, cookbooks, and many more.

A necklace catches Nick’s eye, it’s a familiar one.

“I make them myself.” Nick jolts in surprise, shoulders hunched, a silky accent lingers behind him.

The accent is familiar, perhaps Russian --- definitely European. Nick turns on his feet, his polite smile drops a little --- it was that eerie woman from earlier. The very one with those piercing eyes that stared his soul down from his car.

But, he doesn’t bring it up, his eyes trails down to her midriff, and his assumptions from earlier are confirmed … pregnant; there’s no need to stress her out with an argument, but he remains on high-alert. A polite smile against the bearded jaw, in a way, offers a silent olive branch, “This is your shop?” He asks.

“Yes,” her eyes are inquisitive, “my very own business. Quite proud of it.” The way her hues are so intense, stands close, but in an arms-reach, her mannerisms, her speech.

Nick is no stranger to different personalities, she’s ... calculatingly --- she remembers who he is.

“Hmm.” Nick hums to himself, a sound that’s a mix of amusement, and quaint, but it comes off as a murmur, disinterest.

“What?” She chuckles, but with an arched brow. Nick catches her expression, quickly his hands are raised to his chest, shaking his head, “Oh, nothing, it’s just different.”

“By how this town looks, you would think people here wouldn’t be so --- accepting.”

“You would be surprised how many customers I have.” Ode to her truth, customers ranging from different ages, mostly indigenous; but she makes good earnings.

Granted, of course, there are people who whisper hawdy gossip about her, and her family that are evil witches, but she keeps it all in stride.

One time, a child innocently said to her in the supermarket, with an excited pointed finger, that her family is like the Addams family.

“My husband is the bread-winner, but he always encourages me to go for anything I’m passionate about. He even helped fund my shop.” Her cheeks redden to plump cherries, tucking her head to the crock of her shoulder, cupping her belly.

A smile stretched just a bit, it was adorable how she gushed to herself, she looks like a happily married woman; his eyes focus on her left hand, clearly now seeing her wedding ring.

Nick remembers his wife … ex-wife.

“My name is Wanda,” her pristine manicured hand reaches out for him, as one palm remains on her ample bump.

He engulfs her hand, his bigger than hers; dainty, but firm. Before he could reply with his name, she cut him off, “Are you interested in anything you see?” Wanda’s hands lift in air, gesturing to the jewelry beyond the display case.

Nick hums, rubbing his chin with his fingers, there was a particular necklace that stood out; an opal gem encrusted in a golden chain.

The multicolored gemstone has soft iridescence streaks of baby-blue, neon green, and splotches of yellow beating against a dewy red sheen --- as if capturing a tiny warm galaxy, milky, and silky.

Timidly tapping against the glass, “This one.” Nick breathes, his breathing is silently getting heavier, his throat strains as he swallows. “What a beautiful choice, I love opals.” Wanda gleams.

“Yeah,” a soft delay, a tight-lipped smile, “--- so do I.” His heart hammers a little, despite the violence in his mind.

“It’s also one of the prettiest birthstones,” Wanda murmurs as she swirls around the glass counter, with delicate care, her slim fingers plucking the gold necklace from the onyx velvet cushion.

Nick nods, but he looks away, just stares through the painted window pane.

---

Paid in full with the wrinkled bills in his wallet, Wanda lays the necklace in a white box, wrapping it up in a silk teal ribbon; in a finished touch, puts the purchased gift in a small black plastic bag.

Hovering it over to him, Wanda’s open hands lean into the counter, entering his arms-length space, “While you’re here, would you like a reading?”

Nick shakes his head ‘no’, as the bag hangs limp on his wrist, “No thank you.”

“Or maybe, speak to a loved one ---” Her words trail off, as if gesturing to him, trying to lure him in. Her fingers in a lax fist, under her chin, her eyes wide with wonder, and fervent curiosity; but there was an inkling of mischief in her smile.

“Ya’ know, speak to the dead.” Her eyebrows oscillated in merriment, as if enjoying his confusion; as if she was onto something he wasn’t.

“The dead?” Nick repeats in question, “You can speak to the dead?” Uncomfortable with the conversation shifting.

“Yes, all psychics can.” Wanda walks from the counter, taking small steps not to overstimulate herself, as she comes near him, fixing the tousled clothes on the rack, her back to him.

“Psychic?” Nick’s prominent brow arches, his nose flares comically, as he tries to strain his thick lips from laughing. It’s as if she upends him, taking a mental step back.

“In a way, yes. Clairvoyant is the proper term.” Wanda glances over her shoulder with a smile, passionate --- proudly, as she twirls, but her smile wavers into a defensive frown.

“I’m sorry to laugh, but this is all very hard for me to understand.” Nick chuckles, cupping his mouth by his fisted palm, trying to quill his laughter.

Never one for the myths --- or ignorant superstitions, as a man who grew up in a southern household --- he's had enough nutty folks in his life.

Wanda narrows her eyes, tilts her head, “Sometimes there’s things in life we can’t fully grasp. I’ve seen your face before but we never met --- till now.” She said matter-of-factly. Irate by his skepticism, her words sucker-punch him back to reality; his chuckles snuffed into silence.

As Wanda breathes a dry-snicker, lop-sided smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

Wanda waddles closer to him now, cornering him, Nick’s hands rise up to his chest, a gesture of defense --- but how can he defend himself against a pregnant woman? Shove her gently to the nearest seat?

Her eyes are in slits, as if her eyes are hissing at him --- her lips pucker for a second, in amusement.

“The crows will sing their songs, and the dirt will cleanse itself.” Her eyes soften, dainty slim fingers near his face, a natural reflex, he flinches, his eyes become frightened like a child’s.

Wanda’s fingertips flutter over his patch, she hums, “Hmm --- you see life, but not its entirety. Sometimes the bigger picture is not all it seems.”

A pregnant pause.

Her feline eyes, her wan face contorts mischievously --- it’s as if she’s savoring his unsettled state. “Goodbye, Nick.” Her accent slithers from her heart-shaped lips, breathy giggles emit from her throat, her lips slipped shut, walking backwards, as her hands rub on her swollen belly as a crystal ball.

Nick’s head balks from Wanda’s hand, nearly swatting her arm away, his feet stumble, nearly contorting his ankle, murmuring under his breath, ‘Crazy bitch.’ Spitting furiously, as his hand pushes the glass door, too harshly as it whines at the hinges --- striking back in place with an obnoxious crude smack.

Stomps heavy, the hard concrete beats against his feet, his open-palms slaps against his bald head; snarling in boiling frustration, jerking his knees up, trampling as he curses everything under the sun ---- if his daughter was here, she would be trying to hug him, her face squished against the arch of his spine, whispers of trying to quill his bristling temper.

He stiffens --- it’s as time stills itself, white noise rings louder, tiny pins and needles stab and lodge his ear-drums, he winces, nearly staggering to his knees.

His eyes widened owlishly --- he never told her his name.

---

It’s raining tonight.

Heavy droplets of rain soak the window-pane, showering the glass --- the sky is inky, but the dense clouds carpet the sky, weeping over the little town.

The static of the television illuminates throughout the dense darkness, the motel room is engulfed in the mouth of darkness; as a slumped figure sits hunched over, at the edge of the mattress.

His head slumps low, chin to chest, staring blankly into the carpeting, his broad shoulders tense.

Bare chest illumes to a blinding shade of ticonderoga taupe --- a lean cigarette hangs from his lips, as his calloused fingers toys with the lighter, with precision his fingertips clanks the steel lid open, igniting the flame --- to then snuff it with a sharp clank, twirling between his fidgety fingers.

Sleep clings to his eyes, drooping, one eye closes before the other unevenly; his broad nose flares as his mind slowly fries into stinging migraine --- silent screams, mossy bits of grass scatter in chunks from deafening explosions, rancid stench of flesh, and gunpowder haunts him at the dead of nights.

Nick’s hands tremble, his eye-lid twitches, he’s tired --- so damn tired. In nights like this, he thinks of his daughter, as a little girl, she would crawl into his bed, ask for a bedtime story, or ask him to sing; he would tell her jokingly, he sings like a toad, but she wouldn’t care, ‘you’re the prettiest toad, daddy’.

His eyes get water-logged --- inhaling deeply back a wet sniffle, his nose flaring; swallowing harshly, thickly.

Nick went to bed that night --- his chest heaving, swallowed sobs that crack, and strains his esophagus; the outline of his quivering figure trembles under the covers.

---

Faint whispers wisp within the darkness, deafening --- but inaudible. Floating in the mouth of caliginosity, body weight light, limbs flailing ceasingly.

The voices grate against his ear-drums, his eyes shut closed in a wince. His chest stings with hot white pain, as if a knife splits open the flesh underneath the cartilage of his cavity; Nick screams in agony, above his breast-bone, as bloodied wan fingertips slither through the torn seams of skin, a wrist cranks itself through as a punch.

The wrist twirls against the flesh walls of his chest, it’s fingers crocking, it’s index finger gesturing Nick, beckoning him. It arches itself more out, thrashing it, wiggling as a white worm, gripping his throat. Suffocating him, tears flood his eyes, soaking his cheeks --- whimpering under his breath, ‘I’m sorry.’

Over and over again.

A stream of light shines beyond his eyes, nearly blinding him.

Nick opens his eyes again, and the pain no longer cripples his body. He’s back at the inn, seated in the love seat of his room --- glued to it, he can’t move. Sunshine gleams into the window, curtains peeled open.

A feminine figure is seated at his bed, legs crisscrossed; facing him.

A crow at her feet, it’s claws indenting in the mattress. Fear grips his heart at the sight of this woman --- her face is smeared --- smoothed, yet features distorted. Nick’s head slant, and her head follows suit --- copying his movement.

Shivering can be heard, the bird shakes, it’s feathers shuffling, as if the animal is going to combust.

“Where am I?” Nick probes, the crow halts. “A place where it’s always sad.” The crow speaks, it’s voice deep, but it’s voice is askew, as if it speaks backwards.

“Some of your friends are already here.” Wings raise in a stance, showing each individual feather.

“Who are you?” Nick asks, his fingers digging into his kneecaps, his eyes never leaving the faceless woman.

“I feel like I know her, but sometimes my arms bend back.”

“Where we’re from, the birds sing a pretty song. And there’s always music in the air.” The crow speaks once more, his feathers flutter, and shuffle as his wings shudder in every direction.

“She’s the one you seek for.” The crow’s small head tilts, the slope of its neck jerks, retched coughs, as moist soil that smells of the earth yaks itself out.

It’s shiny onyx beak snorts, as it chokes --- the crow’s tiny body convulses, it’s caw wails are hoarse.

Her jaw is mawed, unlocking as it hangs, her teeth grimy, her breathing deeper, but her chest is puffing, as if winding up a doll, tugging on the string of it’s back.

A blood-curdling screech, raw, ripping through her throat --- the veins of her neck bulge against the skin.

Nick cups his ears, but it doesn’t help --- he can still hear it.

A brown eye snapped open ---- his body became frigid, yet his bones melted into the mattress, the broad bridge of nose nuzzled against the lush pillow; stick sweat stains the pillow sheet, damp splotches out-line the shape of his skull.

A bluish, grey ambience blankets over the room --- he feels like he’s floating, his soul descends, his breathing is getting heavier, huffing.

Eyes blurring as a fogged mirror, nose sniffling, her wrists are bent, tucked under her chin; a trickle of blood slips from her bottom lip, staining her teeth cherry-red, spilling over the jut of her chin.

Her mouth stops shaking, in a flashed second, the blood vanishes --- her voice is small, but distorted, as if speaking backwards. “There’s something wrong with the sky.”

A shrill cry of a bird awakens him --- it’s morning.

[specialagentartemis]

Mary Anning

Lyme Regis, England

1799-1847

Part of my Aro Week series on Reomantic De-prioritization in History.

Mary Anning was one of my first icons.  She was always presented as “a woman paleontologist!”  I knew about her fossil discoveries, especially ichthyosaurs and plesiosaurs, since I was a little kid.  I was quite the dinosaur kid, obsessed with dinosaurs and fossils and by extension geology.  I went on fossil-hunting trips on the beach or on roadsides with my dad.  Mary Anning, Jack Horner, and Roy Chapman Andrews were celebrities to me.  I knew that Mary Anning’s work wasn’t about dinosaurs per se, but ichthyosaurs, plesiosaurs, fish, shells, and all sorts of ancient marine life from the dinosaur times, and she changed the scientific view of her era about ancient ecosystems.

It was a lot later that I learned more about Mary Anning’s life.  She collected and sold fossils to tourists coming to the seaside to try to alleviate her family from poverty.  Collecting fossils from the sea cliffs could be dangerous; her dog Tray, her frequent companion on her trips, died in a cliff-fall rockslide that almost caught Anning too.  She was devastated.  From a very young age, she was the leading expert in the fossil history of the south of England.  In her scientific work, she made detailed notes about her fossil discoveries and became an expert in local geology but was often dismissed by male scientists. She became a well-known scientist throughout Europe, but often male geologists would publish her work and take credit, because scientific associations didn’t accept or publish women. However, she was a force within the scientific world, in a time of major upheaval.  Her discoveries revealed the idea of “extinction” to European scientists for the first time—before the 1800s, received wisdom was that God’s perfect creation was never fundamentally altered, and God wouldn’t let one of His creatures go extinct.  When Mary pulled never-before-seen sea creatures out of the cliffs near her home, it changed everything, and the whole scientific establishment took note.

She was close friends with lots of geologists and naturalists, both male and female, and widely regarded in the scientific world of the time—just not within official channels.  She never married, and at times thrived but often struggled to support herself with her fossils.

Mary Anning is in many ways a classic tale of women being shut out, dismissed, and ignored by the patriarchal establishment, but also a story of a brilliant woman supporting herself and creating a strong community through her scientific endeavors and changing the way we understand the world.

[visiting-naturalist]

My most esteemed Naturalist,

I was wondering if you have heard of the event “The Mishapocalypse” a near cataclysmic event perpetuated by the supernaturals many years ago. This event has even been attempted many times since but the cultists (the supernaturals) have not yet been able to recreate such world ending results,

Dearest,

-Minty

Dear @mintysneezes,

Inevitably, once I begin to believe I have a handle on the shape and history of this place, I make some discovery or receive some communication that proves me to be utterly mistaken.

This "Mishapocalypse" is new to me. What are its origins? What effect did it have on the landscape at large? How is it commemorated? What is the nature of the cult that still persists in trying to bring it to prominence once more? Are all of the Supernatural species members, or is it an isolated group?

My central concern is establishing a baseline probability for the chance of the event occurring at full power again—it seems it could have disastrous consequences.

I am Your humble servant,

The Naturalist

[klstheword]

I’m Your Man

PRESS QUOTES

“Immensely enjoyable, intriguing and complex.”“The film has an arthouse breakout potential, which might rival that of the similarly female-led German comedy Toni Erdman.”“Astute casting, of which the German-fluent Stevens is a stand out, will be a key selling point.” Screen International “Maria Schrader makes a witty, thought-provoking return to features in this fusion of science fiction and modern romance.”“Schrader's beguiling Berlinale competition entry could cultivate a substantial audience in international art houses — abetted by the rising profile of its helmer -fresh from her Emmy win for Netflix's 'Unorthodox' - and the canny casting of British heartthrob Dan Stevens as a boyfriend entirely too good to be human.”“Stevens is a wry revelation, progressing from rigid, unworldly physical comedy to near-living, breathing emotional turmoil, programmed or otherwise.”"Eggert's flinty firmness and Stevens' buttery elegance prove ideally mismatched from the off — their performances gradually compromise and meet in the middle, borrowing a little of each other's suaveness and steel along the way." Variety “There's no doubt about it, it's all in the eyes: an ice-blue stare, locked on you, promising satisfaction and loyalty without asking for anything in return. That's what love is, and Dan Stevens is the humanoid robot here to give it to us.”“German actress Maria Schrader returns to directing for her third feature, undoubtedly her most well-rounded, exciting work yet.”“The script, co-written by Jan Schomburg, is what catapults I'm Your Man beyond comparison, into something diamond-sharp – witty, hopeful, wry, sincere, and sly all at once.”“Schrader's thoughtful romantic study digs into mundane neuroses and existential fears with wisdom, and empathy, making sure to keep you guessing long after Alma and Tom have stopped gazing into each other's eyes. Romantic yet level-headed, charming but always clear-eyed.” The Playlist “When the odd couple begins to cohabit, the robot is a catalyst for self-reflection and self-doubt in this comedy-drama that's as thought-provoking as it is funny.”“Schrader draws sharp character comedy out of the premise, aided by terrific performances.” “British actor Dan Stevens — speaking fluent German with an English accent — is a consistently amusing physical performer, while Toni Erdmann star Sandra Hüller puts in an enjoyable turn as his handler. But Eggert is the star of this show. She communicates Alma's exasperation, frustration and soul-searching in a way that delicately balances comedy and drama.”“The female lead gives the story more than just a fresh spin. It's a chance to ponder on the psychology of attraction from the perspective of a professional woman with a complex interior life, free from the testosterone that drives many examples in the genre. And in an age of isolation, social media and online dating, I'm Your Man seems startlingly relevant.” Deadline “Dan Stevens is a soulful robot in winsome romance from ‘Unorthodox' director.”“Eggert, whose stern, tired expression eventually gives way to the deep sorrow beneath the surface, grounds the character's transition into credible emotion.”“The movie's thematic trajectory crystallizes in a bittersweet third act, as a series of poetic moments draw the story back to the roots of Alma's struggles, and suggest that no perfect code can solve her problems when the best antidote is her own ability to talk them through.” IndieWire “A gorgeous romantic comedy that explores ever deeper questions as the plot progresses.” Blickpunkt Film “Delightful.”“Tom is perfectly cast, as Stevens narrowly borders on the threshold of uncanny valley with perfect timing and body language. His stilted posture, swift movements, and uncomfortable stares also add a level of subtle connotation to the illusion of artificial intelligence.”“I'm Your Man is an energetic recount on the cycles of modern love.” Filmhounds “Dan Stevens is as perfect as can be in the role. Not only is his German perfect, but so are his mannerisms, his quirky robot tics, and his inability to act and feel human. It's not an over-the-top comedic performance, but Dan Stevens brings just the right amount of subtle "I am a robot" humor to the role that it made me burst out laughing multiple times.”“It's a light and easily enjoyable film to watch, with a lovely piano-based score and gorgeous shots of Berlin.”“Directed by Maria Schrader, I'm Your Man is a charming, entertaining sci-fi romance with superb performances and a smart story about the grand complexity of love.” First Showing *****“Slick, sophisticated and satisfying this dating movie with a difference sees things from a distinctly female perspective exploring love and desire in a scenario may remind you of another recent German comedy Toni Erdmann which also starred Sandra Huller as a put-upon professional.” “Maria Schrader directs with supreme confidence adapting her script from a book by Emma Braslavsky, and adding a suggestive cinematic spin to her intuitive grasp of the subtle dynamics of love and dating, and the chemistry behind acting, in a film that reflects the reality that love relies just as much on the lows as the highs to be emotionally fulfilling for the human psyche.”“Maren Eggert is superb as the thinking woman's love interest in a performance that is fraught with emotion as well as thoughtful dignity, never resorting to histrionics or melodrama.”“Benedict Neuenfels makes this a pleasure to look at with his lush summery landscapes of Germany and Denmark.”“But the film belongs to Dan Stevens who gives a nuanced performance in a difficult role as a robot that teeters between the ideal emotionally intelligent man and a geeky robotic guy you may even and have dated yourself and eventually grown to love – and even fancy – for his truly masculine take on life.” Filmuforia "Maren Eggert inhabits Alma in a way that's so persuasive and naturalistic it barely feels like a performance at all." The Hollywood Reporter "With the energy of a studio era leading lady from the 1940s or 1980s, Eggert effortlessly succeeds and invigorates as an intelligent woman who also exudes an intoxicating confidence." IONCINEMA "Eggert plays her with a brusque, self-possessed wit that may remind some viewers of Greta Gerwig…" "Sensationally funny and gently science-fictional the film's embrace of uncertainty calls to mind Toni Erdmann." The Telegraph, UK "Eggert plays this tug of war with compelling subtlety, leading with her apprehension but flowering emotionally in brief glimpses of unfamiliar joy, too." "It's in the tiny glances that catch you off guard, the rush of adrenaline and pleasure that you thought only belonged in fairytales that suddenly color your world a little bit warmer and the script catapults “I'm Your Man” beyond comparison, into something diamond-sharp – witty, hopeful, wry, sincere, and sly all at once." The Playlist "A beautifully different, breezy yet poignant love story that is nevertheless full of deep truths." Berliner Morgenpost "Like a successful flirtation, no scene, no gesture is without meaning, and there is always something to laugh about." Süddeutsche Zeitung "It is a mind game that tells of the all too human with wit and charm. Ingeniously, this film questions our very real relationship patterns, holds up a mirror to us humans. An artifice that turns the tables for once and turns the man into an object, completely attuned to female needs." Heute journal "An abysmally funny commentary on contemporary life in the midst of algorithms." taz "The fine dialogue and the great ensemble should fulfil the dreams of 74 percent of all cinema-goers." Spiegel Online "Eggert grounds the character's transition into credible emotion." IndieWire

[rumor-imbris]

La fatina Lunare 🌙✨ è tornata!!!

Christmas is almost here! How does Lady Connor and Master Connor celebrates it? Who will decorate the homestead? Who will put the star on the top of the tree? What's on the Christmas menu? Anything about this lovely lady and her dashingly handsome husband?

Hugs!

La Fatina Lunare Giulietta 🌙✨

Sparkling lunar fairy dust announces the arrival of my Giulietta! Welcome back *-*

Well, let me first say that Mary isn't religious at all. Indeed, just like her father, Sir Arthur Jennings, an explorer and naturalist, coherent with the 18th century Enlightenment thinking, they are atheists; so they consider Christmas not a sacred celebration, but a social occasion to stay with family and friends. Also, as you may know, Connor is not familiar with Christian or any religious European rite, but he enjoys seeing his wife and close friends all together for a happy reunion!

However, Mary has pleasant memories of her childhood Christmas days in England, so she enjoys anyway that time of the year and likes to decorate the homestead and the Christmas tree as traditions. Well, of course, Connor takes care of putting the star on the top of the tree, who else is tall enough not to need a ladder?

The Christmas day is spent at the Miles' End inn with all the members of the community, where Corinne and Oliver cook all sorts of delicious meals, but Mary loves fish, as you may remember! So she would favour fish courses n_n

Also, she loves crafting little gifts for Connor and give them to him with love letters and cute winter-themed drawings near the fireplace!

That's it! I hope you enjoyed my answer Fly back to me soon ^w^

Tight Hugs

[lawrenceop]

HOMILY for the 5th Sunday per annum (B)

Job 7:1-4,6-7; Ps 146; 1 Corinthians 9:16-19,22-23; Mark 1:29-39

Both the prophet Job and St Paul write about having had conversations with God but how different is their approach to suffering and to their lot in life – why? 

Job has had every calamity and sorrow befall him – he has swiftly lost his wife and daughters, his friends, his fortune and servants, his future earnings, and finally his physical health. Job, therefore, speaks for us, voicing the existential angst that besets us human beings as we’re confronted by the limits of our frail mortality. So, from the depths of his misery and pain, he cries out as we have just heard in today’s first reading: “Is not man’s life on earth nothing more than pressed service, his time no better than hired drudgery?” (7:1) There is, in this passage from the long book of Job, which is worth reading in its entirety, a sense of hopelessness and unremitting anguish. Hence, he exclaims: “my days have passed, and vanished, leaving no hope behind.” (7:6) 

As Job continues in this vein, debating and dialoguing with his companions about the meaning of life, thirty-one chapters later, we’re told: “Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind”. (38:1) God’s answer unfolds over four chapters, but it basically reminds Job of God’s wisdom and providence as Creator, as the one who holds all being in existence, and so, it is an invitation to trust in God’s purposes; that man, and even his suffering, has a purpose. Job, with tremendous humility, relents, and he says: “I have uttered what I did not understand, things too wonderful for me, which I did not know… therefore I despise myself, and repent in dust and ashes.” (42:3b, 6)

After this, God restores Job’s lot in life, and he receives twice as much as he had before the calamities befall him, so all’s well that ends well because he had great trust in God. And so the moral of Job’s life is that we should hold fast and trust in God no matter what comes. However, somehow, this is not all that satisfying. Because, if he’s lost it all once, it can happen again. The resolution is a somewhat naturalistic but worldly happiness of fame, fortune, and long life, but all these human goods are somewhat fragile and can be lost, so there we’re just called to trust that God’s will is being done. All this is a good moral lesson, of course, but I believe there is something more, something true and certain and firm that offers humanity genuine hope where Job has lost hope. 

St Paul, on the other hand, has also had his extraordinary share of human misery. As he writes, he’s endured “far greater labours, far more imprisonments, with countless beatings, and often near death.” (2 Cor 11:23b) He’s been flagellated, beaten, stoned, and shipwrecked several times, and has been in “danger from rivers, danger from robbers, danger from my own people, danger from Gentiles, danger in the city, danger in the wilderness, danger at sea, danger from false brethren; in toil and hardship, through many a sleepless night, in hunger and thirst, often without food, in cold and exposure.” (2 Cor 11:26-27) 

And yet, he never cries out or complains in the way that Job does; he is never robbed of his hope. On the contrary, he is extremely driven in his mission of preaching the Gospel. As we hear in today’s second reading, St Paul says: “it is a duty which has been laid on me; I should be punished if I did not preach it!… Do you know what my reward is? It is this: in my preaching, to be able to offer the Good News free… I still do this, for the sake of the gospel, to have a share in its blessings.” (1 Cor 9:16, 18, 23)

The difference between Job’s and St Paul’s outlook is rooted in the good news, the Gospel, that was given to St Paul when God spoke with him. So, on the road to Damascus, Paul was blinded by a bright light from heaven, and then he heard the voice of God; Paul encounters the Risen Lord Jesus who says to him: “Rise and stand upon your feet; for I have appeared to you for this purpose, to appoint you to serve and bear witness” to the whole world so that people may “turn from darkness to light and from the power of Satan to God, that they may receive forgiveness of sins and a place among those who are sanctified by faith in me.” (Acts 26:16, 18) This, of course, is the essence of what we shall do right after this Homily today, as we baptise one of our young parishioners: we’re turning him from darkness to light; we’re making a public proclamation as a Christian community of our fundamental hope; and we’re setting this child on the road to holiness through faith in God, that is, through friendship with Jesus Christ. For this is, in essence, what it means to become a Christian and this is what baptism entails. 

So, the reason why St Paul has hope and possesses a deep abiding joy, over and above the normal earthly happiness of Job, is because he has faith in the Risen Lord Jesus whom he has known intimately. So, Paul believes and hopes to be raised from the dead with Christ, and thus of having the final word, with Jesus, over all the sorrows and pains that life can throw at us. And he has the hope of eternal life in friendship with God the Blessed Trinity, finally victorious, with Christ, over sin and sickness and death. Hence he says: “To this day I have had the help that comes from God, and so I stand here testifying both to small and great, saying nothing but what the prophets and Moses said would come to pass: that the Christ must suffer, and that, by being the first to rise from the dead, he would proclaim light both to the people and to the Gentiles.” (Acts 26:22-23)

St Paul’s response to human suffering and the misery of our current mortal condition, therefore, is that we suffer with Christ whose grace helps us to endure all things, and so, with faith in Christ the Risen Lord, we have the hope of rising also from the dead, and so, of transcending all our current sadness and pain. This is the good news, the Gospel, that St Paul preaches, and that Christians and missionaries and the Church down the ages have spared no pain in preaching. Why? Because it is the light, the hope, that we have always needed in the sorrow and darkness of our human existences. For without the light of the resurrection, then, we have only the cry of Job: “Remember that my life is but a breath, and that my eyes will never again see joy.” (7:7) 

But, that is not our cry as Christians. All of us, having died with Christ in Baptism, now share the hope and promise of the resurrection and the joy of eternal life with Christ. Hence, our psalm response is “Praise the Lord who heals the broken-hearted.” For the Lord God knows that we are broken by sin, broken by sickness, broken by death and all the sorrows of this life. So he comes to heal us, but his healing is not a mere temporary restoration like the restoration of Job’s earthly fortunes. No, God heals us by strengthening our humanity, and making us fit for something greater and more lasting than this life: God in Christ comes to raise us up, through grace, to share in divine life, in the life of God himself.

So we get a hint of this in the Gospel today: Christ heals Simon’s mother-in-law, but St Mark doesn’t say this directly. Rather, he says (and I am rendering the Greek text more literally than the translation we’ve just heard): “He went to her, took her by the hand, and raised her up. And the fever left her and she began to serve them.” (Mk 1:31) The Greek word translated as “he raised her up” is the same word used over and over again in the Gospels when Jesus refers to his own resurrection, his being raised up from the dead. So, Christ promises in today’s Gospel account that we shall also, at last, be raised up from our final sickness, which is death, so that we can serve, meaning that we shall become like Jesus Christ himself who came to serve humanity by giving his life for all men and women. Hence the Lord says: “the Son of man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.” (Mk 10:45)

This, my friends, is the source of our hope as Christians. This is why we need not despair, even when things fall apart in this life. Because, like Job, we can and should trust in God’s wisdom and providence. But, more importantly, like St Paul we place our faith and hope in the Risen Lord Jesus, whose love never fails. Thus St Paul also cries out, not in desperation but with great hope: “I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” 

Amen!