#slate roofing hull

[safewayroofing]

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[straubindeutschland]

Beaune, France

May 25-29, 2023

I went with my friends Dana, Ashlyn and Liz. We stayed in an incredible loft right in the heart of Beaune. The video doesn’t do it justice.

We visited the Hospices de Beaune which was a hospital built for the poor in 1443!!

Plagiarization from Wikipedia:

Chancellor Nicolas Rolin founded the Hospices de Beaune as the country was coming out of the 100 years war, a period of unrest and plague that decimated the countryside. It was for the poor and the most disadvantaged that this masterpiece inspired by the most outstanding hôtels-Dieu of Flanders and Paris was built. Behind the austere slate roofs of the facade are the stunning courtyard, beautiful varnished tile roofs and overhead skylights. All around the courtyard, the harmonious organisation of buildings rule the life of this charitable institution: under the hull-shaped arches of the poor room, the sick were welcomed in, and in the kitchen with its huge Gothic chimneys, meals were prepared, while the apothecary with its mortar and earthenware pots, was the preserve of the sister pharmacist.

[grim-faux]

03_Falling into Despair

First

 Spoilers? Spoilers

The lightening crackled and boomed, an angry predator prowling across the sky courting the Signal Tower. Its blaze flashed through the train cart, bleaching out the seats within until the exposure faded. Rain hammered against the roof, droning out the hail of buzzing coursing through his bones.

 He gave pause in the chase and stood between the connecting carts, turning his face up and studied the clouds – gray, black, tinges of purple and green. The rain pelted him, humming like the transmission and dissolving the remnants of hesitance. 

Another wash of thunder with ensuing flare, threw his long shadow across the interior of the passage. He tipped his head; he could sense the smaller one, his younger self. Likely thought he was making the grand escape, or in the least evading him with masterful skills. Though, his anxiety was elevated, reaching for the static when he could, and dipping into the pools of transmission with much greater frequency. At this point, still unaware of that untapped power he would come into.

 As all things did, their trials would come to a close. Soon, it would be time to rest. Soon.

 The aisle was clear of wreckage and debris. At his behest, the door to the next cart wrenched open, and the small child snapped around to give him – what he would presume – was a horrified gawk. That same pang of terror sprang free within him, as he recalled decades and decades ago, when he too delivered that same expression to a very tall, Thin Man, in a very classy hat. Though, the other didn’t know any of this now, he supposed. The child was already scrambling away.

 Stalling out time was tedious, and demanded reserves needed to cut the distance to the child. He used the trick to get across a gap, usually in lieu of teleporting. At some point, the child would turn on him – his window to break the cycle, shattered. But he only recalled how those events between he and his adversary went, and there was no way to determine if he would meet his end in the same form. If he could get close enough, he could draw the boy back – but the child was nimble and in the throes of survival. Frustrating! Flying ahead, with a purpose he didn’t understand. Because he never understood himself.

 He reached out, drawing on waves and electrical currents, time slowed—

 But the smaller one drew on reserves that were perplexing, gaining distance back by skidding across a toppled suitcase. A bent traffic sign offered cover, and for a moment the boy disappeared – in the next, his paper mask popped up. He charged amongst obstacles, leaping or zagging. To the end of the line.

 He stepped over the clutter with ease, and tempered time once more. Noises and reverberations drowned out momentarily, as he closed in on three casual strides. In a moment, his grasp would falter and once again the child would take the advantage and pull away. Limitations forced him to pick and choose skills, until he could reach a long arm out and draw the child to him. He had to get closer, before he lost connection once more.

 But the nefarious roll of the clock resumed course. He bristled silently, as the smaller one tipped forward and charged out into the pounding rain. He reached, far beyond draw distance. The child swung his head back, his flimsy coat whipped in the crass storm—

 Then something terrifying happened. Surprising both the Thin Man and Mono. A blast of lightening arched through the sky – it must’ve hit something nearby – a dreadful, and painful silence followed. It came like a agonized wail, the boom was an eruption that tore through the metal hull of the train, rattling the wheels and dislodging luggage pinned to seats. What glass remained in the windows cracked or disintegrated entirely.

 The Thin Man recoiled and shook, hot white filled his vision and obscured everything. That clash very nearly dissolving his static back into the airwaves. Maybe the bolt hit the train cart. He lurched forward, smacking into the edge of the doorway. His vision didn’t clear immediately, but it did restore to some normalcy. The sum he managed to view of Mono’s progress in this matter, was the small child skidding backwards.

 And vanishing off the side of the cart platform.

 The warm hand clasped tightly to his let go, and open air filled his palms. Nesting in the distance between he and the girl. Confused, stunned, he reached, questions swirling through his mind. The girl stood, watching. But Why? Her face set, framed by the hood of her jacket. No expression. He was falling. She only watched. Why would she? His heart hammered his chest, realization dawning. She let him go. She let him fall.

 But WHY?

 Another snap of thunder snarled through the air, and he’s no longer staring upward. It isn’t gloomy, he isn’t caught in that ugly place with the walls creeping, murmuring and churning. He’s pitched far over, rain drumming against the hat and his suit in a monotonous symphony. The only facet keeping him from careening downward, is his hand anchored to one pole of the train rail. His other hand had taken hold of something terribly soft and jittery. He pressed his thumb down, there was no resistance, no fight.

 Somehow. Some… how, without meaning to, without trying to deviate the knotted pathways – on blind impulse of all things. He managed to capture the child.

 Mono trembled fiercely, likely stunned and disconnected from his environment. The thunder boom and static riling through the air besieged his taxed senses, effectively shorting him out. The little chest heaved after all the relentless running. Through the waterlogged coat, the brittle ribcage pressed against his fingers, as he tightened his grip.

 It would end. He wouldn’t wake up, anywhere, ever again. And they would disappear for good. Finally. At last. At long-long last. Their disastrous and endless journey would end. No more saving the girl, no more fantasies, grand adventure, or rescues. No more… questions. No more failure.

 Rivers of water trailed off his knuckles. Mono’s breathing became raspy and shallow, as equally from the soaked bag covering his face, as it was from the Thin Man’s careful application. He couldn’t… break him. But he would let him sleep. That was kind enough. Both of them, they would go to sleep. It would be peaceful and quiet. No interference or bizarre interventions, never again. Now that he had this moment, he wouldn’t be careless and let go. This opportunity would never scurry away, and the child would not be forgotten in some dark, awful place. Alone.

 He shut his eyes. One of the ribs strained against his pinky, and a pitiful whimper creaked out of the child. And the Thin Man lightened his hold.

 What has always been, shall always be.

 His future shadow never faltered. There was no failing to a mere child, even to himself. Mono didn’t wield some… greater power – at least, no greater than his elder-self. He was small, and child, and he couldn’t bear the thought of destroying him. Just as he couldn’t bear the sight, of watching him fall.

 That realization was what the Signal Tower gambled on. It wasn’t in his nature. It was never in his nature. And the tower knew him, better than he knew himself. That despairing thought was what destroyed him, in the face of his younger.

 The little Mono squirmed in his grip, pawing at the paper bag and tugging at his cufflinks. The Thin Man hauled back up onto the platform and—

 The bar his arm held snapped, and he toppled. Falling. Through the rain. But at least he wasn’t dropped. It was undetermined if this was much better.

 This is bad. 

 Before he could brace himself, his body smashed into a slanted roof and he tumbled. Cold rain misted as he slid across his back, on a perilous journey to who knows where. One elbow dug down, easing him around to face his course. Tempering time wouldn’t amend the problem, but it would better highlight a solution. Hopefully before the affect wore off. He clasped his other arm to his chest and leaned hard, holding his balance easier as he browsed the view beneath the glossy slope.

 A sequence of windows lined the neighboring building, about a foot below his trajectory. Most of them boarded up, none of the ones left vacant would be in close enough range when pace resumed. It was a risky choice, but he elected the most inviting portal and thrust his arm against the slates and pushed. At the same time, everything sped up and amplified. In all this, he kept Mono locked to his chest. The boy was knotted up, though he didn’t have the space of thought for if it was in shock or fear.

 The boards erupted from the window frame when the Thin Man hurtled through. A crumbly, run down couch was occupying the living area of the home, an artifact he spied through the boards before his unannounced entrance. It happened too fast, he hadn’t the chance to temper time so soon after, he could only brace for impact with the ratty piece of furniture. Regardless the effort, he made a graceless spiral and collided with the wall – knocking a large hole in the plaster and causing the whole room to shudder.

 Static clawed at his senses as he slumped sideways, reminiscent of a spindly marionette. He dropped his arms, overwhelming relief swept through him.

 It didn’t matter what he did, how the scheme played out. He was destined to fail. Some… other force, was at work. The Signal Tower, perhaps. He understood everything now, but soon, he would know nothing. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

 He shut his eyes and dissolved into the static.

Next

[lackofhonor]

Narcos Episode 01.09 – “No, I have not been duck hunting, you... fucking hillbilly.” – Javier Peña

So this is supposed to be fun?” Javi asked sarcastically. 

Murphy lowered the binoculars and looked over his shoulder at his partner. Javier Peña was hunched over on the bench seat in the boat with a cigarette clenched between his grit teeth. The orange coal of the lit cigarette casting a tiny glow in the grey gloom of the morning. They had been on the water for maybe two hours and while Steve found the air refreshing, it was clear that his friend was finding this morning’s hunt less than invigorating.

Two weeks ago Steve had convinced Javier to come up from Texas for a visit. He had spoken with Javi via phone many times after what had happened with Escobar. Truly, Javi deserved to be there for when the fucker fell, but it just hadn’t worked out that way. Instead, Javier had been sitting in Texas waiting on a disciplinary review for his actions. Still was waiting on that review, in fact. Steve had tried to stay in touch, even as he and Connie tried to gather together their lives in Colombia and move them back to the States. It had been a monumental challenge for him personally and professionally but the strain was worth it to be standing over Escobar in the end. And it had ended for him with taking that last photo of the bastard dead on the roof. It had ended for him when he and Connie stepped on that plane flying out of Colombia. Hadn’t it?

Yeah.

But had it for Javi? Well that was the question, wasn’t it?

-

Steve couldn’t help but feel his friend still had loose ends from Colombia in his head that needed tying. Y’know, beyond the fact Peña’s career was on the line with this review board shit. No, Javi still wanted some blood. Via their phone calls, Steve had gathered that all Javi had done since hitting stateside was drink liquor and fuck women. And while that was pretty much Javi’s M.O. throughout the entire time Steve had known him, normally Javi didn’t seem so depressed while going about his chosen extra-curriculars. Sometimes he fucked or drank away the stress or was sullen and frustrated. Sure, that was fine. But this was something darker and sadder than a typical bender.

So during their most recent weekly phone call, Steve did what anybody would do for a friend: told him the truth (“You need a hobby that isn’t fucking women or drinking yourself to death, Javi.”) and invited him on a trip (“Come on out and see Connie and I. Relax for a bit. Take your mind off this review board shit for a while so you can get your head on straight.) Javier Peña, being a reasonable man who recognizes that perhaps he may not exactly be dealing with things well, gave in with some reluctance (“…yeah. Yeah I guess I could come out and see you guys for a weekend. Not like I have much to do here until the hearing anyway… “) So of course Steve Murphy felt the need to try broadening his friend and former partner’s horizons by introducing a potential new hobby (“Great! We can celebrate for real with you here. There’s this band Connie’s been dying to see so we can hit that up. Plus the season just opened Sunday and I’ve not been since before I was posted in Miami. We’ll be able to go duck hunting while you’re down here.”).

-

This chain of events lead to the current moment with both men sitting in a olive drab john boat that had seen better days and Steve’s cousin’s dog sitting in the floor next to their feet. They were floating on the choppy waves of a muddy river looking out over nearly one hundred duck decoys bobbing in the freezing water. It was a cold day. The sky couldn’t seem to decide whether it wanted to spit light rain or tiny frozen drops at them and the wind cut at their faces. The boat was tied to posts sunk into the riverbed that were part of a blind covered in camouflaged netting and live willow branches. Sort of a little faux tunnel the boat could hide in. Murphy had stealthily steered their vessel inside that morning after a truly harrowing ride across the water just before dawn. Murphy was calm. Soaking in the sounds, smells and sights around him. He maneuvered the boat with ease and stroked the Benelli shotgun with a fondness that spoke of years of similar experiences when he had loaded it earlier. Javier on the other hand was not as charmed. His shoulders were bunched up to his ears trying to maintain valuable heat in his neck and head and he hunched over the borrowed Remington 870 in his lap as he stared blankly at the horizon.

“Stop your whining. Isn’t this nice? You get out in nature. Enjoy some fresh air.” Steve shared in his low friendly baritone. He took a moment to drink some hot coffee from the dented green metal thermos by his feet and observed the sky contentedly.

Javi grunted and continued to puff at his cigarette as he curled further inward. He felt miserable. He was still a bit hungover from the night before to tell the truth. The wind had changed direction again and the bitch was cold as hell right in his face. He didn’t come here to be tortured by Murphy’s idea of what a healthy past time should be.

“I’m freezing my ass off in a rinky dink boat decorated in switchgrass at the ass crack of dawn so you can get this bullshit out of your system. I did not need to come along for this hillbilly holiday,” Javier complained loudly. Murphy merely hushed him with a look and continued to sip his coffee and pet the black Labrador laying in the floor of the boat.

“Come on, it’s not that bad. You got to eat a nice hot breakfast at least. Homemade biscuits and eggs fresh from the chicken’s butt. And Ace here likes you,” Steve said. Javi grumbled under his breath but did give the dog a fond scratch behind the ears.

From the slate colored sky above came a chorus of quacking, signaling the incoming flock of about thirty mallards from the south. Outlined against the ominous grey clouds above the river Javier could make out the green heads and lighter colored feathers of the birds. Steve fumbled for his duck call and gave some rapid fire noise that he had tried to explain to Javier the day before was a “hail call”. It was meant to draw the ducks in closer.

“Take your time. Let them get in close enough. Remember what I told you: swing through. Butt, belly, beak then bang!” Steve tells Javi sotte voce. They both ready their weapons as the birds approach.

“Alright, take ‘em!” Murphy hisses when the birds are in range. Javi leans into the gun and squeezes the trigger through the arc as he follows their quarry. The sky explodes with sound and two birds drop from the sky into the watter below. “Good job man!” Murphy cheers and high-fives Javi.

Maybe this hillbilly crap isn’t so bad, Javi thinks to himself as Murphy gives the dog a gruff command that has it launching itself form the boat into the water. It is kind of nice to hear the lapping of the water on the boat’s hull, the gentle flutter and soothing noises of the birds. The river in late fall is beautiful in its own way. It is stark and wild with all the green faded away now for the season, but still beautiful. Javi observes how his friend is so relaxed in this environment and cannot help but crack a smile.

“Good boy Ace! Come on, come on!” Murphy calls as the black dog paddles back to the boat. The dog is determinedly swimming back to them with head above water with the downed bird. Murphy is moving around inside the blind now. He seems to be poking around searching for something when he starts to curse.

“What’s the matter?” Javi asks as he removes the hood on his sweatshirt from over the camo baseball cap Steve had loaned him. It’s still cold, but maybe the adrenaline of the moment earlier has warmed him some.

“Fuck, I forgot the ramp this morning. It’s this thing I stick on the back of the boat so Ace can get back in the boat on his own. I coulda sworn I stuck it in here this morning.” Steve is rummaging behind the extra life jackets and decoys.

Javi shrugged and looked out to see the dog treading water over the side. Javi could barely keep his eyes open when Steve woke him up at 4 a.m., shoved his feet into a pair of chest waders and tossed him a dark green hoodie with the words ‘Ducks Unlimited’ on the chest and an old camo coat. Although he did wake up pretty quickly once they got the boat on the rive and he had the icy spray from the speeding boat and wind in his face.

“What’s the big deal?”

“He can’t get in the boat dumbass. He can’t swim like that forever. He’ll get tired,” Murphy stated, “I’ll just take the boat off the pylons and we’ll beach on the shore real quick. He’ll follow and he can climb up the rocks onto the boat.” Murphy began the process of untying the boat from the mooring posts and unlashing parts of the boat hide that made up the floating duck blind. Javi looked over the side again at the plucky little retriever. Big, bright, rusty brown eyes in a handsome black face stared back while the animal continued to paddle away, duck still firmly clamped between its jaws. He could see the nostrils of the animal widen as it huffed air in, still treading water. It wasn’t that big of a dog. 80lbs maybe? He could just scoop it out of the water. Easy.

Javi stood up. “You don’t have to do that.”

Murphy wasn’t paying attention at first. Too focused on untying his complicated knot from when he tied up earlier. He felt the boat sway as his friend moved. But out of the corner of his eye did he see Javi lean over the side of the boat for the dog. His eyes widened. “Javi, no-.”

“Come on big boy, I gotcha.” Javi called to the dog as he leaned for over into the water to scoop up the animal. He had it about balanced right. The dog was barely out of reach. If he could lean just a little further now.

“Come on Ace. Oh shi-!” Murphy watched as his partner tipped headfirst over the side.

Two seconds later the spluttering dark headed man surfaced right next to the boat cursing a storm. Ace, the mallard still clutched in his mouth, whined continuously and paddled around Javi in the truly frigid water. Steve reached out a hand to his friend in the water, bracing himself off the motor in the back of the boat. “Swim over here. I can get you back on without capsizing off the stern,” he instructed.

Javi carefully kicked and stroked his powerful arms to the back of the boat and grabbed Steve’s hand.

“Alright, on three I am gonna haul you up but you gotta push yourself onto the boat at the same time.”

Javi nodded.

“Alright, ready…three!” Steve groaned and heaved the sopping man out of the water so that his top half was wedged onto the boat. Javier used his elbows and shoulders to drag himself fully inside and flopped into the hull with a grunt.

Steve laughed and shook his head as he watched his friend cough and shiver. He was ok. He’d be a little cold but Steve would set him right in a minute. At least now he didn't look so moody, like he had been sucking on a lemon, like he had looked all morning. No, now Javi looked like a drowned rat. Although Steve wasn’t going to tell him that. Yet.

Javi straightened himself up, sitting on his knees and glaring at his friend. But before he could open his mouth the persistent whining of the dog interrupted. Steve peered over the edge of the stern of the boat. Ace doggedly paddled with the bird still in his maw.

“Alright buddy, hang on. You think we can pull him over together or you need a bit?” Steve asked Javi as the man tried to wring out part of the ancient camouflage coat that he had loaned him that morning. Javi rolled his eyes and positioned himself in the stern, carefully bracing himself on the side as Murphy was also doing. Together they carefully reached down into the water and hauled out the black lab and rolled him into the boat, dropping a good amount of water back into the boat.

The dog leapt to its feet and presented his prize to his master. A job well done surely. Murphy ruffled Ace’s ears after plucking the bird from the dog’s mouth and handed it to Javier.

“Your first duck hunt and your first duck. What do you think Javi?” The blonde man grinned at him so widely Javi couldn’t help but return the smile as he took the duck from his friend.

“Y’know, all things considered-“

Javi was interrupted by a truly massive full body shake from Ace, spraying he and Murphy with even more freezing water. Soaked to the bone, water dripping off the bill of his cap and desperately in need of a smoke he looked down at the black dog, its tail thumping furiously on the floor of the boat. He thought about the way that early morning fog had looked on the water and the duck he would eat later with Murphy’s hick relatives. He though about the money he spent for a license and duck stamp that would go back to preserving more habitat. He thought about the quiet and the trees and the way the biting wind felt. Javi wiped the water from his face and kneeled down to give the dog a good scratch behind his ears with one hand while he still held the duck.

It was fun.

Kinda.

The dog shook itself again. More water went flying. Javi scowled.

“Have we fed your inner redneck enough for today? Cause I have enough for a lifetime I think,” he huffed, searching the pocket of the duck coat to see if his precious cigarettes were dry enough to be lit.

Steve laughed and clapped him on the shoulder as Javi cupped the flame toa damp, mangled white paper cylinder. “Tell you what, next year I’ll come to Texas and play cowboy with you and your Dad on the ranch instead, ok?”

Javier’s eyes lit up. “Don’t get too cocky there, hillbilly. We’ll have to see how you measure up at ropin’ and drinking whiskey.”

Steve rolled his eyes and started the boat motor for home.

[tayladesign]

Model from Diane Brand exercise

The microsite of my model is right in the heart of Islington bay, near the Islington wharf. It bridges off from one of the banks near the road leading to a deck area supported by a series of beams and pillars which secure the structure into the sea floor. By having the structure on a raised deck this allows it to avoid being submerged during high tide and also gives people extra space to utilize. The decking will be made of both timber and concrete as these materials are both strong and water resistant. 

in terms of the actual design, it was really informed by historical events and figures such as the maori voyager tamatekapua and his waka (canoe), as a result alot of the design features are inspired by the shapes and elements of the te arawa waka. for example the posts are in the shape of the hull and the form of the building itself is modelled after sails hence the triangular forms. the angled roofs and walls also provides benefits in terms of the building being more streamline in terms of facing wind and water. The walls of the storage building would be made of timber and the roof of slate or metal.

within my design are areas of coloured polycarbonate, which is strong and resistant to sea water. I have used this as decorative piece attached to the post aswell as constructing the entrance area infront of the main door out of it aswell. I have done this as because this building is located near water, a reflective surface it would also be interesting to try and bring these qualities of illuminationa and reflectiveness into the building aswell.  the yellow also hints at rangitotos volcanic properties.

on the other side of the building are two openings with ramps that lead into the water. these openings are covered in polycarbonate windows which are able to opened to allow people to push their kayaks straight into the water. This allows for easy accessibility to and from the building aswell as interior lighting. 

in terms of improvements, I think there is a lot more I could do to develop this. For example thinking of more ways to increase the amount of interior lighting as well as the ramp structures coming out of the building into the water as looking at it now it looks a bit too steep and not well supported. I think I would also like experiment with the forms further and maybe try to use different kinds of materials to acheive more interesting forms.

[famous-aces]

Alfredo Guttero

Who: Alfredo Guttero

What: Artist and Art Promoter

Where: Argentinian (active in Argentina and throughout Western Europe) 

When: May 26, 1882 - December 1, 1932

(Image Description: Retrato del pintor, Victorica, 1929 [a self portrait]. It shows Guttero in his apartment. Outside is a very geometric skyline of smokestacks, steep roofs, and a brown sky. His room is slate colored and he sits in a chair in the foreground. He has a jacket thrown over the back of his chair. His pose is casual and he looks as if we [the viewer] have just distracted him from painting. He sits with his legs to one side, turned almost unnaturally toward the viewer. One leg is lifted slightly and one hand is on the chair's seat as if he is in the middle of turning completely to the viewer. He is a man with a receding hairline and a high forehead. He has a dark mustache and dark hair and low eyebrows. He is wearing a white shirt and bowtie and has his sleeves rolled up to the elbow and his collar is ruffled and loosened. The whole thing hangs very loose but you can still see some of his body's lines of musculature. His tie undone and hanging around his neck. His pants are ordinary and green/brown. His expression is calm but confident and he looks directly at the viewer. The colors are bold but not really bright. The style blends geometry and flatness and realism in a way I am explaining very poorly. End ID)

Guttero is not terribly well remembered today, which is too bad. Looking through his oeuvre I quite like his work. Maybe it is because he lacked the bombastic personality of many modernist artists, maybe it is due to his diversity of styles without one that seems to define his work, or maybe it is because he was one of so many talented artists of his generation. He was well renown in his era, however, and used his popularity and skill to foster the next generation of Argentinian artists.

Guttero's life began mundanely enough. He always loved art, appreciating it and creating it, but pursued a legal career instead. But he was unhappy with his life as a lawyer, so Guttero left it to become a painter. He pursued his dream and passion, inspired and pushed by other Argentine artists. In 1904 his reputation was good enough that the Argentinian government sponsored his move to Paris, then the epicenter of the truly exciting and revolutionary art world, its influence expanding outward. He studied there for a few years under Maurice Denis before appearing in the Salon.

He remained in Paris until 1916 when he began to travel extensively across Western Europe for more than a decade, first to Spain, then Germany, Austria, and beyond. He traveled to nearly every country in the area between the years of 1916 and 1927.  His work was shown in various exhibitions around the continent from being featured in the Salon in Paris to a major solo exhibition in Genoa.

After that he returned to Argentina for the first time since his initial departure in 1904. Guttero remained active in his native country including creating free art classes called, aptly enough, Cursos Libres de Arte Plástico, with other Argentine artists. During this time he focused on his work as an art promotor, perhaps even more than his own art. During this time he introduced and showed new Argentinian artists to a wider audience. Indeed he created an organization for this purpose: the Hall of Modern Painters. He was dedicated to promoting and preserving modern art in the face of a world growing increasingly dark and reactionary. He died young and without much warning.

His art is undeniably modernist but trickier to pin to a specific movement. He has many different styles he utilizes with different degrees of naturalism and curves vs geometry. His scenes are by and large mundane and human, he uses bright colors, often huge central subjects, kinetic poses and positions, modern settings, and by and large human or urban subjects. He often painted on plaster using a "cooked plaster" technique of his own devising.

(Image Description: Martigues for Charles Jacques [1909], a brightly colored painting showing a scene in a Martigues canal. It is not completely realistic nor completely geometric and abstract. He favors color over outlines. In the background is a bright blue sky interrupted by yellow buildings with tile roofs, maybe houses, lit by the unseen sun. One of the building's lower doors is open. There is a small tree to the far right. In the foreground in the sparkling water of the canal are several small work boats, probably fishing boats judging by the silvery nets lying over the hulls. On the right a boat is coming in, there is a pale skinned, dark haired man working on one of the nets. His sail is red and white. On the left is a pale man in an orange hat and yellow shirt. He is stooped and just by his pose appears older, both of the men are too far away for many identifying details. End ID)

Possible Orientation: Mspec ace, gay ace, or aroace with an aesthetic attraction to multiple genders. (I am so unsure I have changed "probable" to "possible.")

I admit this one is a stretch on my part.

I am classifying Guttero based largely on absence, i.e. the absence of a remembered/recorded spouse, sexual/romantic partner, or liasian. I have no quotes or historical documents to prove my point. I have none of his personal philosophy or writings to draw from. Just the fact that he dedicated his life to art more than human relationshipa. That this is something I have seen before: Cause and its role in the life of many aros/aces/aroaces (outlined in Weil's entry the other day) and the fact that he had no recorded romantic/sexual partners that I can find in hours of research.

This illustrates why it is so, so difficult to find aspecs in history. We are not, as aphobes believe, impossible to locate, there is externally visible evidence, but it is less obvious than most other orientations. And cishets would rather we didn't exist so we are often buried under excuses. The easiest ways to find them are 1) if they were notably "married to their job" in their lifetimes (e.g. Jeanette Rankin and Carter Woodson), they talked/wrote about it in some capacity (e.g. T.E. Lawrence or Frédéric Chopin), they were distrusted because of it (John Ruskin and James Barrie), they made it part of their persona (Nikola Tesla and Florence Nightingale), aside from that I really need to search deep into their personal lives. Information not always available.

And often even when people essentially say "I am aromantic and/or asexual" the general population will not accept that. After all Newton is often remembered as allo and gay, despite never expressing interest in men. Chopin is often listed as allo and bi. Rankin is often considered cishet but too deeply concerned with her work. Barrie gets called a pedophile despite showing no interest in children. For eccentric aspecs like Weil/Tesla/etc. their being aspec becomes part of their oddness. If they weren't Like That they would be allo. Their being aspec becomes a symptom of their weirdness and would be unacceptable in a "normal" person.

History with a capital H does not want to acknowledge aspecs and, as with other queer identities, will go to insane measures to erase them. But even other queer historians will do this to aspecs. I am shocked how many people do exactly to Newton/Lewis/and the like what cishet historians do to Alexander the Great. In the case of Alexander the cishets ignore the obvious accounts that he loved Hephestian in nearly every way possible and queer historians and history buffs call them out, then often the non-aspec ones look at Newton and Lewis who had no interest in men and say they must have been gay. And it isn't really just history, Tim Gunn is by his own admission both gay and ace and the second part of that statement is either erased or, even crazier, I have seen aphobes say that he is mistaken about his own identity.

Anyway the root cause of this lack of nuance in the discussion of sexual orientation is a long sidebar that this is not the place to explore. I have left Guttero behind paragraphs ago. I have written a lot about how aces and aros end up getting erased from history and this isn't about that.

This is about Guttero and the difficulty of finding aros and aces. The presence of something is so much easier to find than the alternative, obviously, like if Historical Figure X exclusively slept with/courted men and was a man we can say he was (most likely) gay. But if Historical Figure Y didn't sleep with anyone/court anyone it is harder to prove. This is obviously severely simplifying identity but for the purposes of this example I beg your apology.

Long Story Short: the absence of evidence of something is not proof of the absence of something. A lot of aphobes will point this out and utterly ignore the fact that sometimes it is.

So, Guttero. The only thing I can say conclusively is that he never married and he was romantically or sexually tied to anyone as far as I can find. He was, in his time, very active in the art world. If he had been involved someone would probably have taken note. Especially considering his art is often very appreciative of the human form, especially the male one, it would not be hard to believe he was allo and gay or mspec.

I am going to take his art another way putting some dusty analysis/critique/art history skills to good use. Here's the thing, those who follow me on my personal blog or even here know I find the Death of the Author extremely important but it is also extremely complicated (it was actually the topic of my senior thesis). I don't want to use an artist's work to talk about their personal lives because art is often not reflective of life, but there is always some cross contamination in one way or another. I am going to explain what I mean on a superficial level, using myself as an example so I can say this is 100% accurate. I love the found family trope, and I think those relationships are the best in the world. So whenever I write something you can be damned sure if I can get some found family goodness in there I will. What I am saying is, I don't love or even approve of everything I write about, but I do write about some things because I love them and want to explore them and experience them on some level. The same may be true for Guttero and the subjects he painted.

Guttero often pays a lot of attention to human form. Look at his work The Market (I couldn't find a large enough image to put it in this post) and you will see his appreciation for amab musculature and on the other side of the male spectrum...

(image description: Retrato de Lucien Cavarry [1911] It shows a thin, lanky, and well dressed young man reclining on a green floral patterned couch and a black pillow. He is pale with neat, dark hair. He has a shadow of 5 o'clock shadow on his super hero jaw. His suit is white, his slightly rumpled tie is black, as are his socks and polished shoes. One arm is across the back of the couch and a red and gold pillow the other is dangling. This style is very different from the other portraits I showed/referenced. Still a modern but more realistic style, more flowing, less geometric. The man is drop dead gorgeous by Western beauty standards. End ID)

As for women...he seems to find them colder, more distant, but there is still a physical appreciation there. (Linking Mujeres Indolentes so I don't get flagged for "female presenting nipples" or whatever Tumblr's BS is. [The name alone tells you a lot]). Or the somewhat judgemental gaze of the woman below:

(Image Description: Georgelina. It shows a portrait of a pretty young woman sitting in front of a field. She is pale and long and beautiful. She has red hair, sharp eyes, a long flowing white dress with a gold sash around her waist, and a white hat with a black bow that is blowing in the wind. She takes up most of the frame and her expression is challenging and she holds eye contact with the viewer. The colors are bright and she is almost porciline in color. The background is mostly flat planes of color. In style it is somewhere between the self portrait and the portrait of Cavarry. End ID.)

Not all of his portraits of women have them so sour/distant but they all have a sort of challenging look. Beauty tinged with something dangerous, while the men always seem more innocent.

So here is why I say aspec rather than allo using his work alone, none of his work is particularly sexually inviting even with the sexiness/physical European attractiveness. The men are bashful or unaware of the viewer, the women are certainly not interested.

And back to the self portrait at the top: Guttero is in a fairly sexy pose, but it is sexy without being sexual. He is rumpled but the thing he was doing was painting, there is a sexless explanation. He is looking at the viewer, but you are distracting him from working. At first glance I thought his legs were spread, but they are simply in motion so he can face his guest more comfortably. This all could mean nothing, but I found it striking that this is how he chose to depict himself, at first he appears to be inviting the viewer in for a more physical interaction, but then it seems he is doing exactly the opposite, his passionate energy has been instead put into painting.

And in reality toward the end of his life that was what he did. He dedicated himself to his own art and the art of others.

So again, this could mean nothing. But...it could mean he is aspec.

And that is how the person I am least sure about got the longest entry.

(image description: Elevadores [1928]. A painting showing a factory complex. There is a raised platform running around it and several buildings in bright colors. There is a tree to the right side and a green hill. The building in the near-center [lightly left] is red. The sky is yellow and blue, perhaps the unseen sun is rising up behind the right-hand buildings. In style it is mostly geometric and flat color. End ID.)

[anarinya]

Anarion’s compatriots had learned not to clap his back in moments of victory or praise, cautious of the way he would stiffen against hard treatment. A grim and sensitive young man he was but they accepted him as such, as much for fondness’ sake as for the dedication and skill he brought to their cause. Instead, once they had sailed up the winding coast and were reaching the jutting cliff that marked the mouth of Andunie’s bay, the five of them would each urge him down from his towering height and kiss his brow in the Faithful fashion of farewell. 

Usually Anarion would then jump overboard and take advantage of the bay’s sheltered and calmer waters to swim up to the cliffside and climb it’s black slate. The walk back to the city was long and trackless but Anarion knew the miles, even in the dark, and it was no great toil when compared to the boon of secrecy if offered. 

Still, tonight he was glad when the bright moonlight fell upon the familiar prow of his grandfather’s sloop anchored just a little off the cape’s end. As were his fellows, who all regularly told him that watching him scale the sheer cliffs was more nerve wracking than any of their usual escapades. 

Anarion approached the railing easier with the promise of a blanket and a swift sail home. The black water lapped gently at their hull and the stars were brighter than ever with no ship’s lamp to dim them. Isildur would have lured me to a roof, were he here, Anarion thought to himself, in order to avoid thinking of his father. 

He finally gave over the canvas bag he had slung over his shoulder to their relic-keeper, tied the blackcloth tighter about his torso, nodded to all of them and elegantly dived from deck into the water. Cold shock greeted him with it’s familiar rush of sensation but he had trained away the need to gasp in childhood and it took no time at all for him to begin cleaving through the waves towards the blue and silver hull beyond. 

He found no hemp rope hanging over the side, but it was easy enough to assume Amandil had forgotten or fallen asleep before he thought to arrange it. It was no hinderance anyway, Anarion’s strong fingers and corded, elegant arms found purchase on the beaten metal ribbing to push himself high enough out of the water to catch the taffrail. All it took then was hauling his sodden bulk from the sea, slinging first one leg over and then another before twisting back around to sit dripping on the rail. 

Leaning over his knees, Anarion breathed deeply for a moment before dragging a hand through his dense wet hair and pushing it back away from his eyes, searching for-

Ah.

His father’s gaze was piercing enough even in the dark. He stood, the only man Anarion knew that looked down at him, unmistakably here, where he should not have been. Anarion himself was struck still, cast in black and white, his clothes clinging to his lank frame as he held that gaze with round eyes. In the silence his mind visibly worked and quickly it came back to him, Amandil’s informing him of Elendil’s arrival, his father’s love of night sailing, the clear night... he should have guessed. 

This all deduced, Anarion finally blinked. His shoulders unstiffened minutely and he released the breath he had been holding in a long sigh. His hands clasped and gently wrung one another before, finally, he spoke in a low brassy lilt, “Mára vinyë, Atarinya.” 

Starter for (@elendzir​) Father

[thevalicemultiverse]

The thing about Nutter's book is that while all the described events are 100% accurate, they are historically important only to her linear descendants. Thus, an entry that can be dated "11/22/1963" says nothing about an assassination in Dallas, TX, and everything about the need to avoid falling roof slates in Hull. This is because JFK is not a descendant of Agnes, but a Mr. T.N. Device, who was visiting Hull at the time, most definitely is, and needed to be warned about a more immediate risk.

Alice: Oh. . .oddly, that means I want to read the book even more now. I kind of want to see what scrapes this family only avoided thanks to their matriarch being kind enough to write them all down. [shrugs] And hey -- perhaps, by some trick of fate, I’m a relative. Wouldn’t that be handy? Granted, if she left a prophecy for me saying “don’t move to Los Angeles, there’s vampires,” it’s already too late. . .

[falling-down-the-scroll-hole]

Sometimes I listen to the noise of the rain hitting the roof and how it echoes in the loft.

I like to imagine myself in a space station. The raindrops on the slate and iron are little microasteroids against the hull.

The soft rattling sound that puts me into sleep mode. Whilst I listen to Buzzcut Season by Lorde.

[ftb-writes]

Hey, everyone! Guess who has two thumbs and didn’t update you all Sundays like they said they would? It’s me!!! But here’s the ‘Novel.’

Though it is more of a DnD campaign. I did have a few more potential encounters planned out, but I rolled a d20 for every potential encounter, and only four of the big five made it in, and the rolls I was making for the adventuring party were actually really lucky. The big encounters were ended peacefully.

*briestling - the drider word for a youngling, one who is niether a child of yours nor a younger sibling, but something not dissimilar to either. It is most often used by teens who have taken a young child under their wing and implies one has become attached to the youngling despite trying not to.

 Wanted:

Adventurers with no Reservations on the Species of their Employers, and Knowledge of the FeyWildes

Three retired Adventurers and their charge scion child seeking passage and protection through the FeyWildes. We three were a cleric, rogue, and bard, and the child is a budding rogue themself. One of our number seeks to contact family for instructions on the lifting of curses. Help greatly appreciated -- 100 gold, 50 upfront, and 50 upon arrival in the city of Mag Tureah, along with any share of riches stumbled upon during the journey, as decided upon by the hired -- employers will not need a share of these riches. We three are willing and able to pull our weight should needs arise. Applicants should meet in the backroom of the Rosehip Inn and Tavern in New Sharandar. Serious applicants only, please.

The notice is begun with large, bold print, attention-grabbing as the promise of a hundred gold a-piece to all applicants hired. Underneath, in smaller letters, read the details of the assignment. The parchment it is written on is of middling quality, near imperceptibly thicker in some places than others, but the ink is even and crisp. The author of the notice is familiar with his letters, but the family crest is not one you recognize, with the look of someone unused to it. You interpret this to mean it must be a relatively new crest, featuring a spider in a four-point web.

Your curiosity (and perhaps your greed) is piqued, and you have arrived at the Rosehip. The inn is a large, cozy building made of sturdy stone bricks and thick slate for the roof, and the main room is full of light from three roaring fires paced around the room and several large tables loaded with food and drink, and patrons of the establishment crowd around the table singing and toasting and playing various games of cards and dice. You are directed toward the backroom by a distrustful-looking barkeep, a large orc woman with ruddy cheeks and a constellation of freckles complimenting a handful of scars and thick, dark hair. “Best those four strangers leave as soon as possible,” she grunts. “They’re making my other customers nervous. Feh! Lucky for them, I ain’t called the guards.”

Entering the room, you are greeted by an odd sight: A cloudy-eyed drider perches in a corner of the ceiling, cradling a small being swaddled in so many layers it is impossible to discern any race or species. Leaning over the table in the center of the room, consulting a roughly-drawn map of the FeyWildes, are a hulking, green-scaled dragonborn with a broadsword nearly as tall as himself strapped to his back, and a slender tiefling with purple hair and lavender skin, and the unmistakable pointed ears of elvish ancestry. The tiefling has a bulky instrument case slung across his shoulders, a sharp dagger and a slim rapier at his belt. The dragonborn and tiefling look up as you enter, and the drider cocks his head curiously in your direction, though he and the being he holds do not turn their faces away from each other. You notice that the smaller being is tracing letters gently onto the driders arm with a small, rounded stick poking out of a loose sleeve, and they are using this communication to silently describe you and your party to the drider.

The dragonborn nods a greeting to you, and the tiefling smiles winningly and turns from the table to give you and your party an elegant bow. “Hullo, there, friends!” he declared. “I trust you are here for potential employment?” You and your party agree.

“I am Ryvon, and this,” he motions to the dragonborn, “is Stramonium. A better man you will have trouble finding, if you ask me.” The dragonborn snorts in amusement. “And this,” Ryvon continues, motioning to the drider, “is Ixthus, a more lovely creature you will not find, on this plane or another.”

“He is like this,” Ixthus murmurs, his voice hissing between his chelicerae. “You’ll hopefully forgive him that.”

“Stramonium agrees with me!” Ryvon stutters, to which the dragonborn rolls his eyes with a fond chuckle.

“That I do, Ryvon,” Stramonium admits, “but you bards are a bit extravagant in your praise. These people do not need to know what you think of your husbands’ assets.”

“And what wonderful assets they are,” Ryvon snickers, a lewd smirk and hip sway directed toward Stramonium. “But, as I was saying,” he clears his throat, “the final member of our group is our... child, though even that word is not a perfect one. Common does not have a good word for what little Faker here is to us.” Ryvon smiles again at you and your party and sweeps his hand to encompass the four of them. “We are a clan of four, and it is Ixthus’s family we are going to see.”

When you make a cautious joke about Lolth being needed to cure a drider, Ixthus frowns. “I do not seek to end my time as a drider,” he tells you, sharply, “and I rather prefer this form. It is easier to protect my loves and my briestling*  as I am now. No, the curse I seek to lift is a powerful one, cast by a paladin who serves one of my goddess’ enemies. I have been blinded, rather permanently, by her magic, and I find myself missing the sight of my husband’s smiles, my briestling’s mischievious little pranks, and the alter with which I can commune with my Lady. I must have my sight back, if I am to practice my trade and cast my magic properly. My grandmother knows of curses, both the casting and lifting of them, and I would seek her knowledge and aid.”

Stramonium growls low. “And we have never known Ixthus as anything else. We love him, as he is, and we simply wish to cure him of the most recent Blight. Powerful magic, can gods help their paladin’s cast, and even more powerful curses. The paladin believed in her god far too strongly, as well, and so we found that only the high priestess of Ixthus’s goddess may be able to lift this curse. Imagine our great luck, that it is our lovely Ixthus’s family matron.”

Ryvon, his arms crossed over his chest, mutters a swear in Infernal. “We are willing to pay, Sers. Please, ignore my husbands’ foul moods. Both of them have been rather tense ever since that paladin attacked us. I, at least, can keep a level head.” To Ixthus and Stramonium, he grumbles fondly, “Calm down, you two. These folk have come to offer their help in getting us to Mag Tureah. We need all the help we can get, right now, especially with Ixthus’s abilities compromised. It would not do us any good to chase off our potential allies.”

Faker, from where they are curled in Ixthus’s arms, coughs quietly. “We thinks,” they hiss in a voice that makes you and your party’s skins crawl, “that perhaps, it best if they’s coming. Ixthus not be see now, not magic well. Ixthus need helpses. We needs them.” Faker’s grasp on Common is clearly not as strong as his strange fathers’, but the other three seem to understand what they’re getting at anyway, and nod along.

“You are right, of course,” Stramonium tells Faker, clearly proud of Faker’s thinking. “I apologize, friends. Please, excuse my testiness. I am rather protective of my clan -- overly so, as Ryvon occasionally must remind me. If you still are willing to help guide our way through the Wildes, this is a rough map of the layout of the Wildes currently -- though, any who know the FeyWildes knows they shift around a bit. Mag Tureah is here -- one of the few places that stays in place, and this over here is the city of New Sharandar in the FeyWildes, so you can orient if you need to for after we pass through the portal.”

The map is a larger one, although maps of the FeyWildes were always made to be easier to read. You were able to get an idea of the routes the group were contemplating taking. They clearly wanted to remain unnoticed by some of the more dangerous denizens of the Wildes; the routes were probably chosen to be the safest ones you could take at the moment, not that any route was safe in the FeyWildes.

Ixthus coughs gently and lowers himself gracefully to the floor. “We will be able to find our own way home,” Ixthus murmurs as he approaches, but the wary steps give away how nervous he is about letting Faker close. You cannot blame the men for being cautious, having strangers near their youngling. “However, if you wish, you are welcome to hang around in Mag Tureah while we meet with my grandmother and come back along the path with us. Going back will likely be safer as well, since some of my family is bound to come with us and make sure I and my clan arrive back in New Sharandar safely. My grandmother, while not understanding how these two and Faker make me so happy, recognizes that they do. She loves me, even if she does not understand, and will not wish harm to come to us.”

You and your party agree to accompany the odd group to Mag Tureah, and you all set out toward the portal to the FeyWildes.

Upon entering the FeyWildes, however, you realize that this will not be as straightforward as you had hoped, quickly discovering that the FeyWildes had shifted again, probably recently. The paths discussed would no longer be safe, and the city of New Sharandar was now an island of relative safety. The area now located around New Sharandar was one of the more dangerous of the areas seen in the FeyWildes. This would be an interesting trip, indeed.

The very first thing you do is see if there is a path that seems easier -- and hopefully quicker -- to traverse but are dismayed to find that it will be bushwhacking no matter which direction you leave for Mag Tureah from. The only easier path you can see is one that has clearly been habitated by large beasts, and not even that close to the city walls.

The bigger the creature in the FeyWildes, the less likely one was to walk away from them.

“At least you have us?” Stramonium grumbles testily, trying (though failing) to lighten the souring mood. “Well, no helping it now. Which way do you want to go? If we want to go quickly, and therefore spend less time having to risk running afoul of anything here, we can go toward the cleared area over that way and hope it’s something powerful enough that whatever it is ignores us. Or we can spend the first day of travel cutting our way through the forest, and possibly have to spend our first night in the forest. That may not be the safest option either, not that either are.”

After discussion, you make your way out of the city toward the clearing, cutting your way through the brush, and make relatively good time, all things considered. Stramonium is a knowledgeable ranger, even if he had not ever had the misfortune of finding himself in the FeyWildes before. The group tells some interesting stories, from before their retirement, and try to at least keep the mood as light as possible. Faker, meanwhile, is looking around in interest, but hissing occasionally from under their hoods and scarves. They did not appear to like the FeyWildes, which was a smart dislike on their part.

Ryvon sighed quietly, about midday. “As nice as this is so far, please keep an eye out. My father and his family live here, in the FeyWildes. Archfey. We.... do not get on. I would rather not run into him. Get along better with my mother’s family, to be honest.”

Ixthus growls quietly. “He’s a git.”

“Ixthus, please,” Ryvon mutters. “I would not be surprised if he could tell you’re speaking ill of him. Seems like an Archfey-ish thing to be able to do. Let’s change the subject, if you would. What kind of stories do you all have?”

Just before nightfall, you reach the clearing and discover a tarrasque curled up, fast asleep, in the middle of the cleared space. Its snoring is loud enough it covers any sound your party may have made coming through the forest. You and your party freeze.

“Well, great,” Stramonium whispers, as Faker begins tracing letters hastily across Ixthus’s back where they ride. Ixthus shivers.

“I will see what My Lady says about this. It’s too late to try to find somewhere else to shelter for the night. What do we do?” The last part seems directed more to the drider himself than any of you.

“Ixthus, we need to go,” Stramonium hisses. “We can’t stay here. If that thing wakes up, we’re dead.”

Ryvon has drawn his rapier, and Faker warily draws a dagger from somewhere between all the layers he is in.

Ixthus sways left, then right, and silently turns and makes his blind way into the trees. The drider weaves through the forest a short way to find a cave -- empty, luckily, and large enough for all of you to sleep in. It will provide plenty of shelter.

Ixthus shakes his head, as if waking from a trance. “Thank you, My Lady. You grace me with your sight. Thank you.” He drops his voice to begin muttering prayers and gratitudes in Undercommon. At the mention of the name of Lolth, however, a shiver runs down you and your party’s spines.

“Mr. Ixthus,” one of you asks. “Who is it you pray to?”

Ixthus turns unseeing eyes onto your party and smiles. “What a curious question,” he murmurs. “You know Lolth worship is frowned on in most places!”

“But not by the Drow,” you counter, and Ixthus’s smile turns venomous. “If we have become the unwitting pawns of Lolth, we should like to know.”

“Please, friends,” Ryvon interjects. “Ixthus has worshipped the Spider-Goddess for years. His faith has never once been a cause for concern. Indeed, Lolth seems to like him; she doesn’t have many Clerics willing to listen these days, at least not outside the churches. As a drider, and an adventurer at that, Ixthus was very valuable to Lolth, and so she gives him some help every now and again, yes. But truly, the only payment for her aide that Ixthus ever needed to do was occasionally root out any members of Lolth’s church that would use their high standing to further themselves instead of Lolth.”

The cold ring of Stramonium’s greatsword echoes loud in the cave as he draws it. “If you wish harm upon my husband, I will not take it lightly.”

“Gasssss,” Faker hisses quietly to Ryvon.

Ryvon jolts, as if struck. “Thank you, Faker. I can smell it now that you mention it. Please, friends, there is a magical gas, it is clouding our judgement, turning us against each other. We need each other out here, fighting will just get us all killed. Get us to Mag Tureah, and you will have your gold and can be rid of us, if Ixthus’s faith bothers you so!”

With a tilt of his head and a muttered incantation, Ixthus’s eyes widen. “Ryvon and Faker are right. I had not noticed it before, my love, my briestling. Here, I will dispel it. a bit of rest will perhaps calm riled tempers, but if it really bothers you, I will not call on her for the rest of our time working together.”

The next morning, Faker slips silently back into the small cave and holds out a single tarrasque tooth. “Gone,” they rasp, and offer the tooth, like a peace offering, to your party. You choose to take the tooth and pocket it, and although none of you can see through all the fabrics and darkness obscuring the young one’s face, you get the feeling that Faker is smiling at you.

“They like you,” Ixthus says from behind you, and your party turns to the drider and his husbands. Now that the gas has dissipated, you all feel a bit embarrassed and sheepish, and your unlikely new companions all look so as well. You all apologize, and you explain that you feel a bit silly for being upset about Ixthus’s religion, as there are many you can think of that have even worse reputations than Lolth. He and Stramonium admit that the gas did make them react a bit more strongly than they would ordinarily, and your party shakes hands and puts the whole event behind you all.

Outside, you find, following the path back, that the tarrasque is indeed gone -- and none of you care where, as long as it’s a ways off. Faker darts out into the open space and scoops up another dropped tooth, before running back and excitedly offering up this one to their fathers. the trio laugh quietly and Ryvon gently takes the tooth and tucks it away for safekeeping. “Thank you, Faker,” he says, and pulls out a piece of chocolate, carefully pokes it under the hood Faker wears. You swear you see a long tongue slither out to take the chocolate and retreat, but it’s so quick you’re sure the Wildes’ light is playing tricks on your eyes.

Now that there is a new ease between your party and the four, the time passes more enjoyably as you regale each other with tales of previous exploits, and though Faker does only rasp out a word or two along with their fathers’ stories, they do pay rapt attention to you and your party’s stories. With only a few interruptions from mostly weaker monsters, you make it out of the edge of the forest and find a road and signpost. Praising your luck, you all turn and follow the road toward Mag Tureah. In the distance behind you, you hear a tarrasque roar.

 You are about halfway to Mag Tureah when your party first notices the attention your odd group has garnered from one of the local Archfey. You are being followed by a stately elk, and it’s rider is an equally noble-looking man. He catches up to you easily, on foot as you are, and swings the elk around to block your path.

“I believe I told you last time, you are no longer welcome here, boy.” This, he directs at Ryvon, who does not look happy to see him.

“We are just passing through,” the tiefling tells him coolly, “Elder,” he adds like an afterthought, his tone reeking of distaste.

Your party tenses, and you step forward to clear your throat. “Tis true, sir,” you say, shooting a questioning look towards Ryvon. So far, Ryvon has been the most diplomatic and welcoming of your four companions if a bit eccentric, so this show of disgust for a man who clearly holds some power here is surprising. “We are making for Mag Tureah, and these roads seemed the safest and fastest route.”

“If I’d known we would pass this close, I’d have suggested a different one,” Ryvon mutters. “I apologize for this, friends,” he tells your party. “This is the Elder of my father’s clan. My father’s family and I -- we don’t get on well, obviously.” He shoots a look up at the Elder and spits, “Because they are bigots.”

The Elder reels back and startles, as if Ryvon had physically struck him. “Now that,” he sputters, “is a baseless accusation--“

“Father picked making them happy over sticking around for Mother and I,” Ryvon sighs. “We’re only passing through, Elder, so may we pass? We are going to visit Ixthus’s family, who adore me, by the way, unlike you lot.”

The Elder looks furious, and you’d really rather avoid a fight with an Archfey right now. “Please, Elder, may we go? It’s very important that my party and I reach Mag Tureah as well, and these four are paying us to bring them along, since we are already going that way.” Your lie is an easy one, and the Archfey does not comment on it if he sees through it.

The Elder looks down his nose at you and sighs resignedly. “I suppose,” he drawls, “Since some of you actually have manners. Be gone. Do not come back.”

“Thank you, Elder,” you say, and fix Ryvon with a warning look as you lead the way back down the path.

“And keep those beasts on tight leashes,” the Elder calls after you.

“I don’t think he’s only talking about Ixthus,” one of your party whispers, but Ryvon has turned quiet and taciturn.

“Doesn’t like Faker or Stramonium, either. Racist pig.” Ixthus picks at his nails and sighs. “I am sorry, my friends. We didn’t realize the clan was in this area right now, or we would have had us go around. It would have taken longer, sure, but most times his father’s family and Ryvon run into each other, we get into a fight. Ryvon loves us, so their comments get to him very easily. You handled that well, I’m sorry.”

“Something about him is slimy,” one of your party murmurs. “Let’s keep an eye out and make sure we’re not followed.”

 Coming over a rise and seeing Mag Tureah in a huge open cavern below you, your party are all glad to see the end of the journey. Ixthus gets you all through the gate with a bit of gold for the guards, and Stramonium pulls out a bulging bag of gold for each of your party members.

“Like we said, if you’d like to have us on the way back, we would be grateful,” Ixthus informs them. “But we aren’t sure how long our business here will take, so if you’d like to shake hands and part ways, then let us do so as friends, yes?”

You agree that it would be safer to travel back with the four and ask if they would mind asking Ixthus’s family about places for lodgings as the group of you all make your way through the streets of Mag Tureah toward the large church dominating the landscape. The cavern is full of buildings to the point where the walls of the cavern have homes and businesses built into the stone, with bioluminescent mushrooms and mosses cultivated in the cracks and crevices. Ixthus’s grandmother, when you reach the church, insists you stay there, in the church itself, and offers a hearty meal as thanks for getting her four family members here safely.

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[oliveratlanta]

Georgia Tech’s Living Building, the Southeast’s greenest, is a marvel of efficiency and spare parts

The futuristic canopy over the 422 Ferst Drive building on Tech’s campus is an array of solar panels with water-catching components.

Now finished, metro Atlanta’s most environmentally advanced structure aims to be a self-sustaining launchpad for big ideas

It’s not every day the president of a major university stands before an auditorium packed to the walls with dignitaries and journalists, raises his arms like an inspired evangelist, points toward the restrooms, and extolls the virtues of using the toilet.

But such was the scene when Georgia Tech’s recently installed, excitable leader Dr. Ángel Cabrera helped lead dedication ceremonies in late October for The Kendeda Building for Innovative Sustainable Design—colloquially: “The Kendeda Building,” or “the Living Building”—a modern wonder amid Tech’s leafy campus that’s not satisfied with being merely the Southeast’s greenest structure.

Compostable toilets use a teaspoon of water per flush, automatically foaming to help remove waste. Toilet water is managed and broken down naturally onsite, avoiding sewers. The back wall is made of slate panels from the old Alumni House roof on campus.

Should project leaders succeed, the $30-million, grant-funded experiment will be the only fully certified Living Building south of Virginia Beach, southeast of suburban St. Louis, and east of Texas—and one of just 24 across the country. Before certification can happen, the Living Building Challenge, an international green-building program, will require the world’s most rigorous year-long process of performance evaluations. That gauntlet is expected to begin with spring semester classes, which will host everything from science to calculus at the new facility where Ferst Drive meets State Street. Compounding matters is Atlanta’s subtropical, often humid climate, where creating a comfortable, solar-powered, self-sustaining building not connected to city utilities was once thought impossible. Nothing like it has ever been attempted in this climate zone. Achieving the LBC stamp, in short, will require a logistical concert from the rooftop apiary and Big Ass Fans overhead (that’s the brand name) to complex heating and cooling systems in the floors. Oh, and toilets that don’t gulp but sip.

“You would not believe how excited we are about toilets in this building!” Cabrera was saying to the crowd, describing a structure so fresh it still smells like sawed wood, which the president calls his favorite place on campus. “Go and check out the toilet, and you’ll understand.”

A few moments later, Shan Arora, the Kendeda Building director hired by Tech to guide sustainability and programming efforts and lasso the prized certification, sounded equally amped at the lectern: “Constructing a Living Building in the South… people said it can’t be done,” said Arora. “We’re going to show the South, the Southeast, and the world that we can do it here.”

Four years ago, behind-the-scenes discussions began between officials with Tech and The Kendeda Fund—among metro Atlanta’s leading philanthropic investors, with a heart for social and ecological causes—in regards to an on-campus project that might “live” on its own. Kendeda Fund’s eventual $30 million grant covered everything from geotechnical testing to the custom furniture. It’s the agency’s largest single gift to date—and one of the biggest Tech has received in a history dating to the 1880s.

The building was situated in a way to keep one of the oldest, shade-casting oaks on campus from being cut down.

And then, in early 2018, a groundbreaking was held on what had been a humdrum parking lot, a 1.35-acre site next to one of campus’s largest old oaks. The goal: To create a building that collects all its own water, produces more electricity than it needs, and discards of waste in an ecologically responsible way.

Nearly two years later, Arora led Curbed Atlanta on a tour of the 47,000-square-foot results, all tailored to the South and surprising in their use of seemingly useless things.

The Living Building’s main entrance. Atlanta’s Lord Aeck Sargent architecture firm and Seattle’s Miller Hull Partnership led designs, with construction by Skanska.

Almost everything removed during the Kendeda Building’s construction—including the surface parking lot itself—was recycled, salvaged, or turned into a different onsite product.

The idea of salvaging is one Arora’s particularly fond of. He pointed to a granite curb near Ferst Street and noted it used to be part of the Georgia State Archives Building—downtown’s “White Ice Cube” imploded in 2017. A bench near the building’s entrance, he said, had been made from a South Georgia white oak tree toppled by a tornado. A wall of dark brick came from North Carolina, compiled from aggregate waste that typically would be bound for a landfill. A constructed wetland made of gravel near the entrance is designed to both calm humans and filter gray water (collected from faucets and rainclouds, that is), cleaning it naturally and avoiding the city’s sewers. That water was still undergoing testing last month but will eventually be used for all purposes, including drinking.

On the subject of H2O, the building is equipped to capture about 40 percent of rainfall on the property, which it directs to a 50,000-gallon onsite cistern. “We treat the rainwater to potable standards,” said Arora. “It’s the first time in Georgia that a commercial building is trying to do that.”

Elsewhere outside, triple-pane glass windows are designed to decrease solar gain in long humid summers. Towering, minimalistic support columns use less material (and thus less embodied carbon) while supporting the crowning, most distinctive feature: a huge array of solar panels capable of generating 450,000 kilowatt hours of electricity each year—or more than 120,000 hours of juice than the building is estimated to need, which should meet Living Building Challenge certification standards, and then some. Overall, the project is designed to use one-third the energy of a traditional building of comparable size.

Beyond the main entrance is the open three-story lobby, designed to encouraging idea-sharing among students. Wood from a former campus church forms the ramp at right.

“You can see the ductwork, the vents, the wires, the pipes,” Arora noted, moving inside. “If you liken this thing to a living being, you can see the building’s skeleton, its neurological, digestive, circulatory, respiratory systems—and that was by design.”

And here’s where the material trivia gets especially interesting.

Water reclamation pipes, exposed on the building’s basement floor, with a water conservation mural on the wall.

Wood boards that were pulled from a 10th Street church, razed for construction of Tech’s new police station, have created the building’s lobby ramp and decorative walls. Storm-felled trees on campus provided wood for interior benches.

In the bathrooms and showers, circa-1920 slate shingles on the floors and walls formerly acted as the roof of the renovated Georgia Tech Alumni Association building. Wood from dissembled Peach State movie sets forms the ceilings, and the sawed-off tips of those 2 by 6 boards became stairs.

The majority of wood used in the building is reclaimed from movie sets built and filmed in Georgia. More than 60 fans inside allows the building to comfortably operate at higher temperatures during summer, saving energy.

The ends of boards used elsewhere in construction form these steps.

But the emotional grand slam for most visitors, as Arora put it, is the building’s main staircase, built of heart-pine joists that’d been part of Tech Tower, one of two original campus buildings dating to 1888.

“When the most iconic building on campus needed to undergo a renovation, we could have taken those joists out and thrown them away,” said Arora. “Instead, we turned them into those stairs.”

Numerous classroom sizes dot the building, with the lecture hall (bottom right) being the biggest. The project is also pursuing U.S. Green Building Council’s LEED certification at the Platinum level.

Now finished, the building offers a 170-seat auditorium, classrooms designed to accommodate between 16 and 70 people, labs, offices, student commons, and the rooftop garden and apiary. It will have to meet 20 performance requirements—or LBC “imperatives”—for a full year to be certified as the Southeast’s first Living Building.

Project leaders expect that to happen in 2021.

“We’ll be constantly monitoring the building’s performance, making adjustments needed,” said Arora. “But as designed, we hope that all we have to do is monitor, and the building’s doing exactly what it needs to do.”

The fledgling garden on the roof, to include honey bees, will help satisfy the building’s urban agriculture imperative.

The roof has space for the Urban Honey Bee Project with seating, a garden, and Midtown views.

At the public dedication, Kendeda Fund’s executive director Dena Kimball spoke of the potentially important connection between a building in Midtown Atlanta and a warming planet, how it could serve as a blueprint for transforming construction and design practices in the Southeast while igniting young minds.

“[The building] could serve as a bridge between small, direct experiences that balance human nature,” said Kimball, “and the huge environmental problems that many Georgia Tech students might play a key role in solving.”

Cabrera, the president, took that sentiment a step further.

“This facility is a way of turning our own campus into a lab, into a learning opportunity. This is a way of inspiring new generations,” he said. “Just think about the people who are going to be taking classes here, or coming to conferences here. They’re going to be intrigued, looking around, and they’re going to use that toilet.”

View from behind the Living Building, at the dawn of a new day.

source https://atlanta.curbed.com/atlanta-photo-essays/2019/11/14/20954173/georgia-tech-atlanta-living-building-green-sustainability

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[hudsonespie]

The USCG's First Superstorm: The Great Galveston Hurricane

In early September of 1900, a hurricane of massive force struck the Gulf Coast west of Galveston, Texas. The Great Galveston Hurricane would prove far deadlier than any man-made, environmental or weather-related disaster in U.S. history, with approximately 8,000 killed in Galveston and roughly 2,000 more lost in other parts of the Gulf Coast. This death toll is greater than the combined casualty figure for the 1941 Pearl Harbor attack, Hurricane Katrina, the 9/11 terrorist attacks as well as Hurricane Ike, which struck Galveston in 2008. 

In the afternoon of Saturday, September 8th, the storm closed in and floodwaters rushed into the Galveston with wind speeds reaching gale force. By 3:00 p.m., the storm surge had flooded lower portions of the city to a depth of five feet. For many in the city’s East Side there was nowhere to turn and, by 3:30 p.m., reports of death and destruction began to reach the Revenue Cutter Galveston moored in the harbor. The cutter already held 50 refugees and the captain decided to deploy a smallboat to assist the city’s storm victims.

At 4:00 p.m., a volunteer rescue party led by Galveston’s Assistant Engineer Charles Root set-off dragging Galveston’s whaleboat over railroad tracks and launching it into the city’s flooded streets. The high winds rendered oars useless, so the men warped the boat through city streets using a rope system. One man swam through the streets with a line, tied it to a fixed object and the crew hauled it in. Using this arduous process, Galveston’s boat crew rescued numerous victims out of the roiling waters in the city.

At nearby Bolivar Point, the storm surge flooded the low-lying peninsula and waves broke against the base of Bolivar Point Lighthouse. Approximately 125 locals sought refuge from the storm in the lighthouse tower while the water began rising around it. That afternoon, the floodwaters had halted a passenger train approaching the Bolivar Point Ferry Terminal to meet the ferry for Galveston. Of the nearly 100 riders and crew on board the train, only nine braved waist-deep water to seek the safety of Bolivar Light’s tower. Soon after, the rising water surrounded the train, trapped riders and crew in the passenger cars and drowned them all.

In the evening, the storm unleashed Category Four winds on the city. At around 6:15 p.m., the Galveston Weather Bureau anemometer registered over 100 miles per hour (mph) before a wind gust tore it off the building. Bureau officials estimated that by 8:00 p.m., sustained winds blew at 120 mph. By this time, Assistant Engineer Root and his crew returned to the Galveston having filled their whaleboat with over a dozen survivors. Heavy winds were taking an awful toll on the ship, stripping off rigging and blowing away the launch, while wind-driven projectiles shattered windows and skylights.

At the nearby Fort Point Lifesaving Station, Keeper Edward Haines realized his situation was dire and told his crew they should find a way to save themselves. As the floodwaters crept up the station walls, the surfmen believed they could survive in the upper floor of the building, so three of them climbed to the top and passed down ropes for the others. Up to this time, Haines and his wife had remained in the station’s lifeboat, but the waters by now were breaking over them, with the boat tossing on its beam-ends. The keeper lifted Mrs. Haines to the upper story by tying rope around her body and hoisting her to the surfmen above.

A view of Fort Point Lighthouse, a screw-pile lighthouse that barely survived the Great Galveston Hurricane. (U.S. Coast Guard Photo)

After hoisting his wife to safety of the station top, the gallery under Haines collapsed and he was swept into the lifeboat. The storm blew the boat into open water and Haines shouted to the surfmen to protect his wife. Shortly thereafter, he realized two of his men were clinging to the lifeboat and pulled them into the boat.

That night, the storm’s wind and seas began to reach their climax. At 7:30 p.m., Weather Bureau officials recorded an instantaneous four-foot rise in water level while the wind speed reached 150 mph with gusts up to 200. The wind sent men sailing through the air and toppled horses to the ground while the flooding reached its peak at over 15 feet above sea level. The storm surge raised cutter Galveston over its dock pilings, but the piling tops failed to puncture the cutter’s hull plates.

By 8:00 p.m., Assistant Engineer Root was ready to return to the dark flooded streets. He called for volunteers and the same men stepped forward that had served in the first mission. The hurricane still made use of oars impossible, so the crew waded and swam as water depth allowed, warping the boat from pillar to post. Meanwhile, buildings toppled over and the wind filled the air with shrapnel-like slate roof tiles. Root’s men managed to rescue 21 victims, housed them in a structurally sound building and found food for them in an abandoned store. The cuttermen then moored the boat in the lee of a building and sheltered from the flying debris.

Bolivar Point Lighthouse tower sheltered 125 victims during the hurricane and received relatively little damage. (U.S. Coast Guard Photo)

In Galveston Bay, lighthouses marked the waters for shipping. Located about seven miles north of Galveston, the Halfmoon Shoal Lighthouse sat over a shallow area in the middle of Galveston Bay. Unmoored by storm-driven ships in Galveston Harbor, the steamer Kendal Castle broke loose from its moorings and began drifting around the Bay. The ship mowed down the Halfmoon Shoal Light, obliterating the screw-pile lighthouse and Keeper Charles Bowen, whose body was never found. As one witness recounted, “we passed within a few hundred yards of where the Halfmoon Lighthouse once stood, but could see no evidence of the lighthouse, it being completely washed away.” If this were not bad enough, the hurricane wiped out three generations of Bowen’s family with his father, wife and daughter all perishing on shore.

Redfish Bar Cut Lighthouse managed to survive the storm, but just barely. Newly commissioned in March, the lighthouse marked a channel through a shallow bar bisecting Galveston Bay. It must have seemed surreal to the keeper when a darkened vessel barreled down on the lighthouse, pushed by Category Four winds. Just as it seemed the ghost ship would crush the beacon, the vessel veered slightly and passed silently a few feet from the lighthouse.

The Fort Point Life-Saving Station probably looked similar to this vintage photo before the storm. (U.S. Coast Guard Photo)

At Fort Point Lighthouse, Keeper Charles Anderson watched the storm surge carry off equipment on the screw-pile lighthouse’s lower deck, including a lifeboat and storage tanks for fresh water and kerosene fuel. The wind grew so intense that it peeled off the lighthouse’s heavy slate roof tiles. Some of the stone tiles shattered the lantern room glass and the winds blew out the light. With Fort Point Lighthouse’s lowest level flooded, the lamplight extinguished, no means of escape, and Keeper Anderson suffering from serious facial wounds, he and his faithful wife made their way to the parlor and to meet their fate.

Hurricanes had blown Galveston Lightship LV-28 off station many times before, but none compared to the 1900 Hurricane. The wooden lightship relied on sails for motive power and was at the mercy of the storm. The hurricane tore the vessel from its moorings and parted its anchor chain. The lightship’s windlass and whaleboat were ripped away and the winds collapsed one of the ship’s two masts. The storm drove the vessel several miles up Galveston Bay before the crew dropped the spare anchor, which held fast. Fortunately, no crewmembers were lost.

By 11:00 p.m., the wind began to moderate allowing Root and his men to return safe, but exhausted, to Cutter Galveston by 12:30 a.m. on Sunday. At about 1:00 a.m., Fort Point Station keeper Edward Haines’s surfboat found bottom and the winds died down to only 20 miles per hour. The cloud cover cleared and the moon illuminated the surroundings for Haines and his two surfmen. They had washed ashore a mile-and-a-half beyond Galveston Bay’s normal shoreline about nine miles by water from the station.

At Bolivar Light, Keeper Harry Claiborne did his best to care for his flock. The hundreds of weary men, women and children rode out the stormy night seated on the spiraling steps leading up to the lantern room. The next morning, the survivors left the safety of the tower to find a scene resembling a massacre. As the floodwater subsided, it deposited the corpses of those who tried and failed to gain the safety of the lighthouse. Meanwhile, Keeper Claiborne’s storm victims had consumed all the provisions stockpiled in the tower and, when he returned to the keeper’s quarters, he found the storm surge had wiped out his worldly possessions.

At Fort Point Light, Keeper Anderson and his wife survived what seemed certain death to see another day. At daybreak, they climbed the stairs to the lighthouse gallery and emerged arm-in-arm to witness the carnage left in the wake of the storm. The receding floodwaters carried away dozens of human and animal carcasses in a silently watery funeral procession from Galveston Bay to the Gulf of Mexico.

Meanwhile, Life-Saving Service Keeper Haines and his two surfmen began searching the beach for survivors and found three more of his surfmen who were blown across Galveston Bay on flotsam. The three men recounted how the lifesaving station collapsed just after Haines’ lifeboat was swept away, throwing the surfmen and Haines’s wife into the roiling seas. Later, Haines located temporary graves containing Mrs. Haines and the missing surfman. Haines and the crew rowed out to the graves with a casket and retrieved her body for re-burial. It is not known whether the surfman’s remains were ever exhumed.

For the next two weeks, Keeper Haines and his crew worked for the Galveston Relief Committee locating hundreds of corpses. In the rush to clear away the dead, most of the bodies were never identified and either buried at sea, buried in hastily-dug graves, or just burned where they lay. Meanwhile, Cutter Galveston’s crew towed countless human and animal remains out to open water. The tide returned many of them to the harbor, so the crew had to tow them to the nearby mud flats and burn them. Galveston’s burial detail burned so many corpses that it finally ran out of fuel oil to set the bodies on fire.

In the Great Galveston Hurricane of 1900, members of the Coast Guard’s predecessor services performed heroically. Keeper Edward Haines and the Galveston Life-Saving Station crew struggled mightily against the forces of nature at Fort Point. The men of the Lighthouse Service and Revenue Cutter Service demonstrated the same devotion to duty by manning the lights and saving hundreds of lives. The Great Galveston Hurricane would be the first of countless hurricane response efforts performed by the Coast Guard and its ancestor agencies.

William Thiesen is the Coast Guard Atlantic Area historian. This article appears courtesy of Coast Guard Compass and may be found in its original form here.

from Storage Containers https://www.maritime-executive.com/article/the-uscg-s-first-superstorm-the-great-galveston-hurricane via http://www.rssmix.com/

[synysterne-blog]

𝙗𝙪𝙞𝙡𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙗𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙖𝙡𝙨

rocks has been a staple in our lives since ancient times and because of its strength and availability, it also went in as a prominent material for building houses and other structures. rocks are solid mineral matter that are naturally formed by the action of heat or water and occurring in fragments or large masses. there are three major categories of rocks: sedimentary rocks, metamorphic rocks and igneous rocks.

sedimentary rocks are formed by the deposition of small mineral or organic particles. examples of these are limestone, travertine, dolomite, oolite, sandstone, bluestone, brownstone, soapstone and steatites. 

metamorphic rocks have undergone a change in structure, texture or composition due to natural agencies such as heat and pressure. examples of metamorphic rocks are marble, verd antique, slate, quartzite and gneiss. 

igneous rocks are formed by crystallization of molten magma. examples are granite, obsidian, malachite and serpentine.

ʙᴜɪʟᴅɪɴɢ ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇꜱ are all rocks in nature however, not all rocks are suitable for buildings. Here are some examples of commonly used building stones and their uses:

ｂａｓａｌｔ

is commonly used in building walls, road construction, bridge piers, river walls, and dams

ｇｒａｎｉｔｅ

involves bridge piers, retaining walls, dams, curbs, stone columns, railways, walls, and monumental utilization

ｓａｎｄｓｔｏｎｅ

used in masonry works, dams, bridge piers, and river walls. In combination with silica cement are used in the construction of heavy structures

ｓｌａｔｅ

it is used as roofing tiles, slabs, and pavements

ｌｉｍｅｓｔｏｎｅ

is used for flooring, roofing, pavements and as a base material for cement

ｍａｒｂｌｅ

it is used for facing and ornamental works in columns, flooring, and steps

ｑｕａｒｔｚｉｔｅ

used as building blocks, slabs, and as aggregate for concrete

ｔｒａｖｅｒｔｉｎｅ

used for paving, flooring, garden paths, and courtyards

ᴄᴏᴍᴇʙɪɴᴇᴅ ᴍᴀᴛᴇʀɪᴀʟꜱ also known as composite materials are combination of two or more different properties to make a unique product. most composites are made mostly of two materials, one is the matrix or binder. it surrounds and binds together fibres or fragments of the other material, which is called the reinforcement.

although combined materials sound modern, people have been combining properties since ancient times. mudbrick is an early example of a composite material. by mixing mud and straw together it is possible to make bricks that are resistant to both squeezing and tearing and make excellent building blocks. another ancient composite is concrete. concrete is a mix of aggregate cement and sand.

she first modern composite material was fiberglass. It is still widely used today for boat hulls, sports equipment, building panels and many car bodies. the matrix is a plastic and the reinforcement is glass that has been made into fine threads.

other examples of composite materials include:

ｔｒａｎｓｌｕｃｅｎｔ ｃｏｎｃｒｅｔｅ

used in fine architecture as a façade material and for cladding of interior walls and exterior walls

ａｂｓｏｒｂｅｎｔ ｃｏｎｃｒｅｔｅ

used on roads, parking lots, walking & biking pathways, driveways & more

ｃａｒｂｏｎ ｆｉｂｅｒ ｒｅｉｎｆｏｒｃｅｄ ｐｏｌｙｍｅｒ

used in aerospace, superstructure of ships, automotive, and sports equipment

[tipsoctopus]

Big news for Tommy Elphick: Dean Smith confirms major Aston Villa injury blow

Dean Smith has delivered an update on Axel Tuanzebe’s fitness, and it is bad news for the on-loan Manchester United defender.

What’s the latest?

Tuanzebe has been out of action for the Villa Park outfit since injuring a metatarsal in training as the Villans prepared to take on Leeds United on December 21.

Despite taking an early two-goal lead, Smith’s side slipped late in stoppage time, as Kemar Roofe fired home the winner one minute from time against a makeshift backline.

21-year-old James Bree was ushered into central defence to partner James Chester, while the natural right-midfielder Ahmed El Mohamady slotted in at right-back – the Egyptian’s error aiding Roofe’s winner.

Luckily, however, Tommy Elphick has since been recalled from his loan to Hull City, as Tuanzebe will be ruled out for the next two months after undergoing surgery to his foot, Smith has confirmed.

Smith has lost a key figure

The Manchester United loanee had been one of Villa’s most consistent defenders, even during a turbulent period with Steve Bruce in charge.

Altogether, the 21-year-old registered 23 tackles in his 19 Championship appearances, and followed suit with 17 interceptions, 80 clearances and blocked seven shots.

In fact, only Chester has a better clearance per 90 minutes ratio than the Red Devils product, out of those with more than ten starts, but the Welshman has completed fewer successful tackles with an average of 1.1 per 90.

Without his services to call on, Smith will need Chester, Elphick and versatile options like Mile Jedinak, Bree and Alan Hutton to step up when required if the Lions are to maintain any form of promotion push.

Pl>ymaker FC’s Thogden was at the crucial relegation 6-pointer between Bolton and Rotherham. Check out the video below…

Elphick’s second, second chance

With his contract up in the summer and being sent out on loan for the 2018/19 season, it was looking likely that Elphick’s future was not going to be at Villa Park.

His sudden recall as a result of Tuanzebe’s blow should have acted as a fresh slate, and first run in the side under Smith, but not long after his arrival the Birmingham-based outfit were being linked with other defenders, such as Wolverhampton Wanderers’ Kortney Hause.

The prolonged absence of Tuanzebe should, however, give Elphick another shot at saving his Claret and Blues’ future and impress Smith with his work on and off the field.

from FootballFanCast.com http://bit.ly/2F8NaM6 via IFTTT from Blogger http://bit.ly/2F8rxMO via IFTTT