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cetaitlaverite · 3 months ago

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Anything to Anywhere

Masters of the Air - John Egan x OC

masterlist is here <3

17. Great Friends

Tempsford was a sleepy little village which reminded Stella, in many ways, of Thorpe Abbotts. It had one main road running through its centre, the rest of the village spreading out on either side, with one church, one school, one bus stop, and one pub. Stella was about to meet most everyone she would need to know during her time there in one fell swoop, one of her new bunkmates was telling her; on a Friday evening, everyone who wasn’t out flying was always in the pub.

“Everyone gets a nickname here,” the young woman Stella had been introduced to as Lucky was saying. “Even our CO. That is whose office you were in when we met. He has a habit of forgetting to tell people his name but we all call him Mouse. I am not sure why.”

“Why are you called Lucky?” Stella asked, hurrying to keep up with her. She was a tiny, wiry little thing, likely only just five feet tall, but she walked like she was in a race.

“My last name,” she explained. “Szczęsna. Polish for ‘fortunate’.” She shot Stella a grin. “Not very creative, but none of you British can pronounce Polish names so I made the translation.”

Stella smiled back at her, laughing softly under her breath.

“The other two girls here are in our hut. Not right now - right now they are in the pub - but they will be in the hut later. One we call Donny. The other is Houds.”

Stella nodded along. She had to turn away to watch her step as the road curved and she almost went barrelling into a puddle, but over her shoulder she asked, “How did they get their names?”

“Donny is short for Donald. This is because she is married to another pilot here who we call Daisy, and I am told that Daisy and Donald are ducks who are married in a cartoon film I have not seen.”

Stella laughed. “Why is he called Daisy and she’s called Donald?”

Lucky paused to consider this and then shrugged. “Am not sure. We will ask when we get there.” She carried on walking, then, perhaps even quicker than before. “Houds is short for Houdini, because she disappears all the time. I have a theory that she is a spy as well as a pilot, but Donny thinks she has a secret boyfriend. I will ask you what you think in a week so keep an eye on her.”

“I will,” Stella assured her.

The pub was coming into sight now, at the bottom of the hill the road was cresting over. Overhead it was starting to drizzle, a light rain which wasn’t cold yet but which was sure to be if they were out here for much longer.

Stella and Lucky both picked up the pace.

“You will get your nickname tonight,” Lucky was telling her. “It is the 161 pilots who usually make them. But if you don’t like what they choose you must tell them now, otherwise your nickname will be written on all of your belongings as though it is your real name.”

“Got it,” Stella said. It felt like a lot of pressure.

The pub was tiny and warm when Lucky pushed into it. There wasn’t much noise inside, just one rowdy group in the corner and a couple of locals as far away from them as they could get.

The interior was all wooden and cosy, with a huge fireplace boasting a raging fire and lamps set into the walls. The chairs were mismatched, upholstered in forest greens and crimson reds and navy blue plaids or else not upholstered at all. Various posters in frames on the brick walls showed off government war propaganda - calls to the various branches of the military or warnings not to go giving out information to people you didn’t know - and film posters.

Behind the bar, however, was a row of frames with service portraits in them. All of the people in the photos were pilots. Plaques at the bottom explained what had happened to them - killed in action or missing in occupied territory or killed in training.

Stella swallowed hard, taking in the names and faces.

The barmaid must have caught her looking. She called out a greeting to Lucky, then grinned as Stella turned to close the door behind her. “A new girl,” the barmaid announced. “Excellent.” To Stella, she said, “You have no idea how long all of us have been wishing for another woman.”

Stella wasn’t sure why but heat filled her cheeks. It was a silly thing, to feel so immediately welcomed over something so small, but she found she’d lost all of her confidence and become shy as she followed Lucky over to the bar. The beer the barmaid drew for her, she said, was on the house as a welcome gift.

Everyone in the big group in the corner was watching Stella as she approached, so Lucky threw her free arm around her shoulders and tugged until Stella had no choice but to lean down into her.

“Our new pilot for 138,” Lucky announced to the group, who moved aside to free up two chairs for them. “Flight Lieutenant Stella Finley.” She released Stella from her embrace only when she flung herself into the chair on the right. “She flew for the ATA before here.”

“Ah, another Attagirl!” cheered the woman sitting beside Lucky. She was blonde and, even though she was sitting down, Stella could tell she was tall. Her face was kind and all lit up with enthusiasm, her eyes inquisitive, her smile twisted in a way that may have looked sly on anyone else, like a fox. “I’m Donny. We’ll be in Hut 6 together.”

Stella grinned at her. “You flew in the ATA too?”

Donny nodded. “Houds, as well! She’s not here right now, which you’ll get used to, but she’ll be in the hut with us later, too.”

Stella took a seat, nodding along, and set her beer on the table. She was conscious of the numerous sets of eyes on her and, when she found she could bear them no longer, she raised her gaze and met the eyes of every man currently staring at her head on.

One of them laughed when she stared right back at him, the way he was her.

Another furrowed his eyebrows. “How fucking old are ya, lass?” he asked.

Stella sat up straighter, squared her shoulders, narrowed her eyes. “I’m twenty-two,” she said, bristling. She’d noticed, vaguely, that everyone here seemed to look a fair amount older than her but she hadn’t thought it would be a problem. “I turn twenty-three next month. How old are you?”

The man didn’t have time to reply, because Donny was cutting in, cooing, “Aw! She’s just a little bambino, really!”

Lucky shot Stella a grin. “And there is your nickname.”

Stella raised her eyebrows, snorting a laugh. “Bambino?” she asked.

“Bambi,” interjected the man who had laughed when she’d looked at him. “Look at those doe eyes.”

“Bambi,” Lucky echoed, nodding her approval.

“I never saw the film,” Stella said.

“He was very cute,” Donny assured her, leaning around Lucky so she could look at Stella when she talked. “A deer who made friends with a rabbit and a skunk.”

“Bambi,” said the man sitting on Stella’s other side. “Can I call you Babs?”

“Let the lass have a drink before you start hanging off of her, ya mucky bastard,” called the man who had asked her age. “That’s Goose,” he then informed Stella.

Stella quirked an eyebrow as her eyes swung to Goose, questioning the reason behind the nickname.

“Lithuanian,” Lucky explained from Stella’s other side. “His first name is Vygandas.”

“Goosey goosey gander,” Goose said with a shrug and a grin.

“The Scot is my husband,” Donny took over the introductions. “Everyone calls him Daisy.”

“Why does everyone call him Daisy?” Lucky cut in. “Bambi asked me and I realised I do not know.”

Stella really was not sure how to feel about being called Bambi. She wasn’t sure whether it was too late now to object.

Goose piped up, all too happy to explain, “We call him Daisy ‘cause some daisies in and some daisies not.” He was grinning at Stella sidelong as he raised his beer in cheers. “Get it?”

“The only days I’m not in are the days I’m fucking working, Limey bastard,” Daisy insisted, slapping the table before pointing a finger at him. “You watch your mucky gob, man.”

Goose was giggling, a high-pitched, girlish sound which made the foam on his beer splatter onto his face when he tried to drink from it.

Stella snorted.

One of the other men sitting around the table spoke loudly to be heard over the noise of everyone else heckling. “So,” he said. “Bambi. What are you in for?”

“What?” She spoke before she even knew who had spoken, then searched the gathered faces for the one which looked like it was halfway through asking her a question.

“Everyone who ends up flying for the Moon Squadron does something to get them considered a bit volatile,” the man explained. He was an older man, likely in his late thirties, and leaning all the way back in his chair where he sat beside Daisy. One hand was holding his pint of beer, the other wasn’t there at all; his forearm was resting on the table, the wrist turning into a stump where a hand would usually have been.

Stella’s eyes shot back up to his face.

“It doesn’t just take being a good pilot,” the man went on in his upper-class drawl, “it takes something snapping. A lot of the fellas got busted up in the air, former fighter pilots or bombers who got hit by flak or ended up escaping occupied territory. It was the wounds to their bodies that got them out of active duty, but there was something left in them that couldn’t stop flying. That’s what got them into the Moon Squadron. So what happened to you, Bambi?” He smiled wide. “Or are you just fucking crazy, like our other ladies?”

Stella stared back at him and wondered what to say. She could tell him she’d been put up for a transfer and been accepted, but while that was the truth she knew it wasn’t the whole truth. She didn’t tend to be in the business of letting people in - it had taken John months, after all, to even find out where she was from - but maybe that had been her mistake, last time, the reason she’d struggled so much to forge connections.

But the connections she had forged had left her heartbroken. Was it even worth it, in the end?

Ultimately, she decided to tell the truth but be vague about it. She didn’t owe any details to these people she’d only just met. “Too many people I cared about got shot down,” she said simply, then lifted her beer and took a long sip of it.

“So you were in love,” said Goose from beside her. He said it so matter-of-factly, like there wasn’t a single doubt in his mind that he was correct, that it got Stella’s hackles up.

Turning to him in her seat, Stella set her beer back down on the table and frowned. “That's not what I said,” she told him, raising her eyebrows as though daring him to insist.

“But that’s why you’re rushing head-first at occupied territory, isn’t it?” Goose was entirely unphased by her bristling. He was smiling, even, with bits of beer foam still clinging to his moustache. “Trying to avenge your lost sweetheart?”

Stella scowled. “He was never my sweetheart.”

“Aha!” Goose exclaimed, grinning, pointing one finger at her. “So there was a man.”

Stella stared at him blankly. And she said nothing. And she waited until she started to unnerve him, until he started shifting uncomfortably in his chair, before she said, “I don’t like you.”

From her other side, Lucky barked a laugh.

Neither Stella nor Goose turned to look.

“I’m just messing around,” he said after a beat.

Stella didn’t smile. “Well don’t.” She swallowed hard. Her throat was tight all of a sudden. “Not about that.”

He raised both hands in surrender. “Done,” he assured her. “Won’t ever bring it up again.”

Stella settled back into her chair only when she was sure he was being serious.

Lucky slung her arm over the back of it and turned to her, grinning. “Bambi,” she said, all of her teeth on show. “Babs. We are going to be great friends.”

Reluctantly and entirely against her will, Stella smiled back at her. Something in her had a feeling that she was right.

Stella wrote to John that night, when everyone else had gone to bed but she found she couldn’t sleep, tossing and turning in this unfamiliar bed in this unfamiliar hut in this unfamiliar airfield. As quietly as she could manage, which was not very quietly at all in the pitch darkness, she slipped her feet back into her boots and her coat on top of her pyjamas, then rifled around in her footlocker for her writing utensils, then carried them out with her into the night.

There was a distinct chill in the air as she traipsed through the wet grass, navigating by the light of the moon, working hard to remember the route Lucky had taken her on earlier when she’d given her a tour of the base. She clutched her wares close to her chest, trying to preserve warmth, and kept her chin ducked down into her coat.

Everything was open at all hours of the day and night - it had to be, Stella supposed, on an airfield which primarily operated at night. The mess hall was always lit up and inhabited by at least one pilot, having breakfast at some obscene hour before they went out on a flight. The chapel, too, was ready and waiting to bring comfort to pilots about to depart.

The library - which was a generous term for the tiny room which boasted a collection of maybe fifty books at the very most - was unlocked, too, and uninhabited. Stella, once assured all of the blackout blinds were firmly pulled down, turned the light on and pulled out a seat at one of the three desks, then laid out her paper and pens neatly, stalling to delay having to put pen to paper.

She wouldn’t send this letter. She wouldn’t be able to - she had no idea where John was, if he was even alive. But maybe if she received a letter from him first she would send it, along with the letter she wrote in reply, just to prove that she’d been thinking about him.

But maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe he’d never read it. Maybe she’d rip it up as soon as she’d finished signing her name.

‘Dear John,’ she wrote, and then snorted a tiny laugh, because that was such an unfortunate phrase.

‘I’m not sure whether you’re alive anymore. I like to think you are - there was so much life inside you when I knew you I find it impossible to believe it could have been extinguished - but I’m really not sure. No one’s heard anything other than there weren’t enough parachutes from your plane to account for all the men onboard.

I know everyone who went up with you was someone’s son or brother or husband or boyfriend or best friend, etc. etc. etc., but I really, really hope it wasn’t you. I really hope, in spite of the horror that would surely follow after, that you were among the men who made it out.

I miss you a lot. I feel it like a physical thing, like a boulder on my chest which makes it difficult to breathe. I almost cried right in front of my new commanding officer today just because he called me by my first name and it reminded me of you. So silly. You made yourself such a big part of my life that everything reminds me of you now.

I’m not at our old airfield anymore. I got a transfer. I can’t write about where I am or what I’m doing, of course, but just know that I’m still a pilot but I’m closer now to the job I always thought I was meant for. It’s exciting but it’s all so new - a new airfield and a new hut and new people. I’ve even got a new nickname. They call me Bambi, short for Bambino because I’m the youngest by a good few years and because, apparently, I have doe eyes. I never saw the Disney film with the deer but apparently it’s a compliment.

It’s the middle of the night right now. We all got back from the pub in the village at maybe eleven and I tried to sleep for what must have been at least two hours before I decided it was impossible. I’m not flying tomorrow, I just have meetings and briefings, and I really just wanted, more than anything in the world, to talk to you.

I miss talking to you so much, John. I’ve found myself storing up stories and facts and jokes ready to tell you ever since you left, only to then remember that you’re not coming back. And it makes me cry every time I remember it. I’m crying right now, in fact. Because there are so many things I want to tell you and I can’t and I don’t know if I ever will again. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to watch you laugh or smile or roll your eyes ever again, don’t know if we’ll ever get to dance together again - which we never did enough, and that was my fault, but I regret it so much now it’s making me sob - and I don’t know if we’ll ever get to hug again, either.

There’s no one in the whole world I like talking to more than you. Just so you know. That’s why I’m still trying to talk to you now, even though you’re unreachable. I’m almost breathless with urgency, energised with the passion of an inspired poet who might forget a brilliant rhyme, just because I want to tell you what I had for dinner or about a joke someone told which I thought you might laugh at.

I miss you so much. I never appreciated you enough when I had you close.

Wherever you are, John, I hope it’s somewhere warm. I know how you hate the cold. And I hope it’s safe. And I hope, perhaps selfishly, that you might be thinking of me too, even just a little bit.

I miss you, John. I miss you I miss you I miss you.

Yours sincerely,

Your Stels.’

She was weeping for a long while after she finished writing. But, with tears streaming down her cheeks, she pulled herself together long enough to fold up the letter and tuck it inside an envelope, then pressed it to her heart and wept some more.

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ikesenrambles · 6 years ago

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Hi, if you're doing headcanons, how about this? The MC (and probably Sasuke) hand-draw memes to entertain themselves, but the warlords find them hidden in her room while MC is away. How do they react? Whichever warlords you want to do is fine. :)

Thank you so much for sending in a request! I love memes, and I absolutely loved doing this request. I’m sorry that it took so long to do - I wanted to make sure I did it justice~ I hope that you enjoy it and that I was able to deliver!

If you enjoy my work, please consider supporting me on Ko-Fi, ikesenrambles. I don’t have much spending money for Ikesen since I’m saving my paychecks to cover college. Supporting me on Ko-Fi would mean that I have pocket money for the little things that bring me joy, like Ikesen. I would be able to buy premium routes, which in turn means that I can learn more about the warlords & write even better stories for you to enjoy. ♡ It would really ~meme~ a lot to me.

MC’s Doodles: Nobunaga and Hideyoshi

Sitting on the dais, a thoughtful smile plays on Nobunaga’s lips as he carefully studies a lost page of your sketchbook. “Hideyoshi, come here,” he commands. Immediately, Hideyoshi rises to his feet and approaches.

“Our new chatelaine is rather entertaining, don’t you think?” Nobunaga muses. “She captures my likeness quite perfectly. Even the emotion behind some of my deepest desires and my most intimate whims…”

“If you would allow me to see…” Hideyoshi’s voice trails off. Nobunaga hands him the slip of paper only for Hideyoshi’s eyes to widen in flustered disbelief. “Is this… k-konpeito!?” he blurts in a panic, shaking his head furiously at your seemingly blatant disregard for Nobunaga’s health. “My sincerest apologies, my lord, but I will not allow this kind of provocative propaganda in the castle!”

“Stand down, Hideyoshi.” The simple command from his master is enough for Hideyoshi to bow deeply in apology. “It’s a rather tasteful portrait of me,” Nobunaga tells him. “I would like to see it displayed in the castle.”

With a hesitant sigh, Hideyoshi nods in reluctant resignation. “As you wish, my lord. I’ll see it done.”

MC’s Doodles: Ieyasu and Mitsunari

“Mitsunari–!” An astonished, overemphasized gasp penetrates thoughtful silence as Hideyoshi comes swooping in between Mitsunari, Ieyasu, and Masamune, who are snooping through your private sketchbook behind the closed doors of your chamber. “Don’t you know how rude it is to look through another person’s belongings without permission?” He scolds the three with a firm shake of his head, grabbing the book from Mitsunari. “I expected better from you two especially,” Hideyoshi puffs in frustration, turning a pointing finger toward Ieyasu and Masamune.

Ieyasu rolls his eyes sarcastically in response while Masamune chuckles softly to himself, shaking his head at Hideyoshi’s overreaction. Per usual, it takes a few moments for Mitsunari to fully return to reality, his eyes continuing to scan the space in front of him despite his hands being empty. When he finally does, he cocks his head to the side in curious consideration, mulling over the words written on the page he had just studied. “I don’t quite understand,” he admits with sheepish innocence. There is not an ounce of offense or annoyance in his voice.

“This is…” Hideyoshi stifles another sound of surprise as he allows himself a peek at the contents of your sketchbook. His face reddens at your unexpected profanity. At a loss for words, he quickly closes the book shut and tucks it back under your pillow. “Lord Mitsunari, please be assured that she was only joking–!”

“Don’t even bother,” Ieyasu interrupts Hideyoshi with a scoff as he attempts to explain the illustration to Mitsunari. “It’s a joke, Mitsunari. Someone as dense as you couldn’t possibly understand.”

Mitsunari’s face softens at what he interprets to be gentle reassurance from his close friend, Ieyasu. “Of course, Lord Ieyasu would never say something with the intention to harm,” Mitsunari says confidently, flashing an even wider smile at Ieyasu, much to Masamune’s amusement and Ieyasu’s utter disgust.

MC’s Doodles: Yukimura

It’s a hot, summer afternoon. You and Yukimura are lazing under the cool shade of a tall tree, enjoying the rare luxury of idle time, when inspiration for a new kimono design suddenly strikes you. You ask Yukimura if he would retrieve your sketchbook for you, which you left in his room.

Yukimura agrees, finding your sketchbook tossed on your futon. Curiously, he flips through a few pages of your designs to admire your artistic ability. Before long, however, a particular doodle of yours catches him off-guard and captures his attention.

The illustration seems to depict Yukimura himself. He spends a few moments just staring at it, trying to decipher what it could possibly mean. “I don’t get it…” he murmurs to himself, stumped.

“Of course you don’t.” Yukimura hears a soft sigh behind him as a hand clasps him gently on the shoulder. “Please tell me didn’t call her this right after you two…” Shingen’s voice trails off.

“Right after we…?” Yukimura repeats thoughtlessly, not quite sure of what Lord Shingen meant to ask him. Shingen only raises an eyebrow in response until the young vassal, finally understanding, cringes. Embarrassment appears all over Yukimura’s face as his cheeks flush bright pink.

“O-of course I wouldn’t!” he says defensively, shutting the sketchbook closed with a loud thud. “Anyway, it’s none of your business what we did–uh, or didn’t do–!”

Shingen can’t help but smirk at Yukimura’s denial. “Ah, so my little Yuki is now a man,” he muses teasingly. “Had you paid more attention to my habits, perhaps you would better understand how to please the second sex.”

“The what now–?” Yukimura groans at Lord Shingen’s unsolicited advice, marching out of the room. “It wouldn’t make sense to compare her to a summer’s day. They have nothing in common,” he grumbles under his breath on his way out.

“I really failed you, didn’t I?” Shingen mumbles with a disappointed sigh.

MC’s Doodles: Kennyo

“Looks like the Oda princess left behind her valued notebook… how foolish of her,” Kennyo speaks in a grim tone, a sinister smile appearing on his scarred face as he picks up your forgotten sketchbook. “Now…” The vengeful desire in his darkened voice is tinged with self-satisfaction. “What precious secrets could Nobunaga’s favorite woman be hiding?”

The man’s husky voice cracks slightly as he stammers out in confusion, “Is that… me?” He coughs loudly to counter the bewilderment - and even slight embarrassment - in his speech, forcing a frown to mask the sheepish expression on his face as a warmth begins to spread across his face. “As if the hatred in my heart could be distilled by such simple means,” he mutters with a bitter scoff as though offended by your uncanny ability to read him.

“Abbott, is everything alright?” One of the disciples peers into Kennyo’s shed, concern in his eyes. “We are all set for the ambush tomorrow.”

“Excellent,” Kennyo whispers, a sickeningly twisted grin appearing on his face. “Tomorrow, we will take back the dignity that was stolen from us at Honno-ji. We will purify our perished brethren with the spilled blood of the Oda.”

Once the disciple leaves, Kennyo turns his attention to the little weasel curled up in the corner. “Come here, Hozuki,” he calls to it in a soothing voice. It nuzzles into the palm of his hand, enjoying his gentle touch.

Suddenly coming to terms with his predictability, Kennyo sighs in frustration, crumpling your drawing and discarding it on the floor before continuing to pamper the tiny animal.

Sasuke’s Doodles: Kenshin

Yukimura and Shingen stand around Sasuke’s study table, completely in awe of a hidden treasure they’ve happened to stumble upon in Sasuke’s room: the ninja’s precious research journal.

Sasuke’s handwriting is hurried but clean: nothing less than they would have expected from the genius ninja. On lined pages are complicated mathematical formulas and comprehensive calculations that neither Yukimura nor Shingen know what to make of.

From behind the two, the sliding doors are roughly thrown open as Kenshin strides toward them impatiently. “What’s taking so long? I’m thirsting for the thrill of battle,” Kenshin mutters with a disgruntled sigh.

“Hold on just a moment,” Shingen orders, beckoning Kenshin to take a closer look at Sasuke’s notes.

Ever stubborn, Kenshin firmly refuses. “I will not.” Forcefully, he shakes the journal from Yukimura and Shingen’s prying hands. As the three tug on the notebook’s pages, the journal falls flat on the floor, opened to an even more perplexing illustration.

A doodle depicts Kenshin casually choking Sasuke, who, even in his precarious position, wears a mask of nonchalance. Written in bold text underneath the drawing are the words, “You’re weak Sasuke.”

Upon seeing the drawing, Shingen laughs softly. “It looks to be a friendly joke about the Dragon of Echigo’s peculiarities,” Shingen muses aloud.

“A joke?” Yukimura scoffs and shakes his head. “This happened for real. I would know. I was there!”

Kenshin’s frown soon softens into a smile that, though genuine, is somewhat terrifying given the context of the illustration. “Ah, yes,” he murmurs in a voice that almost carries with it a sense of nostalgia. “I remember Sasuke’s first days with us.” Picking up the journal, he reminisces fondly of the ninja. “There’s nothing like some good-natured sparring. I wonder, perhaps Sasuke is trying to tell me that he would like a rematch.”

Sasuke’s Doodles: Ieyasu

You are out shopping with Ieyasu when you catch Sasuke stealing glances at the two of you from behind a gingko tree. “Just a moment, okay?” you reassure your boyfriend, squeezing his hand softly as you let go to hurriedly rush to Sasuke’s side for a quick conversation.

When you don’t return soon enough, Ieyasu becomes suspicious. Both you and Sasuke can feel his hot gaze observing from where you left him, his fingers curled in a fist around the baskets of groceries that he’s been carrying for you.

“What were you talking to him about?” Ieyasu asks as he possessively wraps his arm around your waist in a show of territory in front of Sasuke. You can’t help but giggle at Ieyasu’s inability to hide his jealousy. His face flushes at your soft laughter, and he avoids your gaze, embarrassed.

“It’s not me that he’s interested in,” you tell him, retrieving a piece of paper from the sleeve of your kimono. “Here. He wanted me to give you this.”

Ieyasu snatches the note from your hand. The pink shade of his cheeks deepens as he reads over it “Ng–!” A quiet sound of surprise escapes his lips, followed by an uninterested scoff. “This… I…” He sighs, tucking the note away. “I don’t understand why you hang out with that weird ninja.”

“Yasu, he’s my friend. Be nice,” you scold him teasingly, tugging on the sleeve of his kimono. “Come on, I told you, didn’t I? There’s nothing to be jealous about.

“Who said I was jealous?” Ieyasu scoffs again only for the timid blush of his cheeks to betray the annoyance in his voice. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter who he’s interested in, anyway.” He pulls you even closer. “You’re mine and mine alone, okay?”

Bonus Meme:

All of the above memes were made by yours truly! The alignment chart above was found here & filled out by me!

If you want, tag yourself for the alignment chart~!

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

A special shout out to @mythiica for reviewing my memes for quality! It gave me the confidence I needed to be myself with these! (＾▽＾)

#ikemen sengoku #ikemen sengoku fanfiction #ikemen sengoku fanfic #ikesen headcanon #headcanon #ikesen shingen #ikesen nobunaga #ikesen ieyasu #ikesen masamune #ikesen kenshin #ikesen mitsuhide #ikesen kennyo #ikesen hideyoshi #ikesen mitsunari #ikesen yukimura

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gambinijournal · 6 years ago

Text

The History and Theory of art as Method

Thomas Struth,

Art Institute of Chicago 2, Chicago 1990

The nineteenth century was a very interesting period of many changes where the art become public, photography was born and there was also Industrial Revolution. Those three events/ innovations were relevant to each other and connect together. Art becomes public, many people have an access to the newly built museums and galleries. The viewers could study paintings and admire sculptures, the general knowledge of the society grows with the new experience.

As not everyone had opportunities to own a painting or to be a sculptor there was a need to produce a visual image more simply, cheaper and quicker way than traditional craft trade. Some painting and sculptures were finished after good few years since the artist started. As I said there was a need to innovate something what could speed up the process of making an image. Photography was born. A black box full of magic where you can produce a copy of reality in few hours at the beginning. Photography from Greek means “drawing with light” so why photographs were not considered as an art but more as a scientific experiment? As at first scientists were trying create durable images by recording light on photographic film or paper. The Industrial Revolution allowed the scientist experiment on new chemicals and minerals. Those experiments did not have anything to do with art. So how come the argument raised up about photography to be considered as one of the mediums of Art. At the beginning of twentieth century nearly everyone in western world could afford portable box which records the moments. A larger knowledge of art, access to the camera and daily work in the factory for instance created that unusual observer/ watcher who is able to catch a fracture of the second on the paper and produce pretty realistic image. As photography was more accessible to average person some of the artists went to explore this medium in art-ish way.

With birth of the photography the argument arises regarding relation of photography to the art and how artists adapt themselves to the situation. Some of the painters collaborated with a new medium some of them become photographers and some of them said NO to the photography as a acceptation of the medium in art. I would like to quote David Bate from from his book “Art Photography”:

“When Daguerre submitted his invention to the French government, a committee of artists, led by the painter Paul Delaroche, were asked to report on its potential uses, including its artistic value. Several painters - Thomas Couture, Jean-Francois Millet and Charles Daubigny - then students with Delaroche, immediately took up photography, although their fame is now for their contributions to painting. Delaroche concluded that photography ’has rendered in immense service to the arts’, although it has never been very clear exactly what this service was. Some imagined - and perhaps still do - that photography would be simply an aid to art, for artists to reproduce paintings and record exhibitions, or to help make preliminary preparations for artworks. Later many others had a more radical vision that art would be usurped by photography because of its speed and veracity, and for its apparent democratic accessibility.”

Sitting here now in the library writing this text and read about how this medium settles in within an art I have to admit that Photography did take over the Art and not only. First the photograph was used as a meta-archive to record physical private collections, cameras were recording events and exhibitions. Portraiture, landscape, evidence we have a photograph as The Art its own hanged on the wall of the galleries. The mass production of images allowed people to see places, paintings and sculpture without leaving the house. In “Photography as Art” Volker Kahmen says: “...the photograph, and not only the reproduction of a painting, has found its niche - first and foremost in the book, secondly in the touring exhibition. This shift in function shook art, freed it from its fundamental cultural principles and removed its veneer of autonomy.”

Photography spread like some sort of disease to many different branches of communication such as newspapers, photo books, social media, advertising, it has been heavily used in propaganda and has a huge impact on mass culture and social behaviour. At some point the medium loses the first function of copying/represents the reality and goes into something more complex. The beautification issue within aesthetics and what should be considered as Art photography or Photography considered as Art. What is the criteria for photography within art? It should be also considered that not all photographs were made in purpose to be hanged on the white wall of the gallery. For instance Eugene Atget work highlighted by Berenice Abbott and surrealists movement. Artists gave us an opportunity to look at those photographs different way than just a record of old Paris before redevelopment. The study of Atget’s work were focused on aesthetics, architecture, surreal approach to the subject and dual understanding between reality and dream.

There is no clear and straightforward answers about relation within art and photography. Both have impact on each other, photography can influence the art and art can influence photography. In my opinion this relationship in addition with painting and art installations give to the artist freedom and autonomy to express him/herself in creative way. The photography is very much in central of contemporary debates in art.

#5imag016w #journal task #art history #art photography #Eugene Atget #beyondtheframe #advanced methods #westminsteruniversity #BAPhotography #reflective text #photography as art #art as photography #furtherresearch #art theory

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type2diabetestreatments-blog · 8 years ago

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Rookie Impressions of the Big ADA Conference - Lost in Translation?

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Rookie Impressions of the Big ADA Conference - Lost in Translation?

Too many medical professionals are disconnected from us people with diabetes (PWDs) and they're missing the point on how to help us manage our diabetes. Yet, they are passionate and so want to reach us.

That's my main takeaway from the American Diabetes Association's 72nd Scientific Sessions, as a newbie attending this mass diabetes conference for the very first time.

Rookie observations are what you'll find here, now that I've had a chance to stop sprinting around downtown Philly — a place that seemed like the hub of the diabetes universe for five days, where circa 17,000 professionals converged (60% from outside the U.S.) to talk diabetes.

This conference showed me I really need to brush up on my diabetes science lingo, rather than relying only on my 28 years of experience of living with type 1. You know, the insider baseball stuff that gets lost in translation between these conferences and the offices where we go to visit our docs. These doctor-to-doctor and research-heavy mass meetups are full of stats and conceptual scientific mumbo jumbo, and it's never been aimed at the patient to get as much out of it as the professionals. This is just the nature of the conference.

But as a patient-blogger, I did manage to find some gold nuggets and interesting tidbits scattered throughout the sessions. And individually, many of the speakers seemed very excited and brilliant about whatever the topic might have been.

Being a non-science-type, it seemed to me that the most dynamic aspects of the entire conference happened in the evenings and outside the convention center meeting rooms, where brilliant minds came together to actually discuss issues that really resonated with me on the patient-level. Abbott, Taking Care of Your Diabetes and the Helmsley Charitable Trust and T1DExchange were some of the forums I checked out, witnessing great discussions about how progress in science, technology, patient care, and the development of the D-community are making real changes for patients living with this thing.

The rest of the "official business" during the day? Kinda boring in the context of my average PWD eyes.

The Missing Point

My observation in attending a dozen or so sessions is that many of the questions researchers seem to believe are unanswered or need more study come down to a simple point: we PWDs aren't stats, slides or textbook scenarios. We are people, with lives that are complicated by many more things than just diabetes.

As inspiring as it was to see the mind-power and passion of thousands of people working on diabetes, my heart was a bit sad that it didn't feel like the medical community is connecting the dots — even some very obvious dots.

I heard multiple times: Peer support seems to help, but we don't know why and need to study that more. Online resources appear to help, but the "quantifiable evidence" doesn't tell the docs why and so they only scratch the surface (I suppose many never heard of the supportive DOC or are threatened by its lack of physician involvement?!).

A quote from Dr. Kevin Volpp, in a talk on how to motivate PWDs to change their behaviors, sums it up for me: "We need a more effective way of hovering over patients that will be well-received." He wondered if health care social media could be a way, but left it at that.

To me, it was like watching my favorite baseball player hit the ball and seeing it soar into the outfield toward the wall, only to have it fall short and stay inside the ballpark. What a letdown!

(OMG, isn't it OBVIOUS why peer support helps? Apparently not, to people who've never had to struggle with BG control, day-in and day-out)

Another obvious point: please don't hover over me! Unless you want to be kicked, or you're auditioning to be my butler. Instead, try talking and listening to me. And not being threatened when I don't agree with you or question the wisdom of your medical guidance. Know that often talking to my PWD friends who "get it" can be just as powerful, if not more, than anything you might tell me.

Others talked about the wonders of the Internet being a way to reach patients, and the need for peer support, but no one seemed to recognize (at least in the sessions) that you can connect the two without the doctor and that has so much potential to change behaviors and help PWDs on every level (!)

Grrr.

Cynicism aside, though, what shines through that disconnect is the passion packed into every corner of the conference, a desire to help PWDs that radiates into clinic's offices throughout the U.S. and world. That can't be ignored. Maybe they're missing the point in presentation, and not really understanding how to bring this home to us, but every single person I encountered seemed passionate and caring. I do believe they're in this for us, and they're making a difference.

Translating Good Intentions?

Some presentations and talks I attended were outstanding. Just a sampling of those I saw talk throughout the sessions include: Bill Polonsky in San Diego, Bruce Bode in Atlanta, Korey Hood in San Francisco, Lori Laffel in Boston, and Julio Rosenstock in Dallas. There are probably many more who really know diabetes. Some of them live with it, so they know it's complicated and so many psychosocial issues play into every aspect of our management.

But when you go up to presenters or audience members after the sessions, introduce yourself and ask them how they plan to take the scientific info back to their patients, and a majority of those brilliant minds can't adequately translate the stats and science into "patient-friendly" terms... There's something amiss.

The poster hall was also a great place to get the nitty-gritty on new research and concepts, but most of the boards had large charts and loads of stats that were often difficult to understand unless you had the presenter right there to explain it simply. Or you already knew what you were looking at.

Even if this conference isn't "for the patient," you have to wonder if this stuff will ever trickle down to us PWDs in the trenches in ways that mean something to us...? That's how I would define success, if anybody asked me.

News-poolza

Everyone had news to share. Seriously. Did you SEE the number of press releases sent out before, during and right after the conference? This is prime time for those wanting to unveil anything D-related, but c'mon people... Spread things out. With everyone coordinating their announcements with this conference, one of my tasks was to attend the press briefings, the nuts and bolts of which can be found in the June 8-12 releases online.

The briefing room was slotted right next to where the ADA Press Room sat, where dozens of reporters from various publications hunched over PCs to plug out stories and updates. Some were PWDs and pump users, but most of the media folk didn't seem to have any obvious D-connection and a couple could be even be overheard asking each other basic questions about differences between types, the meanings of basal/bolus, and whether the term "diabetic" should be used (he, he).

I couldn't help but think of all the coverage in papers and on TV stations throughout the world exuding from conference, and how so many accuracy issues might arise... seems like something Diabetes Advocates might be interested in getting involved in for the future, as part of our push for media awareness about diabetes.

Oh, did I mention that the exhibit hall was HUGE? With elaborate company booths at every turn where you could find their particular gadget, gizmo or med in all its glorious hype?

But you know what? There wasn't anything really "new or novel" that I haven't seen before in some form or another. Lots of meters, pumps, CGMs and programs that all seem to basically do what every one of their predecessors have done. Except some are fancier, more colorful and modernized for the 21st century. But even those weren't anything that hasn't been announced before. I was hoping for the "next coolest thing you've never heard of before," but just didn't see it.

You had to go behind the scenes to talk with the execs, not the fleets of sales reps on the exhibit hall floor, to get the real story. It was like finding Willy Wonka inside a factory full of candy and oompa loompas, who really only sing the songs they're scripted for and aren't allowed to tell you anything about the real impacts of the candy they're making because of regulatory push back. (And yes, a Pharma company sales rep tells me that there are FDA "secret shoppers" who visit the Pharma and device-maker booths to listen to what's being said to people on the exhibit hall floor and make sure nothing off-limits is being pitched).

So, while the experience was a lot to absorb, much of it seems just for show.

It all seemed kind of disappointing, even if you could do cool things, like get your taken photo and transposed onto the cover of the newly-redesigned Diabetes Forecast magazine, visit any of the dozen or more free coffee stands scattered around, or get the usual kind of flashy propaganda about the newest products and services.

Value = Relationships

In the end, the biggest value of this conference is networking, IMHO. It's a giant mixer to help diabetes pros establish, maintain and strengthen relationships. It's about recognizing each others work, and hopefully acknowledging that it takes everyone's voice to achieve greatness.

We need the science exploring the theory. But we also need the translation to the real world. We need Pharma and device-makers to give us the tools to do these jobs, and we need both the docs and us patients to communicate clearly about what works and doesn't. We ALL have to listen to each other.

I'm excited and energetic about the brilliance, passion and desire to help PWDs. Now, I just hope the dots get connected.

So, that's that.

Back home in Indiana now, I'm finally starting to see "normoglycemia" rather than the stream of lows caused by the fast pace of covering the conference. Never a dull moment for us PWDs who are always on our feet (literally and figuratively!).

Oh, and I should probably mention there's one other golden truth that can't be ignored about the conference:

Next time, I need to listen to that old adage about wearing comfortable shoes for all the running around; this year's conference left me flat-footed in addition to brain-fried!

Disclaimer: Content created by the Diabetes Mine team. For more details click here.

Disclaimer

This content is created for Diabetes Mine, a consumer health blog focused on the diabetes community. The content is not medically reviewed and doesn't adhere to Healthline's editorial guidelines. For more information about Healthline's partnership with Diabetes Mine, please click here.

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