#strangely very helpful way to learn the sculpting tools

[battiegutz]

tried blender for the first time the other day

[mileyjassie]

ασφαλής "safe".

Art made by @jasperiine

Pairing: Kwon Soonyoung (Hoshi) x Female Reader

Genre: Fluff, Drama.

Word count: 3.4k

Synopsis: You're a artist who fell in love with a statue that came back to life, you're both deep in love, but, since his curiosity and lack of trust make you feel betrayed you leave him behind and now he's searching for you to give him another chance while having to learn how to live in the modern world.

Author's note: I wrote this thinking about the history of eros and psyche, I hope you enjoy reading it.

My lovely one, learn to love, my Psyche.

You saw him for the first time when the golden, warm light of the sunset rested on top of his white, smooth shape, made of marble, finished with genuine perfection.

Few saw how magnificent he was, very few looked into his empty eyes and his well-sculpted lips and saw the true beauty that arose from his presence.

"Bullshit" You were told, some without malice, just disinterested, clearly you did not understand such ignorance, but said nothing because you knew that only you had the gift of seeing life in his curves. In this way, thus, you also avoided the jealousy that you felt trembling and going out of your ears when false words of admiration left the mouths of those who only longed for their own artistic contemplation.

You came back for him, sometimes alone, sometimes accompanied by a friend or more, those seeing him for the first time as well as other masterpieces...or those who knew him well, these keeping company since they knew that your path to him was inevitable.

You particularly admired it when you were alone, not many around cared about the time you spent, seeing you sitting on the floor below his figure, doodling or painting in your sketchbook.

It was a habit, a hobby, a kind of meditation, which brought you calm.

"You love him." One of your friends smiled, dictating a fact, not a joke. They knew it, saw it in your eyes and thought it was amusing, the artistic love and appreciation you had. "You keeps drawing this statue, you always comes to see him. This is a little strange." Smiled once more, receiving shakes and confirmations from the rest.

"Maybe I'm in love" You lifted a shoulder, hiding your furtive gaze to show your back and look again at the marble sculpture that lay just ahead.

His fingers touched his stomach differently, his nails were medium and square, you had drawn them several times, from all angles.

"Why don't you ask him out?" The question slid past you, you laughed quietly with it, as if it tickled you. "Why don't you ask him to marry you?"

"I already asked." You turned around again, to see them and shrug. "But he never answered me. I think I will wait forever." Laughter was spreading across the area as you sat next to them with crossed legs. "I think I was rejected..."

"He's making a fool of you."

"You think?" You turned your face, looking the marble marks.

"Do it again."

You narrowed your eyes, hiding your good mood.

"Should I?"

"Ask him again, persist, give him a kiss..."

You were surprised by the excitement that grew out of silence. They all wanted to indulge in entertainment, they wanted a scene to excite them.

You looked at the greek statue that persisted in its elaborate pose, you always wondered if he was seeing something, if he was warning something or if he was sacrificing himself for others. He looked like a petrified hero.

You put your hand on your face, pretending to blush at the indications and flirting suggestions that were being thrown at you.

You left them behind, walking like a lost maiden in the vast hall that you were at, even though there were no obstacles as far the statue in the column on the other side was, you pretended to be naive, meeting him by mistake.

"Oh" You exclaimed, hearing the giggles behind you. "Are you, my love? The one who calls for me?"

When you noticed that only your friends were the viewers, you were bold to go up on the marked block of marble, climbing your fingers through the fabric sculpted by a miraculous genius that covered part of his trunk and legs, listening to some cheeky "hm's".

"I'm here" you touched his cheek, looking at his lips. "I heard you cry out for help. I came to rescue you, my sweet angel."

Your friends hugged each other restlessly, hissing at each other for the romance scene they saw you star in. You tried not to lose focus, not to leave the character you created to satisfy your childish follies.

You closed your eyes just a little, seeing the simple details of his face while allowing your lips to touch the cold, rough surface of the marble, but you closed your eyes for a quick instant, really feeling like an real actress, like an true artist and lover of beauty.

When you heard gasps you didn't care so much, yet you were confused enough, the moment your eyes opened, you saw him inhale deeply and loudly, his eyelids trembling in half-blinkings, his arms resting around you, without strength, totally fragile.

His dark eyes remained stuck in yours, tired in your arms.

His parted lips made the sound you had fantasized about for so long.

"T...Thanks for saving me..."

For an instant the hall was lost, it was empty, silent, private. That was when you realized that you were indifferent about the situation, already astonished when it came to the boy.

His appearance filled you with tenderness, and in the same way filled you with sadness. It was like this?...Was like this how Hades felt when he first saw Persephone?

You took off your coat, covering the boy with blond, tousled hair, already kneeling and hiding himself in the fabric that covered his lower body.

"Are you coming with me, all right?" You murmured gently, waiting for his approval, receiving a innocent look, a little scared, but still seemed to trust what you weree saying. He nodded, accepting your help to stand and get off the block.

The reaction of the friends sitting on the floor on the other side was already expected, and you didn't blame them for that, you could be like that, but for some reason you chose not to be.

You didn't say goodbye to the others, you didn't think to do that at any time. You only had eyes for him.

You prepared him a hot bath, after that you gave him something to eat and offered him your own bed to rest, and you didn't ask for anything in return for that, on the opposite, you gave him the space he needed, nothing you asked for or waited for.

The next day, very early in the morning, a cold but well-lit morning, you woke up when he approached slowly, looking at your face silently and carefully.

"Are not you curious?... Don't you want to ask me anything?" He said calmly, however, curious.

"If that is your will, then I believe I am going to. If it is not, then I will not do it." You sat down, watching him for a while, wondering if he could hear your heart beat so hard. "You look comfortable, that's enough for me."

You stood up, standing beside him, running your fingertips along his side, just touching the woolen fabric of the long sweater you gave him to use.

"If you want to tell me something, just look for me." You whispered, walking away.

"My name is Soonyoung. They called me Hoshi."

You smiled to yourself, very satisfactorily.

"Hoshi... This name I know." You turned around, he did the same.

"For all this time I waited for someone to set me free. I felt alone, often empty... however" He came over, holding his own fingers "You have made me less lonely many days lately, I hoped you could save me... and you did. "

You felt your face flush, but you remained neutral, not wanting to waste his words.

"I just have to thank you." He said at last, making your shoulders relax with his sweetness.

You approached slowly, doing the same with the hand you brought to the side of his face.

"You are my greatest inspiration. I can only thank you for simply having this indescribable beauty that I have been drowning with for so long."

His lips parted in surprise, eyebrows trembled and the top of his ears burned in a vicious pink for your pupils.

Soonyoung had no more expressive reactions after that, so you left him again, not wanting to scare him with the infinite admiration that you had kept inside your head for so long.

"You're gonna have all the care you need. You are safe, Hoshi, calm your spirit."

"I hope..."

You turned around to find his body standing a little far, still trapped in his own imaginary space.

"I hope the gods make you the happiest woman in the world."

You touched his hand, taking him with you to your favorite room, leaving your shyness to satisfy his wishes.

"I know I told you many times not to go out, but I know you need hobbies and here I am providing you with my tools."

Soonyoung observed the room, he seemed impressed with the amount of materials, also happy to have something to do.

You showed him your canvases and your paints, your brushes and pencils, you took him to your table and made him sit down, leaving your hands lightly on his broad shoulders.

"I give you all my sketchbooks, I give you all my secrets, so I hope you find the peace that I find in you."

"Are you going to let me see everything? Are you sure about that?" He asked indecisively, he seemed to imagine all kinds of things that you could have drawn of him. He was right.

You moved your hands up his neck, sinking your fingers into his light, soft hair.

"I don't want to hide what is rightfully yours..."

You lowered yourself to the side of his face, resting your hands on his arms, with a low sigh his face turned towards yours, allowing you two to touch your lips.

You held his jaw, his hands finding your forearms to make you sit on his lap.

You held his face in your hands, noticing him looking for more contact by embracing your waist with one arm and with the other hand holding the back of your thigh.

You parted from his mouth with a foolish smile, receiving a soft smile from the boy in return.

"Do you love me that much? Do you swear to really love me?" He asked hopefully, blushing when you pecked his lips again.

"I'm doing all of this for you."

You stroked his hair, getting up to fetch some new books and putting them in order on the table.

"I have some books keeped, but I noticed that you have read most of them quickly because you were so vague and bored" You looked down, but he didn't seem to notice, he had curious eyes and hands on the books. "Many of them are to study, they are boring if I have to say. So I bought new ones, I hope you like it, I don't think you will be bored with these."

"I am so gratefull." He stood up, hugging you tight, you returned the gesture, completely overwhelmed.

"I am very happy, and extremely grateful, but still curious..."

You looked for his eyes, not understanding what still disturbed him.

"Tell me, my angel."

His hands lightly squeezed your arms, stroking for a moment.

"There is a room, always locked. You always gave me the freedom to explore your house, I didn't want to seem invasive anyway, that's why I never asked..."

You looked away.

"Don't go in there or ask me about it again, okay?" You smiled at the boy, he didn't seem to understand why you were avoiding it.

"Why can't I know what you're hiding there? What are you afraid of me finding out?"

You walked away from Soonyoung, stopping by the doorframe.

"I am giving you everything I have, I am giving you all my love and I asked you for nothing in return, so I warn you, my angel, if you let yourself be led by your curiosity, in the end you will be betraying my trust..."

You saw him press his lips and hide his regretful look, but he said nothing to you, so you left him in the room alone.

It was late at night when you woke up slowly in the void of dawn, trying to understand what disturbed you, if those sounds were of your fear or really true.

You got up, even leaving your room barefoot, wishing you didn't find him awake as you feared every night.

He had stolen you key, opened the room door that you had warned him to stay away, and hidden in the dark. He acted behind your back.

You found him with a tightness in your chest, disappointment was the only word that could describe the pure melancholy that was born in your heart, since you had nothing to hide but your good intentions.

The newspapers were on the table in the small office filled with photos of his sculpture. His eyes lit up on the news, messages, controversies on the computer screen. My friends being part of his miracle in interviews and publications, none of them stabbed or handed me over.

All the chaos that his disappearance brought to your life, all the situations where you had to repress yourself to protect him, emails filling your patience every day, all this you hid from him so that he wouldn't suffer from this turbulent new life. You did it to love you freely, you did it to love him freely.

Soonyoung looked at you confused, maybe sorry to find that nothing bad you hid. It was the opposite, you were protecting him.

"You were thinking about me, my love... I'm sorry."

"You betrayed me, Soonyoung, you betrayed my feelings, the trust I had in you." You watched him from a distance, in a way that you never would have, he noticed, and got hurt.

You walked away when he came to you in search of reconciliation, of affection, but you could not treat him with the same adoration that washed over him at all times.

Even if he killed you inside, you could not deny the sadness that possessed you thoughts, you left him behind, abandoned him, because you could not bear the truth that the love he felt for you weighed much less than the love you felt for him.

"Forgive me" he murmured with red eyes, you don't know if he was afraid to see you go.

You covered yourself with a thick coat, trying to escape his cold hands.

"Don't go, my darling, don't leave me!"

"I cannot stay, because if I look into your eyes I will not hold on, I will not be able to not forgive you, and this is not what my heart is asking so loudly at this moment." You said, sad to let go of his fingers, but so eager to go away. "Don't wait for me, I'm running away." You said at last, leaving your home behind.

"How long do you intend to run away?" One of my friends asked me, in which she gave me shelter, a little upset "Didn't say you loved him?"

You curled up on the upholstery, looking out the window at the blue sky.

"I'm so sad that you could never imagine my pain. Did I make a mistake? Shouldn't I have adored him so much?" You turned to the girl who was adjusting her belongings over the dressing table, not much distracted by your regrets.

"You cry so much but you do not accept to hear about the boy, you do not have the courage to know what our friends are doing with him. You, my friend, so fearless and passionate in the past, now do not seem more than a coward."

You closed your eyes with force and embarrassment, her criticisms hit you like sharp arrows that burned in harsh truths.

"Well, tell me, what did you do to him?" You got up, sitting in front of her on the bed, plagued by dark idealizations. "What are you getting him through?"

"Your friends care about you, but they were touched by the boy, who exudes empathy and sincerity" She approached, indifferent about your feelings, straightening your clothes and hair as if it were a simple morning conversation. "They challenged him to face the world, called him a parasite, ordered him to get a career, a job."

You gasped, astonished by the news, the boy who they said feeling empathy with barely knew how to use a computer and was being led to take unknown paths.

"How scared must my love be?"

"Don't whine having ignored his existence until now." She said impatiently, not letting go of your locks. "You need to stop talking and learn to listen."

"So tell me quickly, hurry up!"

"As I said before, the boy exudes sympathy and soon there was a charismatic reaction in our friends. Noting that he spoke weird, the first decided to teach him to speak correctly, taught him new words and practiced for days, holding on and becoming his closest friend."

You smiled, being interrupted before you mentioned any dazzle.

"The second soon realized that different clothes he didn't have, and being our richest friend was more than happy to buy new clothes for the boy who was so humble and listener. Gave him a new haircut, a set for every type of occasion and perfumes, and I have to confess "She sighed, rolling her eyes, taking her hands out of your hair. "I found it capriciously exaggerated, however, despite being disappointed I feel not surprised."

Noticing how obedient you remained and seeing the anxiety spilling out of your eyes, it didn't take long to proceed.

"Our third friend found out that he knew nothing about the new ways, that walking on the street could not do it alone and that the loud noises made him afraid. That good-hearted friend you have, gave part of the days to take care of the feelings and fears of your beloved, until walking on the sidewalks between crowds and witt cars disturbing your ears were no longer a problem."

You felt your shoulders relax, in incredible inner peace, until you looked up again.

"And you? What did you do?"

She looked at you from the corner, wickedness overflowing through her feline eyes.

"He got the job, now he works as a guide at the city museum, the same museum that you kissed him and left us behind." She paced the room with a sly smile, going over her belongings on the dressing table, going to the high desk by the window. "How can a dependent man like him be by your side if he falls apart when he sees you go? So weak, so sensitive. If he thinks he will have you at all times, I want him to know that it won't be like that, sometime you will have to leave him behind to come to us, the same I say inversely. "

She let the perversity spill and disappear, returning to being the controlled and wise girl from before.

"Did you ever see us flounce when you left us for the boy?" She looked at me, satisfied with my small negative head wave "On the contrary, there was no interference, we are more than that, we are free from blind attachments."

She sat down again, combing your hair back.

"My responsibility was to make him find you, that's what I was asked to do and I agreed, but to be honest, I didn't do anything." She shrugged, self-sufficient. "I said that the only way he would have to find you would have to be on his own, I didn't teach how to handle electronics, I didn't give tips, I didn't give a single picture of you."

You squeezed your eyebrows ready to complain, ready to defend the boy, but regretting the moment you saw her narrow eyes waiting for the cries she was listening these days.

You bowed your head, not knowing what to say or ask.

"Are you proud of him?"

You lifted your head, agreeing with a slight smile.

"I am."

"He worked hard for you, I'm not surprised, I really like him too."

You looked at her quickly with the comment she made, finding her face turned.

"He has earned our trust. But it is not our approval that he needs at the moment." She stood up, going to the window, being surprised, giving birth to an amused smile. "What are you waiting for to find him? Isn't your pain already healed?"

You raised your eyebrows, asking with euphoria rising in your chest. "He is outside?"

She nodded, you jumped out of bed quickly, out into the hall and down the stairs. Was that the reason you were getting ready all this time? You smiled at the thought.

When you were on the sidewalk of the house, you stopped for a moment to find him, but you saw no familiar silhouette, there were some civilians and gentlemen nearby selling fruits but you didn't find the boy you were looking for.

A soft and insecure hand touched your shoulder, you turned with the gesture, in a trance to find his dark hair, but his same sharp eyes staring at you with hope.

You got dizzy with the new details, with the accessories, with the denim jacket, with the sneakers, with the earrings, it didn't look like him, but it was him.

You looked down, seeing his hands holding one of your sketchbooks, a drawing of your face on it, an old self-portrait of an impatient sketch you did once.

He smiled widely, even letting out a laugh.

"You came back to me, my angel!" He said cheerfully, his voice filling the longing you felt, giving you chills for using the nickname you gave him and, of course, with the new pronunciation.

You gladly received his tight embrace, not wanting to loosen your grip on his body, after all you never wanted to stop loving him, not even for a single moment.

"You are the one who found me, love. You finally found me."

"Forgive me for what I did, I will never betray you again, soon you will see that it is more than possible for us to live happily, so come back with me..." he said muffled against your hair, hiding his face in your neck.

You stroked his hair, bringing his face close to yours, brushing lips and watching his small eyes narrow in anticipation for the first kiss so far.

"I know that, dear, and I forgive you. Because I love you."

𝒇𝒊𝒏.

[mma3youf]

FA222 ,principles of graphic design:

Instructor: mr.munwar mukhtar

@uob-funoon @mnwrzmn

Project 1 : interviews

What is your given name, and user name on ZBrush Central?

My name is Khalid Abdulla Al-Muharraqi, my ZBrush Central user name is "Khalid72".

Tell us about your company, how did you start?

I set up Muharraqi-Studios to continue my family's history in the creative world and I am trying to continue to build on what my father started. The company was set up about two years ago after I left the commercial world of advertising with my partner Rashad who decided to leave a career in banking. We wanted to get together to make a place that allows us to be more creative. Since then we have been fortunate enough to work on some of the biggest projects in the middle east, and also continue working on our ideas and concepts, like our movie project. The most important thing for me is the work I do and that's what we are all about.

What is the size of your company?

The company is me and my partner, oh and our secretary... Keesha, a German Shepard! I am a hand's on guy and I do all the creative work myself. At first, I thought it was normal to carry that load because of the speed I work in, but later found out that I am actually very fast compared with bigger teams of artists in other studios. Finally I understood what people were telling me when they said I was 'unusual'. That’s why some of the CG magazines in Europe were amazed that a lot of our work is done by a one man team that puts all the 3D components together into a visualization. I work about 13 to 18 hours a day, I love 3D work, so my hobby and my work has joined into one, so … yes, very little time for a normal life.

What type of projects do you work on?

Well, I have been working on Architectural Visualizations since we started a couple of years ago, but I try to satisfy my urge to do what I really like, art!

You're located in Bahrain, somewhere most of us don't know about. Can you tell us how you learned your trade?

I love this question, Yes Bahrain is a small Island in the Persian gulf, we speak Arabic as our main language and English for the second, I will answer the second part in two parts, If you mean The art... I would say that I come from an artistic family, my father is one of the most well known artists in this part of the world, you can say that he is a household name in these parts. If you are asking were did I learn the 3D or CG art, I would say that I learned it by practicing for 8 hours a day after my official day of work, so I guess you can say I have been my own teacher in the industry.

Tell us a bit about your client base, mostly local, or do you have clients in Europe, Asia, America?

We serve clients from the Middle East, Europe and the Americas, I would say that I have been fortunate enough to have worked with some of the top people in the architectural industry, most of our clients are attracted to the type of work that we produce.

ow long have you been an artist?

Since I was six...I think! Well, the first painting I have sold when I was eleven. I was always painting and trying to find new techniques that will help create the concept in my mind.

Tell us about your background, your education, your mentors...

I studied art in Houston Texas for over seven years between interior decoration, photography, Visual communication, and digital enhancement or photo retouching, from there I have continued my working career in the commercial world. My first mentor would have to be my father, learned everything I know from him. He gave me the push start into the art world and made me feel it. There are also the books and artwork he has exposed me too with some of the top art in the world. A lot of names come to mind but I would say Frank Farazeta, Boris, The Creepy magazine and of course all the original Mad magazines and books that were very hot in the early 80's.

When you became an artist, did you first use traditional media?

For sure, I started with Pencil then got into crosshatching with ink, then I started painting with water colors and gouaches. I finally got into air brush art before I tried CG art.

What was your first CG package? What is your first 3D Package?

Nice question... first CG software was PSD, version 2, it was like magic... It felt strange especially that I was a traditional artist at the time. My first 3D package would be Alias Sketch for the Mac since I was a Mac user for a long time and did not have much 3D developers for Mac at the time. It was a new world for me and I think I still have a dusty copy of it today even after the software was canceled back in the early 90's, it just reminds me of my past.

How long have you been using ZBrush?

It has only been about six months, but I was up and running almost a few hours after I purchased it.

What made you try ZBrush?

I was watching some of the tutorial videos on how to paint details on the Gnomon training DVD's, and that's when I was shocked to see that it is art on the computer! I did not believe it at first, but It was one of the happiest moments when I first installed my first copy of ZBrush and started painting geometry for the first time, it reminded me with the days when I was pushing and pulling real clay to make a small creature of my imagination when I was a kid.

What's your favorite ZBrush feature?

The ability to paint geometry like it is physically in my hands.

How has ZBrush enabled you to express yourself in ways other packages couldn't?

Well you cant really compare it with any other software, it's simply too different! It changes how a CG artist works, it changes how he looks at things, has changed the industry to the next future leap, and who would want to go back to the past....? I would simply say that the concept of the software is very smart and impressive, my only wish to add on it is to have a bigger view port :)

Now onto "Floating Islands"Tell us about your creative process, how did this concept emerge?

One evening when I was stuck in the studio waiting for clients approval on a project that I was preparing for the kingdom of Bahrain, I was trying to get free again and relax my mind from all boundaries, I started to sketch a concept that has bean in my mind since I was a kid, the island that was then discovered to be on the back of a whale, these were some of the old middle eastern stories about Sinbad's magical voyages.

Do ideas just come to you out of nowhere, or are there particular artists or work you are inspired by?

I am always inspired by everything that is beautiful, whether it is an artist or a design or just Gods creation, I would also say that I have always had my own style in my work and almost never try to follow a certain style that I have seen.

I love this piece, can you tell me about the process of creating it? Have you explored this style before? Or was this created for something specific?

The process was, a sketch or the map as I would call it, and that would be the basis of my creation, I almost never start without it, once I crack the direction then I would start thinking about the execution and the path to take. About the style, well I don't think of my work as style, I think it is more towards I do what I feel, it is only when I am finished with it that I say "Yes! That's what I was tying to do". I almost never tried to repeat a style that I have seen elsewhere on my work. I feel that It is like a code of respect between artists.

In your image "Floating Islands" where was ZBrush used?

ZBrush helped me sculpt the geometry and take it to the next level in a short time. Modeling, UVs, Painting and scenes setups was between Lightwave and Modo. With ZBrush I was able to put the final touches that would make it come to life. ZBrush helped me start painting the UV map textures and setting up the foundation of the look and feel. I also generated some of the whales textures by the amazing ZMapper ;)

Tell us about your pipeline.

I start with Modo, then go to ZBrush, then finally render with Lightwave. The thing with software today is that they work hand in hand to complete each other, for instance ZBrush is very specialized in what it does, it focuses on the need of the artist and helps the creator to complete his task sufficiently with a smooth flow, artists have never had it this good.

What projects are you working on now?

We have just completed the visualization for the Master Plan for the Kingdom of Bahrain with one of the leading Architectural firms in the world, we have helped restructure and rebuild old and new cities for the country. Now I will be working more onto the movie project that we have been trying to get the time to start, hopefully I will be able to focus more on creating more Characters and environments for the movie.

Any last comments for us?

I would like to say Thank you to Manuel at Pixologic and Pixologic for appreciating the work I do. I would also like to thank all the development team and staff at Pixologic for there dedication to work together to help create some of the best tools ever created for the CG industry, I always expect the ideas to be fresh and most importantly designed for the end user, the artist, allowing the artist to continue being an artist without the restrictions and boundaries of a computer.

[houseofvans]

ART SCHOOL | IN SESSION WITH ROB SATO

From vibrant rainbows to familiar yet alien landscapes occupied by strange beings, LA based artist Rob Sato’s works are filled with creative energy in a loose minimalistic style. From watercolor, digital medium to acrylics and oil, Rob’s artworks and illustrations have been shown in various galleries from Giant Robot 2 to the Oakland Asian Cultural Center, where recently his original paintings for a comic called 442 were exhibited. We’re excited to chat with Rob about his work, his various collaborations and what he’s got coming up for the rest of the year.  Take the Leap!

Photographs courtesy of the artist.

Introduce yourself Hello, my name is Rob Sato. I’m an artist, illustrator, and writer. Something people might not know about me is that I was a kid I was so fanatical about the Oakland A’s that when they lost in the World Series I threw a tantrum so big that I destroyed my bedroom and after that I felt so stupid I quit following baseball. Also, I’m told I have maybe one of the great poop stories of the world. It can only be related in person, so ask me about it sometime if we ever meet.

How would you describe your work and style? Eclectic? Kaleidoscopic? I’ve never had a concise answer to this question. I tend not to pin myself down because I think if I did, I’d stop making things. 

Art is my outlet for the cryptic and obscure as well as the gushing spillover of foolish idealism and wild fantasy. It’s the only place I’ve ever found where you can healthily play with unhealthy thoughts, where you can explore undefined emotions, things that lurk out in the corners of consciousness that may be embarrassing or uncontrollable.

I love to make entertainment and decorative work, things that tend to be obvious, that communicate very clearly and reveal all their cards, but I also love to make work that hides things, that actively resists easy understanding or recognition and risks being super personal or unrelatable and strange. This can make things difficult, especially in the ongoing deterioration of attention spans, but I can’t help but pursue things outside of a pop sensibility and logical thought. I have to be, much of the time, in mental wildernesses. It’s hard to get there, hard to be there, and hard to come back, but it keeps me going.

Tell us about how you really started getting into art, and how that turned into what you do now? Was it something you always intended to pursue? I’ve drawn every single day for as long as I can remember. I never really thought about it. It just seems to be what I do. It’s how I have fun, how I solve problems, how I think. I’ve wanted to pursue other things like make movies or write books, but I always find myself drawing. Before I know it, it’s time for bed again.

When you are working on a new piece or upcoming exhibition or show? What’s your process like? What themes do you find yourself taking on? I explode. I used to plan things in a very directed way, but lately I’ve just let my brains spill out everywhere. I make a ton of drawings and paintings, and try my best to be fearless and open. Most of it produces failure after failure, but it shows me what might be worth building on, plus many exciting surprises reveal themselves in the process. As a show nears I start seeing what things fit together, what needs to be edited out, and how it all might form a cohesive exhibition. Sometimes the subject matter is the glue that makes everything stick, other times it’s the aesthetics. Alongside the explosion I usually have 2 or 3 pieces going at any given time that I’ve had long term plans for. These pieces can take take months or even years. 

Thematically I’m all over the place. War and peace, realism and surrealism, grim realities and escapism, sober observations and dumb jokes.

What are some of your go-to art making materials? Are there mediums you want to explore that you’ve yet to get your hands on? I feel pretty comfortable with anything you can use to make a mark on a piece of paper. I’ve mainly used watercolor and various drawing tools for the past several years. I’m been having fun with acrylics and oils again, and I’ve started to play around with photography a little. I’ve had ideas for sculpture and film for years that I’d really like to finally get to. What I really want to get my hands on is more time.

Where do you find inspiration? What kind of things or people inspire what you make? Watching someone pick their nose listening to headphones and singing softly to themselves in line at the grocery store. Just watching my cat live her weird life. Even though the final artwork may not really show it, these places are usually where my ideas originate. Art has also been a place where I can put memories that have some abstract need to be recorded.

I made this series of drawings called “Bad Hands”, which started out with me laughing at these dumb hands I was drawing with academically incorrect anatomy. Abandoning correctness felt so good. In the process it triggered a memory from High School. I had been forbidden from drawing in one of my classes, so I was contorting my hands into different shapes at my desk to amuse myself. There was a hysteria over gang activity in the school at the time and the teacher freaked out thinking I was throwing gang signs and I ended up getting sent to detention. 

At detention I was talking with a friend and made fun of the teacher for her mistake. A kid who was in a gang overheard and then HE misunderstood and thought I was making fun of gangs or something. On my way home from school he and a couple dudes punched and kicked me for a bit while I tried and failed to explain. I think it’s funny. 

So embedded in that piece is this tumbling series of misunderstandings, these multiple layers of hands being perceived as bad, speaking in an absurd language that communicates different things to different people. I know people aren’t going to see all those layers in the final piece, but that’s where it comes from and I hope it at least sparks some thoughts about talking with our hands, and where else can you follow this kind of train of thought except in art?

I get inspired by artists who seem to approach art as an intuitive discovery process rather than a  pursuit of mastery, that play is one of the more important aspects of making things. My wife, Ako, has been a huge influence on me in this respect. She’s continuously playing with various materials around her at any given time and finding out what she can do with them. Everywhere she goes she abandons a nest made of fresh creations she’s manifested out of mud, string, packaging, plants, uneaten rice, her used drinking straw, lint and whatever else was within her reach

You’ve done a lot of collaborations with companies, museums and art galleries. Do you have a favorite collaboration, and what about the collaboration do you enjoy the most? I’ve recently been collaborating with Tiny Splendor, an indie publisher and printer who have studios in LA and Oakland. It’s been really great working with them, Cynthia Navarro in LA on risographs, and with Max Stadnik, who runs the print shop in Oakland. 

Max has been returning to lithography, my favorite traditional printing medium, and he printed a piece of mine inspired by mushrooms called “Growerings". It’s a full 5 color print, which means it took five separate plates and each print had to go through the press 5 times. It turned out more beautifully than I could have hoped for. Litho is a super difficult but also very fun process and the results are so rich. 

I think I particularly love this collaboration because the image fits the medium so well, and the combination of the two elevates the final piece of work, When it works, the artwork and the print become more than just an image on a piece of paper. It’s more alive in some undefinable way.

Since we’re called Art School, we always ask the artists to give us their favorite art tip? Never force the thing you think you want, you’ll probably miss out on the really interesting thing that’s happening. Also, don’t drink too much coffee. I have trouble taking both of these pieces of my own advice every day.

What do you enjoy doing when you’re not making stuff? How do you chill out? I read and run. I love coffee and I love gossip and talking nonsense with friends. Also, I cannot stop watching Terrace House.

What is the last art show that you went to? What artists should folks keep an eye out for? I recently went to the Velveteria in LA’s Chinatown, which is one man’s collection of paintings on velvet. A very entertaining and very fucked up experience. I went to a life drawing session at Subliminal Projects and got to draw surrounded by Chad Kouri’s fun abstracts. I’m actually typing this interview inside an art show right now. 

I’m here at my wife, Ako Castuera’s, show “Soil” at the Weingart Gallery at Occidental College. We’re here feeding worms. She sculpted this beautiful ceramic vermiculture composter for the show. It’s a grand temple for worms. The show is an act of gratitude for the exchange we have with the soil which provides the clay for ceramics, and for the worms who turn decay into healthy earth to grow new life in. 

She sculpted a menagerie of creatures out of the worm poop that also populate the show. Super fun. Speaking of Ako and Subliminal, her show there with Hellen Jo and Kris Chau this past December was one of those once-in-a-lifetime powerhouse gathering of forces. That may have been the best show I’ve ever seen.

What advice would you give someone thinking about following in your footsteps? What’s something you learned that you want to pass along to art making newbies. Don’t listen to advice if it is extremely quotable. Pay no attention to it especially if it accompanies a photo of a famous artist and fits perfectly into an instagram post. If it’s easy to remember then it’s probably empty, crap inspiration. Those things are entertainments and not words to live by.

 If you’re interested in making art you’ll keep making it. It takes day in, day out patience and exploration and mutation to discover how you really work, not some idea of how an artist works. 

Sometimes it will be very hard, sometimes it will be so breathtakingly easy you think that your problems have been solved forever. Neither situation ever lasts, but cultivate and nurture your curiosity and what you love, and you’ll find ways to make it through the rough times and keep on making things one way or another.

Who are some of your favorite artists to follow and/or see in a show? Lately I’ve been really enjoying the work of Nathaniel Russell whose work makes this great space where funny, grounded matter-of-factness and sweet nothingness sit comfortably together. His drawing also reminds me of Ben Shahn, my all-time favorite drawer. 

I really like Amy Bennet’s oils, these intimate studies of isolation in suburbia where mundanity overlaps with quiet drama and melancholy. Her work obliquely reminds me of Edwin Ushiro’s work, though his stuff is the opposite of melancholic. He captures almost incidental but haunted moments from growing up in Hawaii and infuses them with warmth, and it’s in a style influenced in a super personal way by animation. It reminds me of Satoshi Kon’s movies in its well observed, slice-of-life elements. Edwin’s sketchbooks are a treasure too.  Esther Pearl Watson’s recent autobiographical paintings, Hellen Jo’s latest badass watercolors, Amber Wellman’s funny, playful oil paintings, and Matthew Palladino’s watercolors are also favorites. 

Megan Whitmarsh’s work is some of my favorite to see in person. Her installation with Jade Gordon at the Hammer’s “Made In LA “ show was maybe the funnest work I’ve ever seen and interacted with. I went to see the Ai Wei Wei show at the Marciano Foundation, which I thought was impressive in scale and execution but still somehow lame, but I stumbled on a Mike Kelley installation/ video piece I’d never seen before in the upstairs collection and loved it so much, but I can’t remember the name of it at the moment. 

It’s 2 videos shown side by side of the same guy wearing a cape singing almost the same song simultaneously, but each version has different words at different points. It’s a love song but one version is more bitter and mean and one is sickly sweet. Anyway, highly recommended!

What do you have coming up the rest of the year that you can share with us?  For just a few more days there’s a show up at the Oakland Asian Cultural Center with a bunch of my original paintings for a comic I illustrated about the 442, the Japanese American Army unit of World War II. Plus it has some personal work about Japanese American Incarceration and images from my family’s experience in the concentration camps. My grandfather was incarcerated in the Arkansas camps, and he was a soldier in the 442. 

Next up, I’m in a slew of group shows all happening within a few weeks of each other this month. Poor scheduling on my part as usual, but it’s nice to be invited to so many. I just sent off my piece to the “Seeing Red” show curated by Jeff Hamada of the BOOOOOOOM art and culture blog. That show will be at Thinkspace in LA. Giant Robot has been kind enough to host another solo show for me in September. 

I’ve been busy experimenting with some more 3d stuff that pushes the more narrative side of my work which I hope to show there. We’ll see how the experiments turn out. I’ve also been working on a ton of prints and ideas for books. This year I want to focus on working in print, making zines and comics, and writing a lot more. 

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[letterboxd]

Writer’s Block.

Shirley director Josephine Decker talks to Ella Kemp about novelist Shirley Jackson’s aspirational qualities, Elisabeth Moss’s voice, and the Pixar film that changed everything for her.

Actor, director, writer and editor Josephine Decker has done for American cinema what Alice did for Wonderland. She burst onto the landscape and turned everything inside out, tunneling further into new worlds and disrupting the rules of everyone living there.

With four features to her name so far, Decker has fast become a leading voice in independent American cinema. There was the psychological thriller Butter on the Latch (2013), the erotic fever dream Thou Wast Mild And Lovely (2014), and the hurricane of a coming-of-ager, Madeline’s Madeline (2018). Now with Shirley, Decker turns to the biopic—but this is no paint-by-numbers adaptation of someone’s Wikipedia page. The script, written by Sarah Gubbins (I Love Dick) is adapted from the novel by Susan Scarf Merrell. Some of Shirley is true, some not.

Shirley casts Elisabeth Moss as the eponymous horror author, Shirley Jackson, whose famously disturbing 1948 short story The Lottery caused a sensation when it was first published in the New Yorker. Michael Stuhlbarg appears alongside Moss as Jackson’s professor husband Stanley Edgar Hyman, with Odessa Young and Logan Lerman as Rose and Fred Nemser, academic newlyweds who come to stay in Shirley and Stanley’s gothic home for a spell, while Shirley is wrestling with how to write her (very real) second novel, Hangsaman.

These actors matter, as the first couple—the Hollywood household names—welcome the second pair—fresh-faced rising stars—into their dangerous orbit of wordy brilliance and ruthless scrutiny. The results, knotty, seductive and disorienting, are electric.

Produced by Christine Vachon and Martin Scorsese, Shirley carries hints of Decker’s background in performance art, particularly in Moss’s highly physical performance. Film nuts are still getting to grips with Decker’s singular style, but once you’re in, there’s no way of climbing back out. “Decker finds a way to embody the strange, insoluble, unnerving energy of Jackson’s prose in a film that fittingly always seems to be building to a catastrophic rupture,” writes Jake Cole.

“I am ready to declare her one of the best modern filmmakers,” writes Letterboxd member Brian Formo, while Vshefali praises how “Josephine Decker is able to paint a picture of the inside of a woman’s brain so beautifully”. It’s true: Decker is concerned with what makes us tick, but also how the mechanics of that ticking work when nobody’s looking, when everything else has moved on and all that you’re left with are your own loud thoughts.

If you’re based in the US, you can watch Shirley via our virtual screening room—we’re donating 100 percent of our proceeds to Firelight Media.

Elisabeth Moss as Shirley Jackson in ‘Shirley’.

In the adaptation from the novel, what key elements did you and Sarah Gubbins want to remain true in terms of Shirley Jackson’s story? Josephine Decker: We were just really interested in making sure these characters felt like full, rounded individuals. For Shirley and Rose, it was about how they met and entwined. We wanted to really feel their separateness and their togetherness. We spent the most time on how to allow you to really feel each of them deeply, because it’s a hard thing to have a dual-protagonist movie.

What was it about Shirley Jackson that attracted you to her? I came on after it was already scripted. The character is just so witty, and kind of cruel, and complicated and messy. I had loved Sarah’s work on I Love Dick, I thought that Kathryn Hahn’s performance was one of the great female performances of the last twenty years. She just writes such great characters, so it was exciting to be able to dive into the Shirley that she had created. Also, the real Shirley Jackson is such a complicated and fascinating person—I was and am obsessed with her writing. She does in writing a thing that I’m trying to do in cinema, so it was exciting to get to know her work that well.

What things in her work would you like to emulate? You fall from a real place into an imaginary place without really realising it. She’s very good at sliding you into the character’s mind. It’s a witchy thing that makes her writing feel really exciting, that I haven’t seen that much on screen. I feel like in American cinema there’s this clear line between reality and what’s in your mind, but I think with Shirley that line is very unclear. That’s something I love, that I really pursue in my work and get excited by.

I definitely felt that with Madeline’s Madeline as well, it all feels very slippery. Totally.

Shirley is the first feature you’ve directed from another person’s script. How was that experience? It took me a minute to get inside of the world. I’m generally pretty process-oriented, but this film was different. There’s usually a thing that happens as you’re writing, I find I’m writing as an excuse to get the words that are in my head out. So to come from words and try to see the images was a very different experience, but also really exciting. With Sarah’s writing, it was interesting how the space was so important, this house was such a major character in the film. Because it’s such a dialogue-driven script, I worked a lot with the actors in rehearsals. I guess maybe some directors would tell you what to do, and you would start, and you would do that, but I didn’t even realise that would have been an option, so I was like, “Well, we have to make the blocking together” because I was also really adamant that I didn’t want the dialogue to be static.

It was important to me to sculpt some of the dialogue scenes into movement scenes. It was fun to find the dance of the film and allow the actors to choose their own way through the dialogue. They’re all such geniuses. When we would do rehearsals with Lizzie and Michael, it was so fast, they’re so good at working things out themselves. It was just exciting to let them find their own space and then obviously weigh in when I felt like an outside eye was helpful. I feel like a lot of what I’m realising as a director is if you choose the right collaborators, it’s just about getting out of the way!

How would you describe the relationship between Shirley and Rose? It feels thorny—it reminded me of Phantom Thread in terms of the toxicity. Generally, Shirley’s own work is about these two female characters who are really different—one is a dark, misanthropic genius, but angry, and the other one is a very light-hearted open spirit who is generous and good at baking and making men happy. I think in her biography there was this idea that these two kinds of women were different aspects of Shirley’s own mind, that she was like both of them. So it was about how different Shirley and Rose are at the beginning, and then that their coming together is such a collision, but then they discover they have a lot to learn from each other and they’re more similar than they realized.

It was about making sure we could understand their motivations. Especially Rose—she could have been a lighter, less-complex character, but I think I felt really committed, and Odessa did an incredible job, to make her a really full human with her own aspirations. And in the novel too, she has her own world going on. So it’s about making sure her goals are still clear, and then that by the end of the film maybe she has new goals, or maybe she realizes that everything she’d been tidying up her life to get in order—get a husband, have a baby—are maybe a little bit at odds with the deeper thing she’s searching for. But they are really slippery characters.

Josephine Decker on the set used for the Jackson-Hyman house in ‘Shirley’.

You mentioned the importance of the house. I spoke to Kitty Green recently about The Assistant and you share the same composer, Tamar-kali, and sound designer, Leslie Shatz, on your films. Both scores are amazing; on Shirley I’m thinking of the cellos and the violins but then also the creaky floorboards in the sound design. How do you think music and sound help build this world? They’re huge tools. I always think sound design can really bring a new element, especially to a film like this where there’s a slide into a surreal realm, into the mind sometimes. So finding a sound that hints that the things you’re witnessing are a little unreal is exciting. Leslie did a lot of playing. He jokes that when we first met I told him to go to town, and then he just went to town and was like, “I hope I went to the right town!” We had a lot of fun. We tried to really use sounds that weren’t too electronic, stuff that felt like it could have been made with the sound effects that would have been available then. Sound is a huge storyteller, I think it’s more impactful than film. I also think Lizzie’s voice is a train that pushes you through the film, in that you understand where she is with the writing by how confident or how confused that voice is.

What was the first film that made you want to be a filmmaker? Monsters Inc., that one’s easy. I had a real revelation in college while watching it. I’d seen it before, it was my second time, but I just laughed like a little baby. I just have so much fun in these Pixar movies, my best friend in college was watching with me and I was giggling and sitting four feet from the television, and she was just like, “You really like this and I think you should do this and this would be a combination of everything you’ve been doing.” It was helpful to have a friend there to tell me that. I haven’t started making movies like that yet, but maybe someday. My next movie [The Sky Is Everywhere] is a YA film, so if I just keep going younger and younger…

Related content

A list of Shirley Jackson-related titles on Letterboxd.

Eve’s lists of films Written by Women and Directed by Women.

‘Shirley’ is available on Hulu and other streaming services now. With thanks to NEON.

[spamzineglasgow]

(SPAM Cuts) Two Poems by Heather Christle

In this bumper SPAM Cut, Hannah Lee Nussbaum responds to two poems written by Heather Christle — The Running of Several Simulations at Once May Lead to Murky Data and Learned Has Two Syllables and I Only Have One — published here as a diptych in Granta’s August digital issue. Working alongside Christle’s language, Nussbaum considers why we need weird lossy metaphors created by defective machine learning algorithms, the rotten state of metaphor in late-stage human language, the possibility of applying a reverse Turing test to your best friends, and why things feel so good when we are told they are only simulations.

> Learned Has Two Syllables and I Only Have One is the first poem in this diptych by Heather Christle, although the poem isn’t a staccato mono-syllabic exercise, and there are some duo-syllabics and a few sneaky tri-syllabic words in there too. The title of the poem made me try to cram each double into a single (ma-chine as m’chine) and each triple into a double, but manually speaking, this was a total failure when I tried to read the poem out loud like this.

> Christle is conservative with syllables in this poem, because too many would ruin the machinic pace of the piece, would disrupt the leaden plainness of the language being used. Each stanza acts as a divestment from metaphor, and there’s a crystalline, Ouilippan thing happening here. Christle’s words are tautologically sterile, are trying to mean only what they mean, although this is difficult, because even the most ordinary language is metaphorical by nature. Like how happy is a metaphor for up and sad is a metaphor for down, which Natasha Stagg points out in an essay she wrote in 2016 called Internet as Horror, which I read around the same time as I read this poem.

> Christle’s clipped, germ-free language makes me think of Stefan Themerson’s semantic writing, which would not say ‘horse’ but would rather say ‘a solid-hoofed, plant-eating domesticated mammal,’ and it seems true that her language practices the kind of estrangement required when you are doing childcare. The kid will inevitably point to something, like a hair on your arm or a blemish on your face, and say what’s that, what’s that on your arm, what’s that on your face. And you, inevitably, will be really stupefied, stupid feeling too, because your sculpted human brain is trained in abstraction, not literalism, not low-level classification. It’s shame, it’s the abject body, you will probably tell the kid, and you’ll give them an orange cracker and pat their skull, and they will grow up surrounded by words and images which they have been taught to classify as broad political and cultural concepts.

> But when you speak like a computer, or to a computer — which is what Christle seems to be doing in this first poem — you must necessarily turn away from this human meat language of ours, which is supersaturated in allegory and metaphor. Ours is a language deployed towards symbol-heavy populist speechifying, where words are all units of metonymy, where words are constantly circulating and evolving like memes, where each single syllable is pregnant with history and culture, and in fact I would even argue that each syllable in its own right acts as a tiny self-driving metaphor, a little sound island that makes us think of this or that. In late-stage human language, meaning has gone totally viral and each sound has a thick crust around it. Context accumulates and accelerates as words are repeated. Late-stage human language is apparent in terms like “globalist,” “states’ rights,” “locker room,” “inner city” — all saying and not saying, all totems of the way metaphor and abstraction have ossified our words into compact, lazy symbols. Christle’s poem pokes at what’s at stake in moving backwards or outside of our lazy regime of abstraction. Which is, certainly, what is required if we are to approach the problem of machine learning as it relates to language, which is, on the level of content, what this poem is directly about. And maybe it’s not a problem, I’d like to add, but an opening.

> I imagine that she originally wrote a decadent and highly pigmented poem, or at least thought of one, then took a palette knife to it and attempted to strip it back into its constituent zeros and ones. The difficulty — the one she calls a readjustment/no more/painful than/a thicket — is that all of this abstract, high-level information is lost when you strip an image or a word or a whole poem down to its back-end code. New metaphors are created. Metaphors of misidentification, of confusion. An imperfect algorithm might accidentally categorize a red robin as a smear of blood. A long man’s face might be sorted into the column category. To backpedal words into non symbolic, bag-of-formal-qualities territory creates a moment of reverse emergence — concepts are stripped back into their constituent aesthetic facts, and a culturally innocent machine might well make connections between these constituent aesthetic facts, and new, stranger metaphors will be the upshot. The result is inevitably a weird realism, a Picasso-esque reality, which sounds sensual to me, do you agree?

> Said another way, these new lossy metaphors produced by still-too-dumb technology might help us make connections between seemingly disparate words, tease similar properties out of culturally dissimilar symbols. In this way, machinic metaphors might well be a tool of world building that verge on magick — they can make our sense and they can re-arrange it.

*  

> If the activity of cutting language away from abstraction — doing language like a sort-of-dumb machine would do it —  is the move happening in the first poem, Christle’s second poem does something tangential, cock-teasing but not straightforwardly delivering on my guilty desire for facile conceptual twinning between the two texts. The second poem — The Running of Several Simulations at Once May Lead to Murky Data — moves with a protagonist who imagines her meaty human companions — the real ones she is eating dinner with around a real table with real salt shakers ­— to be virtual (or machinic, or programmed, or otherwise computationally choreographed). The protagonist invites us to join her in an uneasy case of pretending, an induced brain-game that makes everything look different. A reverse Turing test that coats real humans (which are typically bland and predicable social organisms) in the dazzling gloss of life-likeness (the amazement with which we hear a machine speak in a women’s voice, as though we have never heard it before, so clear, so feminine). The poem knows that when a virtual object is life-like (what verisimilitude!), it is eons more astonishing than the real thing, because the real thing is yesterday’s news.

> And so Christle’s brain-game (this poem) allows real things to take on the glittery mystique of the virtual or the simulated: artificially I will induce this feeling in myself, the speaker tells us, pretending/—until it is real—that each person/is speaking from a highly naturalistic script,/having carefully rehearsed each/tiny gesture. What intrepid attention to detail! What finely tuned mockups! I am reminded of a short story written by Ben Marcus in 2013, Notes From the Hospital, in which Marcus describes a hospital on an island — a fastidiously fashioned space in which the air is breathable, the scale is one-to-one, and even the most advanced scrutiny cannot reveal the setup to be constructed and forged — so close is it to an actual hospital, with all of the bodies and walls and smells therein. But this hospital isn’t real, we are told — it’s made by a technically masterful artist — and so the thing feels miraculously life-like, accurate, while still retaining some of the impossible and strange and utopian feelings we associate with and assign to things we know to be virtual.    

> Simulation is at the very centre of what poetry is, in the sense that poetry is always a necessarily really inadequate representation of the thing the poet originally tried to evoke. A poem on a page is always a simulation of an original ghost poem, and in this sense a poem is always a record of failure, says poet and critic Allen Grossman (to whom I was led by Ben Lerner, who also writes on this). The actual poem is a failure, but the virtual poem (the poem the poet meant to write) holds within it that feeling of immense potential, the deep, instinctive sensation of a yet-to-be-executed idea in all of its impossible perfection — a schematic, a model, a mockup, a prototype: all perfect ghosts prior to the flaccid not-quite-right of real life execution. Virtuality itself is a way of feeling, a way of looking, and simulation is a sensation, and the sensation is generous, hopeful, rapt.  

> The ginger minutiae of social tics and turns, the remarkable talent it takes to speak, to reach for the salt, to be alive (being alive not being the norm) — all of these signals are consigned to the filing cabinet labeled ‘actual’, and so we don’t see the poetics in these small and ceaseless triumphs. Perhaps it takes a brain game, a reverse Turing test, a clever cranial experiment, a poem that writes around these little moves, to entertain the possibility of the actual poem being the virtual poem, the actual friend as the finely tuned machinic replica, and with such skill! Producing perhaps some awe for their remarkable talent/ for portraying with such detailed conviction/ the humans I know as my friends. Can the meat world shock and delight you as much as an imagined version or close approximation of it might? Does the long cold distance have to be so far?

~

Text and Image: Hannah Nussbaum

Published: 8/3/20

[sky-scribbles]

Ziost has not forgotten. Ziost will never forget.

The Force always remembers pain. It has remembered Korriban and Dxun and Malachor for centuries, keeping their dead alive in visions and echoes, playing their fear and rage on repeat in the minds of any Force-user who draws near.  And now it remembers Ziost, too. It remembers the moment that a billion lives were ripped out of the galaxy, and that memory burns.

Any Sith or Jedi who opens their mind to Ziost, even for the tiniest of moments, has to flinch back. Blinking, reeling, like they’ve reached out and touched a flame. Because where a planet used to be, there’s just an endless scream in the Force, the terror and confusion and desperation of countless people. Over the millennia, that scream will dim a little, but it will never fade.

Forty-eight hours after that scream begins echoing across the stars, Lana Beniko sends the person she cares about most in the galaxy down to face it.

It makes sense, she tells herself. Someone needs to gather intelligence. Someone needs to salvage anything that can be salvaged and work out how Vitiate did this. And Neyna has the training. Neyna is strong enough to survive it. Stars, Neyna volunteered.

‘If it gets overwhelming, I can cut myself off from it,’ they said, when Lana briefed them. ‘I didn’t go through twelve years of hiding my Force-sensitivity from the Ascendancy without learning how to isolate myself from the Force every now and then.’

‘You don’t have to do this. I can send a non-Force-sensitive agent –’

‘And I’m sure they’d fare just fine against the monoliths.’ Neyna’s smile was obviously forced, but their voice was clear and firm. ‘You need someone to do this, Lana. I can survive it. I will survive it. Besides, I – I need to see this, I think. It’s like when someone dies, and you can’t quite move on until you’ve had some kind of ceremony and accepted that it happened. If I’m going to process what happened down there, I need to look it in the eye.’

And before Lana quite realised she was about to do it, she was reaching out. Gathering one of Neyna’s hands in hers, curling her fingers around their palm. ‘Let me know the moment you return. And if it gets too much down there, you’re to call for extraction. Promise me that.’

Neyna dipped their head, their smile no longer fake. ‘I promise. But I will try to get some actual data before I run off. My feelings aren’t more important than the Empire’s survival.’

‘They are to me.’

Their smile widens. Lana grips their hand for a moment more, draws in a breath, and then lets it go. Lets them go.

Three days later, her datapad pings. An incoming message. Intelligence from Ziost, says the subject line, and there’s an attachment containing what Lana assumes is the gathered data – but her eyes skip over that and focus on the message’s single line of text:

I hope this is everything you need. I’ve gone straight home to get some rest.

Her throat dry, Lana taps out a response. Thank you. Will send this for analysis immediately. Are you all right?

A pause of thirty long seconds, and then a reply. Not really, no.

Lana stands motionless for a moment. Then she forwards the intelligence to her analysts without so much as glancing at it, and strides from her office. Being the head of Sith Intelligence comes with advantages, and one of them is that no one questions her if she wants to leave work early.

It’s a quick cab ride across Kaas City to Neyna’s apartment. Ringing the doorbell leads to a half-second of silence before a volley of barks sounds from inside, followed by Neyna’s voice. ‘Hush up, Indigo. And get back from the door, you stupid drake –’

The door opens to reveal Neyna, holding their struggling kell drake by the collar. Even after all the time Lana’s known them, it’s still strange seeing them like this, out of their robes, dressed casually. Like they don’t battle the most powerful forces in the galaxy for a day job. Their eyes are tired – but they brighten, just a little, when they see Lana standing in the doorway.

‘I thought you’d just message me back,’ Neyna says. ‘I didn’t mean for you to come over here.’

‘I know. I wanted to come.’

‘Well… come on in. Sorry about Indigo. I think he can tell that I’m on edge, and it makes him snippy.’

Lana steps inside, carefully squeezing past the still-snarling kell drake. ‘It’s been a few days. Pronouns?’

‘Still they/them.’ Neyna brushes at their arms; both their skin and their shirt are, Lana realises, spattered with a wet grey-brown substance. ‘Sorry about the mess, I’ve been sculpting. Here, I’ll show you.’

They stride down the corridor, Lana following behind. She’s known Neyna’s address for a long time, but she’s never been here – and she’s unsurprised to see that there’s barely a free surface that isn’t covered in something colourful. Houseplants with rich, rubbery leaves, ornaments that Lana dimly remembers them collecting on Rishi. And, of course, their own paintings, bold splashes of colour smeared over canvas and even daubed directly onto the walls. Lana can’t help but smile. Every Sith knows passion, but she’s never met anyone who expresses it quite like Neyna does.

She follows Neyna into a small, square room with half-filled canvases stacked against the walls, cans of paint stacked on shelves, and a low table in the centre on which Neyna has placed a cylindrical lump of clay. At its top, the clay branches out into a dozen twisted fingers where Neyna has pulled it into the rough shape of a tree, bending sideways as if caught in a strong wind. No leaves, only wizened twigs.

‘It’s what they all look like now,’ Neyna says, seeing Lana staring. ‘On Ziost. I caught sight of a whole forest of them in the distance. Bare and bent double. Like they’d shatter if you touched them.’

Lana swallows. ‘How are you?’

‘I’ll be all right. I just –’ Neyna curls their fingers inwards, seizing a fistful of clay with the Force. ‘I cannot understand how anyone, even a monster like him –’ They drag their hand up, Force-pulling the clay outwards, twisting another branch into being. ‘ – can look at a world that’s full of colour and movement and life –’ They tug at the air, severing the end of the branch into a fork. ‘ – and want to destroy that.’

Their hand flies out, snatching up a tool from the tabletop and gouging it into the clay tree-trunk. Carving out knots and bark with swift, fierce strokes. ‘He must be able to feel it. What it’s like down there. It’s – there’s a million voices, clawing at your skull, and you know the worst part? It’s not like Korriban, where there’s just this constant, vague sense of anger and terror. When I was walking around on Ziost, I... I could feel the individuals.’

They drop the carving tool and walk in a circle around the table, examining their work from all sides. ‘I’d step into what used to be the doorway of a house, and I could sense every single family member who lived there. I’d walk down a street, and I could tell when I was standing in the spot where someone died. A sort of... flash of who they were, and how they felt when they realised what was coming. I felt their presence, and I felt their absence, too, and I’ve never felt anything so wrong.��

Neyna stops walking, and Lana realises just how heavily they’re breathing. She moves closer, and, when Neyna doesn’t step away, places a hand on their shoulder.

‘I wish I could give you a reason for why he’s done this. A reason that’s good enough, I mean. But that reason is never going to exist.’ Lana lets out a breath, and they’re close enough that it ruffles Neyna’s hair. ‘I’m sorry I exposed you to that. I’m sorry I sent you down there.’

‘I’m not.’ Neyna swallows, picks up the tool again, and carves out another swirl of bark. ‘I needed to feel that. I needed to realise just how much has been lost. I needed to realise how ready I am to fight him. And I will fight him, if just so I can find some way to make that bastard feel what he did. Every person whose last moments I just drank in on Ziost – I’m going to find some way to throw all of that back at him. Until he understands what he did. Until I can look him in the eye and see that he knows he killed himself the day he killed Ziost. He will regret making this my fight.’

They close their eyes, and lean in to Lana’s touch.

And suddenly it’s like there was never any distance between the two of them after Rishi. As if they never let those all those missed moments and wasted opportunities slip by them. It’s just them, standing close enough to hear each other’s breathing, and it would be so easy for Lana to turn her head right now. Stand on tiptoe and catch Neyna’s lips between hers.  

But she doesn’t. It wouldn’t be right, not now, not when Neyna is so shaken. There will be a moment, soon enough.

So Lana just closes her eyes and drinks in their presence. How very close and bright and alive they are.

‘You know what I think?’ Neyna says, their voice so quiet that Lana almost feels it more than she hears it.

‘What?’

Neyna Force-pulls a can of paint from one of the shelves, opens it, and draws a stream of the bright liquid into the air with the Force. They keep it suspended for a moment, then flick it forward, so that the paint spatters over their sculpture, covering the branches in vivid droplets.

‘I think,’ they say, ‘this could do with some colour.’

They’re smiling, and Lana feels herself doing the same. That awful, burning scream from Ziost is still thrumming at the edges of her mind, but it feels a little quieter, somehow.

They’re going to be okay.

[fandomoniumflurry]

Have it Any Other Way

Sequel to The Last Thing She Wanted

for @keepcalmimthecupcake who wanted Dean fluff and this is the continuation of the story I wrote for her over a year ago.

Dean x OFC Amy, Sam

2.6k words warnings: anxiety, panic attack, crying, kissing, language, mentions of tattooing

Taggers: @becs-bunker @hunterswearingplaid @janai-mcgarrett @ambermei

“No, No, Dean, stop. I can’t.” She was pulling against the hands that were wrapped around her wrist. It wasn’t a tight grip to the point of hurting but it was enough to keep her from getting out of his grasp. He held the glass door open with his foot, leg stretched out behind him. His torso was being pulled along with her as she tried to back out of the situation. It had been his idea but she had agreed, he wouldn’t let her get cold feet now.

When she had agreed to this, it was in bed, half asleep and wrapped in his warm embrace, his lips on her forehead. She didn’t even have to open her eyes to know he was giving her that puppy dog look. He was adamant and even if she didn’t agree to it right away, they both knew she would cave eventually. Not that it was a big deal, at least it shouldn’t be. It would be over before she knew it. It seemed easy when she was comfortable and content in bed with her boyfriend.

Now that she was outside of her safe space and wide awake in public, there was no way she could go through with it, no matter how pouty he got. And he was being really pouty, his full luscious lips pursed and drooping as he tried to plead with her. People were looking at her strangely, passersby and the patrons within the shop. Her cheeks were red with embarrassment and she could feel her heart racing in her chest. At any moment, she was going to have a full on panic attack. As much as she loved him, right now she didn’t like him very much.

He meant well and she knew that this was important to him but it didn’t make her any less anxious. His persistence could be an admirable trait. In this instance, it was about to get him punched. Perhaps he didn’t understand that she wasn’t playing around, that she wasn’t being stubborn or infuriating on purpose. He didn’t know that she was about to hyperventilate when she caught a glimpse of the whirring tool in the man’s hand over Dean’s shoulder.

A tear trekked down her cheek and it was then that the grip on her wrists slackened. He moved his foot, letting the door close as he took a step toward her. Concern was etched on his features and it only made her want to cry more. She hadn’t wanted to break down, hadn’t wanted to make a scene. But she couldn’t help it. She was just not ready for this. To any normal person, she would appear dramatic, childish and ridiculous and that made her shame and anxiety even worse.

She wrapped her arms around herself and hung her head with a sniffle. “Take me home, Dean.”

“Amy, come on-” He started, a faint smile on his face.

“Take me home now!” Her tone was commanding even though it wasn’t loud and her voice wavered slightly. He didn’t understand her rage and her reaction to the tattoo parlor but he dared not say a word for she quickly turned her back to him and stomped off to the Impala.

She was out of the car the moment Dean threw it in park in the garage of the bunker. He tried to get out quick enough to catch her but she was already down the stairs before he even got his door closed. Stepping into the underground home, Dean thought he would find her in the room they shared for the past year but the lights were off and the room was silent as the grave. It was across the hallway that held the faint sounds of sobs. In the hallway, Dean could tell that she had run to Sam. He sighed, hating himself for driving her to his brother for consultation.

He rested his head against Sam’s wooden door and his eyes closed as he listened to her tearfully tell the story to the sympathetic giant. Sam knew he was there, the shadow under the door was a dead giveaway but more than that, he knew his brother. Dean would be feeling guilty knowing he had done anything to hurt the little Italian woman.

After a few moments, Dean left them alone and headed to the kitchen where he found beer and cold pizza in the fridge. Helping himself to the mid afternoon meal, he sat down at his spot at the table with a heavy sigh and a frown on his sculpted features. Who knew how long he sat there but Sam finally entered the room. Alone. Which also caught Dean’s attention. Sam took a seat across from the older man and rested his elbows on the edge of the table and his fingers intertwined. Dean wouldn’t meet his gaze, just sipped from his bottle and waited for Sam to speak. When he finally did, it made Dean cringe.

“She cried herself to sleep in my bed.” Sam’s forehead wrinkled as he gave an empathetic stare to his big brother. “What happened?”

“She didn’t tell you?” Dean scoffed, trying to play off the fact that he felt like shit.

“Couldn’t make out a lot through her crying and trying to get her to calm down and breathe. Just something about tattoos and how her wrist hurt.” Sam’s face twisted in confusion as he tried to connect the two things to a single incident.

Dean chuckled humorlessly and took a drink from his beer again. “We went to get her an antiposession tat. She said she would get one the other day so I made an appointment with a guy in town.” Dean hated that Sam watched him and listened so intently. It made him feel even more like an ass. “We got there and she was fine. A little jittery when we got out of the car but I mean, nerves. Didn’t think anything of it. I was holding her hand as we walked to the shop and I noticed she started to slow down the closer we got and when I put my hand on the door, I didn’t realized that she had cemented herself in place until I opened the door and got held back when I moved to walk in.”

Sam was still listening, keeping quiet and allowing Dean to explain without interruption or opinion. “I pulled a little but she wouldn’t budge. Her eyes were as big as saucers and I grabbed her by the wrist to try and move her along but she pulled back. Sometimes when you’re nervous you just need a little shove, you know?” Sam’s expression soured slightly but Dean just watched the wall as he continued. “I pouted and thought maybe she was giving in but then her face just went pale and the next thing I know, she’s crying and wanting to go home.” His little brother was looking at him with a pitying frown and Dean sighed. “I sent her into an anxiety attack because I took her to get a tattoo.” His forehead came to rest on his arm that rested on the table.

“She’s got a low threshold for pain, you know that, Dean. And not to mention the social anxiety and fear of needles. That was a big step for her. You can’t just push her into it, Dean. It took a lot of strength for her to even make it that far. And the fact that you scared the hell out of her with your stubborn macho crap.” Sam was scowling softly now and Dean’s face fell. “You’ve got to be patient with her, Dean. She’s not like us, you need to let her do things in her time on her terms. After a year, you’d think you’d learn that.” His hair swayed with the light shake of his head before he stood, palm flat on the table. “I’m gonna go out. Go in there and apologize.” It wasn’t harsh but it was demanding nonetheless and it made Dean’s lips pucker. Sam looked down at him with raised brows like a scolding father.

Dean’s shoulders slumped and he nodded his head. A part of him wanted to sit and brood some more but Sam wouldn’t stop staring at him until he got up with a huff and stomped down the hallway. His steps slowed the closer he got to Sam’s room and he took in a breath before gently pushing the door open. The room was dark except for the faded glow of the alarm clock next to the bed.

She was curled up with her arms around Sam’s pillow, her face buried in the fabric that smelled like the youngest Winchester’s hair. Her legs were folded up toward her chest and her cheeks were stained with drying tears. Dean’s chest was tight and he swallowed thickly. Willing himself to take the step, he shut the door behind him and moved forward. He crawled into the other side of the bed, gently so as not to jostle the mattress and molded himself against her back. His arm folded around her waist as his face buried in her neck and dark hair. She shifted slightly, only pushing herself more into the familiar embrace. She hummed and her body relaxed. He kissed her skin and couldn’t bring himself to wake her. At least she was calm and peaceful at home with him.

His eyes closed as he soaked her in and before he knew it he was fast asleep. She had that effect on him. He couldn’t sleep without her now and he longed for her when he had to leave for a hunt without her. He only wished to keep her safe, do anything to keep her from getting hurt. But in the process of doing so, it was him who had hurt her. It wasn’t intentional but Sam was right, he should know by now that her anxiety was a huge problem and he shouldn’t have pushed her. He just cared about her so much that he couldn’t stand the thought of anything happening to her. The tattoo was just a step to keeping her safe. He hadn’t even stopped to think about how she would feel about it.

It was later that evening before he awoke alone in Sam’s room. There was no sign that Amy had even been there. Just like the OCD woman to put everything back as it was. He wished she had woke him but he could understand why she wouldn’t. Stretching as he let out a yawn, a few joints popped and he groaned. Once he sat up and threw his legs over the side, he immediately caught a familiar scent. A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth before he stood to his feet and followed the smell.

She usually hummed while she baked, she was just that chipper all the time but he didn’t hear a sound. She usually danced around in the kitchen too but she was just standing against the counter looking at her phone when she stepped down into the room. She didn’t acknowledge his presence and he wasn’t even sure she had seen him come in. So he padded quietly over to her and rested his back against the fridge in clear sight of her across from him. His arms crossed over his chest and he wore an apologetic and pitiful expression as he watched her.

When the timer went off, she set her phone down and moved to the oven, still wordless with the same lack of bounce and joy. It made his face wrinkle deeper with a frown. Her melancholy demeanor was his fault and he hated it but at this point, he wasn’t sure what to do to make it better. She pulled a red velvet cake out of the oven and set it on the stove top to cool and after shutting off the appliance, she turned to walk away. She jumped when he caught her by the wrist and the look on her face when she spun her head to glare at him, made him regret his decision of touching her.

“Ames-”

“Don’t, Dean. It’s fine.”

But he didn’t believe her, his emerald orbs seeing past her glassy hues. His features softened as his hand lifted to her forearm, gently running his fingers over her skin like wisps of a feather. “I’m sorry I pushed you. I didn’t even stop to think how it made you feel and I was an ass.” Her eyes fell to his fingers for a moment, silent as he tried to catch her gaze.

“You are an ass.” The comment made him smile and she couldn’t help but mirror the expression faintly. “I’m sorry I overreacted. I feel so stupid. It was just a tattoo and I couldn’t-”

He was grabbing her hands and pulling her closer before she could carry on. “Hey, hey, don’t apologize for your feelings, sweetheart. I should have been more sensitive.”

“No, Dean, you’re a big bad hunter and I can’t even go out of the bunker without having an anxiety attack!” She countered with irritation in her voice, not at him but at herself.

“Babe, you are the strongest woman I know. So you have anxiety, it doesn’t stop you from being the badass you are.”

“I am NOT a badass.” She scoffed, pushing his chest gently before resting her palm there.

His hands rested on her waist now and he smiled at her with such adoration that she felt the warmth of it all the way to her toes. “We all have a weakness, a flaw or whatever you wanna call it. Hell, God knows, I have a lot of faults of my own that I’m ashamed of. But you,” He lifted her chin to make her catch the seriousness of his expression. “You are perfect just the way you are. And I love you that way.”

He hadn’t meant for the words to come out and his cheeks turned red when her eyes widened. Years of knowing the eldest Winchester, she had never heard him use those words, not even speaking to his brother. And by the look on his face, she knew he had meant them. Her initial shock turned into a wide grin and she threw her arms around his neck and fell against him. Her lips attacked his as her heart swelled, the events of the day forgotten, no bitterness or anxiety remaining as she found herself lost in the arms of the man that she loved and that loved her in return.

She pulled back to look into his jade orbs and smiled. “I love you too, Dean.” His face broke with a smile that could outshine the sun and she nearly fainted within  its glow. He kissed her this time, his arms tightening around her to hold her as close as he could. She giggled when they separated for air. “Let’s just wait for a little while to get that tattoo, okay? I’ll use this pendant for now until I’m ready.” He nodded, looking down at the necklace around her neck, her fingers curled around the anti possession charm.

He also noticed that she had a silver ring hanging on the chain. He chuckled and lifted his fingers to play with the band. She looked down and smiled bashfully. “It’s the ring you were wearing when we first met. It was the first thing I saw when you offered me your hand.” They lifted their eyes simultaneously and smiled at one another before Dean rested his forehead against hers.

“I thought I lost it on that hunt a couple years ago. Turns out, you’re just a little thief. First my shirts and now my ring.” They both laughed but she didn’t regret stealing the piece of jewelry or his clothes. He belonged to her after all. And she wouldn’t have it any other way.

[0blivion-laughs]

RAY CAESAR

Many call Ray Caesar the Godfather of Digital Art, and his process is completely digital from its beginning through the printing stage. Though he is certainly seminal in his oeuvre, it is his fantastically disturbing content that has made him a cult favorite, from collectors like Madonna and Elton John to the population at large who not only know of his heartache, but embrace it. Caesar frequently talks of suffering from Dissociative Identity Disorder. Combine this with his time working in Art and Photography Department of The Hospital For Sick Children in Toronto and you are faced with a sea of controversial imagery.

“When you grow up in a dark place filled with fear and pain and cruelty, there is a tendency to find hidden places of pleasure and beauty within that world of the night,” mentions the artist. “I have always thought that the greater potential for evil and darkness that there is an even greater potential for good and light. There is a natural inner drive within the human mind to find balance in any situation and find ways of coping in a sea of turbulence. We are all stronger than we give ourselves credit for and when our conscious mind cannot handle something overwhelming in the darkness of the real world, our subconscious becomes very creative and takes its own path into an inner light. For me art is an expression of living in that duality and a visual voice to express fear and rage and sadness… and hope and calm and ultimately, love.”

SALAD DAYS

I was born in London, England in 1958, the youngest of four and much to my parent’s surprise, I was born a dog. This unfortunate turn of events was soon accepted within my family and was never again mentioned in the presence of polite company.

I was a rambunctious youth as was natural to my breed but showed a fine interest in the arts as I drew pictures incessantly on anything including the walls and floors of every room of our tiny house. After some trouble with intolerant neighbors, my family was convinced to move to Canada and it was not long before the burgeoning town of Toronto became our new home. Unfortunately the drawing continued to become somewhat atypical and aberrant and it was  impressed upon me that such images might not be suitable for public viewing. In the summer of 69, there was a valiant attempt to stop me from doodling infamous contemptible fascist dictators upside down on my stomach with a ballpoint pen. I was consoled however by the encouragement to continue penciling in faces of flamboyant cowboys such as Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, The Lone Ranger and Tonto on my toenails but was expressly forbidden to talk to them at night. It can be said that there are defining moments in a dogs life that can only be described as pivotal. Mine came when I received a gift of a flesh toned 12 inch plastic movable human doll attired in cheaply made military fatigues called “GI Joseph”. I however named him “Stanley Mulver” and immediately resigned his commission from the light infantry. My Mother helped in this by sewing small business suits and leisure wear out of leftover Christmas fabric embroidered with holly and snowmen, tinfoil shoes and one tasteful Safari suit made of tight fitting powder blue rayon that proudly shone cobalt in the summer sunlight. It wasn’t long before I had begun making enlarged wigs out of gray plasticine. These wigs soon became huge pompadours for Stanley and looked even more grand when I meticulously imbedded small hairs from my daily body and face shavings. This hirsute practice along with walking upright allowed me to fit in with other children even though my father considered it a waste of time. In short, Stanley had become a visage of the Man I could never be, of that elusive self one sometimes glimpses down the tunnel of infinite reflected mirrors. Although ridiculed by my peers, I proudly wore Stanley around my neck at all times as if to say “SEE! This is the man I will be, a good man, a kind man”. I have worked in many fields over the years, attended obedience classes and art colleges, jobs designing horrible buildings in architectural studios, medical art facilities, digital service bureaus, suspicious casino computer game companies, eventually working at computer modeling, digital animation and visual effects for television and film. Some award nominations have been attained and I have been driven in long black liquor filled limousines and walked on hind legs down red carpets in Pasadena while wearing strange smelling rented tuxedos. Things change and summer years come to an end. My change occurred one night when my Mother visited me, which was slightly unusual because she had passed away some months before, a victim to the cigarette habit she could never quite lick. Facing a wall and slowly turning I saw the right side of her face ablaze in light, her hand trying to cover the light as if she were apologetic for having it seep through. Words were said about following rabbits down holes and I was shown galleries of work which were to be my own. My Mother was not the first visitation I have had and it seems she will not be the last. I live in a brick house with my wonderful wife Jane and a coyote called Bonnie. I like eating avocados and I don’t really mind being a dog.

THE HOSPITAL FOR SICK CHILDREN For 17 years I worked in the Art and Photography Department of The Hospital For Sick Children in Toronto from 1980 until 1997. I worked in a department that documented such things as child abuse, surgical reconstruction, psychology and animal research. They were years that I will never forget, years of witnessing great sadness but also great miracles. I often awake in the middle of the night and realize I have been wondering the hallways and corridors of that giant hospital. As I lay there in the dark, I struggle to remember the fading words of those that still haunt my memories of so many years ago. It is so clear to me that this is the birthplace of all my imagery. It is appropriate that I now live my dreams for those that didn’t get a chance to live theirs…. to do otherwise would be a sin.

Much of my work at the hospital was tedious and boring in that I produced tremendous amounts of statistical data before the advent of computers  and dealt with a lot of sensitive photographic material and work for publication. Another part of my job was overwhelming in that at any given moment I could typically find myself hovering over a tiny premature infant covered with tons of equipment. I would have to sift through the equipment to make a technical diagram, a teaching tool to allow intensive care nurses to have some idea of all that tangle of machinery that kept that tiny infant alive. Other times I would have to draw a similar thing of some poor animal in the research dept that had the misfortune of being a lab animal. To this day I have developed a profound love for animals that is very important to me. On a few occasions I dealt with forensic material for the court or sensitive medical documentation that would for me be overwhelming. I worked on board games and flash cards for brain damaged children and some of the early computer animations of the cryogenic removal of a brain tumors. Teaching hospitals are like tiny cities and whenever you think you have seen it all, reality slaps you in the face and shows you something that makes you re-evaluate everything. I learned in my life that human hands can be cruel and unkind but more often they can perform heart surgery or write a check to build a new wing of a hospital or just simply brush away a child’s tear.” Miracles do exist but they are often the product of our own actions and the incredible work of of the unsung heroes that care for children.

MY PROCESS

I create models in a three dimensional modeling software called Maya and cover these models with painted and manipulated photographic textures that wrap around them like a map on a globe. Each model is then set up with a invisible skeleton that allows me to pose and position the figure in its three dimensional environment. Digital lights and cameras are added with shadows and reflections simulating that of a real world.First the models are sculpted similar to pushing and pulling the surface of a piece of clay. I am often reminded of being in preschool with my huge chunk of Plasticine. I once modeled a Plasticine shoe but my father forbade me to wear it in public. I then create an inner structure of joints similar to a skeleton that allows me to pose the figure with a spine, shoulders, elbows and even finger joints. Many heads are modeled with many a different expression and these can be blended to create a subtle look similar to the one my wife has when I have done something suspicious.I color the models first in a very simple way, then each surface in the model is wrapped with a texture that may be painted digitally such as a flower petal or from a digital photograph such as a wood surface. I collect textures the way some people collect little silver spoons and I have a story about each texture in my collection such as the one about my father’s hip operation scar or the picture I convinced my gastroenterologist to give me of the inside of my colon. My favorite textures to collect are skin textures, as I have a legitimate excuse to ask people to expose large areas of bare skin.As my work is printed I am often asked about my original, but it exists only in the computer in a dimensional world of depth, width and height. I am fascinated by the concept that this 3 dimensional space exists much as another reality and even though I turn the computer off, I am haunted by the fact that this space is still there existing in a mathematical probability, and the space that we live in now might not be all that different.

[alexanderessex3dstoryart]

Character Design - Sculpting in Blender - 07/12/20

For today’s lecture, we had a look at sculpting in Blender in preparation for when we have to model our characters for the character design project as well as maybe for the props as well. Before we got ourselves familiarised with the software, the theming for the lecture was to create a krampus like head to help us understand all the different tools the software had to offer. Learning the software itself was a bit confusing at first as I found it quite strange how some elements were similar to Maya but not at the same time. For example the camera as its binded differently which made it confusing at times when I was switching between the softwares. 

Once I got the basic fundamentals of how the software worked and the controls, I grabbed a reference I found off the internet and tried my best to replicate the head whilst making the it my own creation too. Going along with the lecture, we covered how to create elements of the face and head like creating the front part for the face and the back of the head using the grab tool which I also used to create indentations as well and extrusions like the the nose and horns. One part I found really useful going along the lecture was how to add objects to the model and making them symmetrical onto the face so that I only had to do one part of for example a left ear to make the right ear. This process was really useful as after the lecture had finished, I used this tool to go out of the sculpture layout into the object layout to add the eyes and ears to the character’s head/face. The more and more I started to use this process, the more it felt like I was using Zbrush which was really positive as Blender is now a piece of software that I feel comfortable for modelling. 

Reference:

Below is a screen capture of the model’s head halfway through the process. This features some extra detail I’ve added to the model like to the nose and forehead as I wanted to play around with adding detail to the model as if though it was the final design to a project. With the horns, I initially struggled with a bit as one part of the lecture that I couldn’t get my head around was smoothing the model pieces out as they would become very pixelated and janky to look at. This was because I didn’t have both dynatopology on to allow the smoothing to occur as well as using the clay strip brush to apply the material onto smooth it out something I will learn before making the character models later on. But even though I struggled with the horns and smoothing in general, i overall had a really fun experience using the software to make everything as the modeling process is really fun and engaging and something I could spend endless amount of time on. This is why I pushed myself to work on additional features like the beard and play around with sculpting the hair. Whilst it doesn’t look the best, I had fun playing around with the different tools available to me to see what they did to the object as i just wanted to be really experimental in my creative process 

Below is the final piece I completed today with the ears added to the design with a front and side view of Krampus. Whilst I could spend endless amount of time refining every detail to the head, I’m really impressed with what I’ve managed to come up with during the lecture and out of it as the experience was so much fun to do. The ears were are a new addition compared to the last screen capture which I decided to do in an interesting way where I use half of the new object for the ear and its details and use the actual head model for the depth of the ear. This process in the end acted very tedious to me and in hindsight, probably was easier to create the whole ear by itself as one shape rather than having switch between the two shapes as it was a very cumbersome process. But for what I’ve made today, I feel really proud of what I’ve managed to accomplish.

I think looking ahead in the future, I feel confident being thrown into Blender again to create another character like it as I find the process all the more enjoyable and makes me eager to start modeling for the prop and character. For this project and future processes, I’m going to be looking into more tutorials and a tutorial that Adam will be posting later to really freshen up my skills and practise myself modelling in the software. 

[faequeen40]

Feathers

Chapter 2 aka Where Haggar decides to further fuck up Lotor’s shit post rescue.

The first piece for my Birthday Bomb!

Agony.

Agony was all she could experience for the first few moments after she pulled herself from the twisting ether of the universe’s collective quintessence. It was but one way for druids to travel and no one was better at navigating the swirling corridors than Haggar herself.

It was a way to teleport instantaneously, to leave behind the weakness of the flesh temporarily in order to move from point A to point B.

If not for that particular talent, she wasn’t sure how well her escape from Team Voltron would have gone.

She had been so close. Her claws had rested upon the Blue Paladin’s throat. He had been at her mercy! The others were about to bow to her whims, to give themselves up in an act of misguided camaraderie and love for one another.

And then that blasted Blue Lion had shoved her face through the wall and the Blue Paladin, the weapon that Lotor had spent so much time lovingly crafting, threw her like a rag doll.

His spirit had not been cowed. There were no fractures in his soul in that moment. He had faced her down with a fierce snarl, uncaring of the way her claws had ripped at his already scarred throat.

If anything, Lotor had only made him all the more dangerous. When she did get her hands on him, it would take a long, long time before she could break him down to a point that she would make him useful.

And with her Emperor’s health in such decline, it would be a long while before she could garner the forces to lead such an ambitious endeavor.

With grasping arms, Haggar dragged herself over to the nearest wall, black blood smearing the grimy floors of Lotor’s flagship, the wounds at her shoulder and hip continuing to bleed sluggishly, even as the quintessence that made up the core of her very existence worked tirelessly in heal her.

She was a being of nearly pure quintessence now, one with the void of those who existed beyond the scope of mortal comprehension. Such wounds wouldn’t kill her.

Oh no. Far from it.

But they were painful, both physically and in the blow they dealt to her pride. She had let herself grow cocky and assured in her success. She had depended on the faulty services of others, even if those others were her druids, her children as it were.

She had forgotten the prowess of the members of Team Voltron. Haggar had blissfully looked past the fact that those warriors had been the ones to incapacitate her beloved Emperor.

It was a foolish mistake and one she would not be prone to making in the future. She would remember the fierce skill of her Champion that wonderfully sculpted tool of warfare. She would not suffer another wound at the hands of a weapon she had created.

And then the half-breed. She would do well to remember the desperation a mate bond could inspire and the strength it could fuel. He would not find her as easy an opponent the next time they met.

There would be another meeting. She guaranteed it. The plans for the Blue Paladin had not changed. Lotor had given her a glorious taste of a gift, a weapon for her people that could potentially take Voltron down.

Permanently.

She would learn patience from this encounter. Millennia without true opposition could make one weak when it came to actual confrontation.

Voltron had already been most useful in changing the way things were done. Every encounter with them grew her understanding by leaps and bounds. Particularly in that of quintessence and her pet project with the Robeasts.

And the humans themselves…

They were so extraordinarily adaptable in comparison to many of the other races that found themselves beneath Galran rule. The Champion had taken to the weapon she had created like a fish to water. The alterations to the Blue Paladin’s genetics could bear all kinds of fruit.

What she wouldn’t give to have a larger pool to draw from…

Her experimentation could lead to the death of resistance for all time.

The thought bolstered her and she rested against the wall of the hallway, breaths little more than wet wheezes as her body redirected energy and quintessence to the injuries she had suffered. The wound at her hip was painful, almost unbearably so.

The half-breed had nearly wedged his blasted luxite blade into her very bones. Such an injury did not heal easily and even the slightest movement taxed it. Her persistence in fighting against the Champion and the Altean whelp did not aid in her current predicament.

She felt a snarl curl over her lips at the thought of Altea’s poor lost princess and she curled her claws tightly. Allura had nearly cost Haggar everything when they had attacked Zarkon’s flagship.

Between her and those traitors, her precious prodigies, the Druids of the Four Directions were no more. Her power to experiment with Robeasts was put on hold until she could adequately train new ones to take their place.

And after this fiasco, such an endeavor would be time-consuming. More so than she had previously thought. Thordis had been one of her first picks and now thanks to Lotor’s lax security, they were dead.

The Altean child would get what was coming to her. Haggar swore it. She would bind the Princess in chains so heavy that even the hope of escape would be burdened. She would be a symbol of the death of the resistance. A symbol even greater than her current figurehead status.

A child Queen without a kingdom to return to. It was so tragically poetic that Haggar couldn’t help but smile.

As the burn of agony slowly ebbed from the wound on her hip, Haggar couldn’t help the way her thoughts turned to wayward Prince of the Empire. Even if Zarkon was well enough to command, he had still requested Lotor’s return, if for no other reason than to solidify his hold.

But the brat had done little in the way of real help. It came as no surprise that he was banished almost as soon as he had begun to act.

His preoccupation with aesthetics was almost as bad as Zarkon’s obsession with the Black Lion. Perhaps this would tame the Prince a bit.

A wicked smile crossed Haggar’s face and she pushed to her feet, ignoring the burning in her shoulder as she glided down the halls.

This was an opportunity. An opportunity so rare that she had not even thought to hope for its arrival.

If she was correct, the Blue Paladin had not left this ship without getting in at least some form of revenge, and if not him, then the Red Paladin would not be convinced to leave without some sort of recompense.

Lotor would owe her.

He would owe her his very life.

No longer would he be content to flaunt his strength in her face. No longer would he ignore her council.

Because it would no longer be council.

It would be an order.

A life debt to a Galra was more serious than anyone could understand. And he would owe her one so great that it would consume all that arrogance he wore like a cloak.

It didn’t take long to find the mess left of him.

She blasted the faulty control room doors open without a second thought, the blinking metal splayed wide and smoking as she stepped through.

Immediately the stench of blood and viscera assailed her and she wrinkled her nose, turning her sickly yellow gaze to crumpled heap of Galran Prince left against the wall.

Blue black pooled around his body, remaining eye half-lidded and glazed. The whole left side of his face was gouged and grotesque, a mess that even made Haggar’s stomach turn.

She padded closer softly, eyes searching out the rest of his injuries. The caved in plates on his chest dripped with more blood and she huffed out a sigh.

A Galran blaster then.

The Blue Paladin had been the one to take vengeance.

A perfect shot to the chest with a faulty blaster and then the eye.

A trophy perhaps?

For a sharpshooter as accomplished as the Blue Paladin, it was somewhat ironic that he chose to partially blind his captor.

Haggar could appreciate some irony.

“Mother…?” Lotor croaked, voice so weak it was little more than a whisper.

Haggar frowned, containing the strange ripple at the core of her being that reacted at that almost pleading word.

She was no mother.

She was Haggar, witch of Zarkon and destroyer of worlds. She was made of quintessence and stardust, the anger and fury of thousands of thwarted souls shrieking in her veins.

She was more than a mother.

“You are mistaken, Lotor.”

Lotor’s remaining eyelid fluttered briefly, a hint of lucidity returning to his gaze. “Haggar….I take it…that you failed?”

A snarl curled over her lips and she stepped closer, taking no care to be gentle with her steps. Pointed shoes dug painfully into Lotor’s sprawled legs and he groaned. “No thanks to you. You couldn’t even properly break the human. You were too concerned with your ideals of aesthetic and your own wants that you grew distracted. You were foolish, Lotor.”

“A reprimand…on my death bed.” Lotor chuckled, “I cannot say….I expected any less.”

“Death bed? Oh no.” Haggar smirked, a brief flash of panic crossing the Prince’s face, “You won’t be dying here, Prince Lotor.”

“I prefer…death’s embrace over…anything you might…offer.” Lotor hissed, trying without success of pull away from her.

“I don’t think you have much choice in the matter, Lotor.” She sniffed, crouching in front of him, their faces level, “Because you will not be dying here. Your life will continue from here.”

“I don’t want your help.” Lotor growled, “I refuse…to owe you a life debt.”

Haggar pressed a hand lovingly to the unmarred side of Lotor’s face, a grin pulling at her lips. “We’ve had more than enough of what you want, Lotor. From now on, things will go as I dictate.”

Quintessence sparked from her hands and danced across Lotor’s skin, a slapdash patch-job blazing into existence.

There was no saving his eye.

But she had crafted replacements before. They were always better than the limb before.

He howled as her magic went to work, the quintessence under her command mending as quickly as she dared in her weakened state.

Lotor wouldn’t die.

Not just yet.

She had plans for him…and his precious trophy.

Happy flipping birthday to me!!

[sanctferum]

OK, Dangan Ronpa V3: Chapter 3: begin!

Last time, Kirumi turned out to be the killer, and also the Prime Minister of Japan despite being a high schooler, and then she tried to escape being executed. Monokuma used her attempted escape as the execution stage, and she died, and Monosuke was destroyed as well. Afterwards, Gonta couldn’t find any familiar constellations in the sky, meaning that the Ultimates are not in Japan. Then Kokichi revealed that Maki was not the Ultimate Child Caregiver, but the Ultimate Assassin. In doing so, he revealed having known her true talent the entire time, which isn’t gonna help with his already extremely low trustworthiness factor. Between that and the revelations about Maki that he told us, the game won’t be boring, which is good for him, and bad for us.

I wonder if we’ll find another grafitti thing? Something to give us more clues than just “horse a”.

The chapter opens up with a look at what I assume is the disaster that wipes out Japan, destroying Kirumi’s nation and killing Kaito’s grandparents in the process.

A meteor.  A meteor shower that is destroying cities…and the meteor itself, if it impacts, will likely spell The End. The apocalypse. RIP humanity.

The government is urging citizens to get to shelters in subway stations. Will that really work?

Then, whoever is watching the news turns off the TV.

How could this happen? Is Monokuma really so godlike as to summon a meteor? What is this Final Fantasy VII bullshit?

“Chapter 3: Transfer Student From Beyond The Grave”

Are we gonna learn about Rantaro in this chapter, or…I dunno…

The day after the 2nd class trial, everyone is going to Maki’s lab. Guess she doesn’t have a reason to keep people from entering anymore…

Weapons. Weapons everywhere. Enough weapons to easily prove that Kokichi is telling the truth.

Shuichi guesses that Kokichi found out from the motive video…which is where Ryoma must have found out. But no. It’s like Kokichi said before, he knew from the start.

Maki hid her identity, stayed under cover…was it so she could kill us? I don’t think so. Like Keebo says, she’s had plenty of chances so far, and has taken none of them.

Maki is in her dorm room, with the door locked.

Himiko volunteers Gonta to grab Maki and lock her up somewhere…presumably somewhere she doesn’t have the key to, unlike her dorm. Tenko volunteers as well. Better to sneak attack her before she can sneak attack us.

Kaito says he’ll do something about the situation, and Kokichi promptly leaves all responsibility to him, then insults Gonta. And then Monokuma shows up, claiming time is of the essence. The prize for clearing the class trial…is not here. The Kubs have it. Monokuma calls for them a few times, to no avail.

And then they show up. They’re so cute, Monokuma’s gonna go bald from looking at them. Sure enough, several patches of his exterior fall off, as does his right eye. Monodam continues to not hand out the prize. Monokuma is confused, and also is no longer damaged at all.

Monodam says the Kubs are not Monokuma’s slaves. Is he really gonna try and overthrow Monokuma?

Yup. Monodam says he’ll be calling the shots now. The other Monokubs are following him. Getting nervous, Monokuma?

Monokuma drops the nervous act and tries to re-assert his authority. That’s when the Monokubs invite in some guests. The Exisals all show up…this mutiny is real.

That WAS something I’d thought about, yeah…whether Monokuma could pilot Monokid and now Monosuke’s exisals. Apparently not.

I wonder if Monodam has any particular feelings on whether the killing game should go on or not?

Monokuma freaks out, and goes bald again. But he doesn’t seem to be changing back this time…

Monodam did bring the prize! He just wasn’t gonna give it over under Monokuma’s orders, I guess.

A Golden Hammer, Magic Key, and Ninja Scroll. Well I know where the key and scroll go…where does the hammer go?

Monodam is enforcing getting along. The killing games must be at a pause. A temporary one, obviously, but oh well.

Another flashback light? Nice.

Kokichi dislikes the Kubs, and robots in general. Keebo is understandably unhappy about this remark.

Monokuma is weirdly inert…is he broken?

Let’s leave the Ultimate Assassin’s Lab, then.

Angie is creepy. Gonta still sees a tiny bug out of the corner of his eye sometimes, but it’s never there when he looks.

Tsumugi is still trying to process all of yesterday’s BS…Ryoma dying, Kirumi being the Prime Minister, Maki being an assassin.

Kiyo is being exceedingly creepy about the whole Kirumi situation. Well done, Kiyo, I guess.

Using the key on the drawing of a door makes the wall collapse. Beyond is…the fourth floor of the school.

Tsumugi is worried about whether the 4th floor is dangerous. Gonta will protect everyone! Tsumugi compares him to Tuxedo Mask from Sailor Moon, confusing the poor guy. They go up the stairs, and we follow.

The music changed, and…uh…what the fuck is this?

The Monokubs briefly show up. Monophanie says a brutal murder took place here, but that it was fictional.

Tsumugi thinks this floor doesn’t feel like a school at all. Rather, it’s like a separate building.

How expensive was this place to build? Why would Monokuma bring us here to cultivate our talents, but also to kill each other?

Gonta does not like this place. There’s a stain on the wall that’s way too close to blood for comfort…Tsumugi thinks Monokuma created this creepy effect and the “bloodstain” isn’t real. The creepiness of this place feels almost hammy.

Three empty rooms, huh? Left one first.

It’s dimly lit by two wall torches and completely empty. No windows or anything…if the candle goes out, complete darkness. The floorboards aren’t nailed down, either. And there’s a hole in one corner of the room.

According to Gonta, the other two rooms are exactly like this. Except the center room has a hidden Monokuma! Wait, how do I get it? I can’t turn around. Um…maybe it isn’t a hidden Monokuma? I dunno.

Then there’s this big weird room…ah, it’s Kiyo’s Lab.

There’s a book about a the “fabled Caged Dog village”, which had been destroyed long ago. There’s also a statue of a dog standing on a cage. The village was known for harboring dark powers and spell, so a feudal lord destroyed it. The only survivor was a girl who wrote down her experience…this is her book, then. It’s rumored that the dark arts and spells of this book are extremely potent…I bet Himiko would love this.

A book soaked in the essence of the surviving girl’s grudge against the feudal lord…this is weird. Let’s move on.

A rusted golden katana is in another case. It looks like it’s still sharp…best watch out, then. It might be the next weapon.

Oh it isn’t made of gold. It’s just gold leaf. I was gonna say gold paint, but no, that’s in the original Dangan Ronpa.

Kiyo starts to explain the historical significance of the katana, before Kokichi runs over to look at it. When did he even get in here? He grabs the katana, despite Kiyo’s warnings, and unsheathes it.

After Kokichi decides it’s a potential murder weapon, Kiyo threatens him and Kokichi gives the katana back after sheathing it.

The gold plating flakes off of it and sticks to his hand. Well ain’t that familiar…

Kiyo threatens Kokichi some more, then asks if Shuichi wishes to converse with the dead. The Caged Dog Village had many rituals. Such as…seances. The Caged Child is the name of this ritual, and it is performed using the dog statue and the cage. Kiyo wasn’t even sure of it’s existence until now…but now that he knows for sure that the artifact is real, he wants to try using it. Shuichi does not want anything to do with the occult. He doesn’t believe it’s real, and anyways, he has nothing to say to the dead right now. Maybe, at some point in the future, if everyone escapes and everyone is alive and friends…maybe then he will have something to say to Kaede…other than that, no interest.

Kiyo says that the dead should only be called on at the right time, anyways. Hmmm.

There’s two doors here. Back into the hall, to…

Um, what the fuck is this. The floor’s all red, and there’s strange designs and patterns on the wall…there’s a little shrine in the hallway too, with a blank hanging scroll. Next chapter, we’ll no doubt get an ink quill for surviving the trial, and it’ll open a new path.

There’s a weird rainbow door here, too. Judging by the minimap symbol, it’s Angie’s lab. The back door is locked, so let’s go through the front door.

The front door is locked too. Angie’s lab isn’t accessible yet? Weird.

Kokichi arrives to claim to have a secret technique to open the door. Before he can pick the lock or whatever, the door unlocks. Was Angie already inside? No wait, the Ultimate labs don’t have locks in the first place.

And yet, here is clearly Angie, having just unlocked the door.

Yeah, Shuichi also thinks it’s weird that this lab can be locked, and no other lab can.

The Monokubs show up. Monotaro argues with Monophanie, then starts to freak out when he realizes Monodam is judging him. Sorry dude, you are very likely to be the next Monokub to die.

The reason the lab is locked is because Angie needs to be alone to concentrate and channel Atua.

It’s weird that the Monokubs knew that in advance, though. They also got her favorite art supplies and sculpting tools. Hmmm.

Monodam claims to know everything about everyone here, and that Monokuma and Monodam’s fellow Kubs also do. But he says he’s gonna be friends with everyone, and that’s why he’s using this knowledge.

Kokichi does not like Monodam. He’s probably the only one here who still wants killing’s to happen too. I’m keeping an eye on you, Kokichi.

There’s only one key to this room. Monodam eats the key, so that no one can use it for murder. OK, that just happened. His fellow Kubs cart him off after he starts to look ill.

Monokuma once claimed that the school was specifically made for the 16 (at the time) Ultimates here. Angie’s lab isn’t a generic art lab…it’s a lab specifically for Angie. That points to Monokuma having told the truth that time…

There’s exposed beams on the ceiling. Kokichi wonders if it’s supposed to be like that, or if it wasn’t finished in time for this place to open up?

There’s hammers, chisels, wax…apparently death masks used to be made of wax.

The rear door has a sliding lock, but the front door has a knob and cylinder lock. According to Angie, it’s a good representation of cultural differences. Western art emphasizes symmetry, but Angie prefers asymmetry and partition functions. We can’t leave through this door, so we have to use the front door.

That’s all we can do on the fourth floor for now.

If we try to enter Ryoma’s lab, we get Shuichi musing on how Ryoma couldn’t make the other Ultimates his reason to live.

Same with Kirumi’s lab. I can’t get into Kaede’s lab either, so maybe we can investigate them in Free Time. The game also won’t let us into the basement, so there’s nothing there to use these items on. The Othello door is still locked…I guess we’ll search outside.

The Exisals are renovating the place still, but a lot of the plant matter has been cleaned up. It’s becoming more beautiful…just like Himiko is, according to herself. Himiko blushes over her own compliment to herself. Also, the reason she always has the same expression on her face is because it’d be a pain to make a new expression every time something happens.

She was standing here with Tenko, but they walk off, letting us explore more.

In the courtyard, near the ninja statue that we’re gonna use the scroll on, Tenko is ruminating on how she said she was sick of the killing game after the trial ended. She still is sick of it, but she no longer wants to stay trapped here – rather, she wants to escape with everyone! With Himiko beside her, she will fight to carry on Kaede and Kirumi’s wishes. And Rantaro’s wishes too, even though he’s a guy, because might as well. And Ryoma’s, but he had no wishes to speak of, so that’s a dead-end there.

Himiko is still upset that people think she escaped the water tank through usage of a mundane escape hatch rather than magic. Yeah, sure. Let’s hope she doesn’t get a hold of Kiyo’s Caged Dog Book, though.

Himiko is also upset that her show did the exact opposite of make people happy. Not your fault, Himiko! Also, she used a lot of MP escaping, and therefore had no mana left to kill the piranhas with, which would have at least preserved Ryoma’s body.

Ninja statue! I still have no idea where the hammer leads to or what to use it on.

Putting the scroll in the ninja fox’s hand makes a building rise out of the ground…with “Welcome!!!” on it. Tenko instantly recognizes it as a dojo. Well if that’s anyone Ultimate Lab, it’d be yours I guess.

What kind of technology made the building rise up like that, rising from the ground like a popup picture book? Himiko claims it was her magic. Yeah, yeah, sure. Nothing to do with that scroll at all.

Himiko is super excited to investigate the dojo! She invites Shuichi and Himiko inside, but also says she’d be happier if Shuichi declined, since he’s a degenerate male. Too bad, I’m a detective, I NEED to investigate strange places.

Investigating the building has Tenko recognize it as what must be her Ultimate Research Lab. She goes inside. Himiko doesn’t care, but Tenko pushes her in anyways.

It is indeed Tenko’s lab. There’s suspended scaffolding, so that’d be useful for filiming a kung-fu movie. There’s a giant wooden doll in the back, which Shuichi thinks is a totem of some sort. I bet it’s a training dummy.

Himiko is uncomfortable in a place so lacking in mana. Physical attacks are not her forte, magical ones are.

Tenk’s mad that Shuichi entered her lab despite being male, but also super excited to have her own lab! Sparring here will be great!

When Shuichi points out that she has no sparring partner, she grabs him, and tosses him over her head to the mat below. Looks like you’re her sparring partner for a bit…don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll be over soon, once you DIE!

As Shuichi gets up and brushes himself off, Tenko brings up something out of left field. Shuichi doesn’t have a lot of confidence in himself. It’s true. He promised Kaede to be confident in himself, but hasn’t fulfilled that promise on anything more than a superficial level. Tenko says that since Shuichi lacks self-esteem, he doubts his own strength. He’s become more confident than he was when he first came here, but he still questions himself. It’s all true, though I doubt Neo-Aikido will solve his problems.

Neo Aikido, a Japanese martial art that treasures a pure heart above all else…

With Himiko’s magic and Tenko’s strength, they could pack a wallop. Himiko immediately decides that training to do such a thing sounds like a pain. Tenko responds by flipping her over and throwing her to the floor. Are you gonna do that to everyone who comes in here? Tenko diagnoses Himiko as too shy to show her emotions. I think her being too lazy sounds closer to right.

Tenko challenges Himiko to train with her. And afterwards they can hit the showers together. Your heart isn’t quite as pure as you think, Tenko…

Himiko hurt her back, being thrown like that. She is very angry at Tenko. Soon, Tenko will be able to enjoy her new life as a frog. (Just kidding. Using the Toad spell is too much of a pain for Himiko.)

What else is here? A balance pole? Nothing besides that and the mat left to examine. Hopefully the game will give us hints about where to use the hammer.

As Shuichi leaves the dojo, he spots Miu and Keebo conversing. Miu…sure sounds like she’s trying to convince Keebo to fuck her…as Kokichi might say, “Do robots have dicks”? Maybe Miu wants to sit on Keebo while he vibrates? Either way, Keebo isn’t flushed in the face, but only because he’s a robot. He sure looks uncomfortable.

Nevermind, his face turned red after all. I guess he has a blush function installed? Miu pulls him into the Ultimate Inventor’s Lab. Poor guy…

Shuichi is more worried about Keebo than worried about what he might see if he looks in the lab. So he does. Inside is a strange sound…and a strange sight. Miu, laying atop a struggling Keebo, attempting to get her jollies off?

Dust and debris? Is she…trying to clean his systems? In an extremely suggestive manner? Is this the game’s equivalent of Dangan Ronpa 2 and Nekomaru doing “it” (massage, not sex) to Akane? Probably. Except…this wouldn’t be weird if Miu wasn’t making it weird.

Whoever put Keebo together? Professor Idabachi or whatever?

Keebo stop making this even weirder than it actually is…I know unlike Miu you don’t mean to but…

“…I closed the door without a word.” And headed to the casino to get a nice large alcoholic drink, or perhaps some brain bleach.

Maintenance on Keebo’s body. Right. That’s obviously all there is to it. Not thinking about this anymoooooooorrrrrrreeeeeeeee!!!

Poor Shuichi. Now to find out where the hammer goes.

Maybe we can smash the stupid statue in the shrine? Oh look, a hidden Monokuma on the shrine’s steps. Gotcha. Nope, not the shrine. We just get the same inner monologue as when examining the Ultimate Maid’s Lab.

Where the heck do I use the hammer? It must be usable on wherever the flashback light is hidden, so…

The maps has only one exclamation point – near Gonta and Tsumugi on the 4th floor. We already talked to them, though. Maybe we needed to investigate the other places, and then come back to the 4th floor?

Going back to the 4th floor, we find Tsumugi and Gonta, and…Monokuma. He’s still balding and missing his eye, though. When Shuichi asks what he’s even doing here, he disappears down the hallway…we find him near the right side classroom. Why is he waiting outside an empty classroom, though?

Monokuma is looking at Shuichi, then his gaze moves to the picture on the wall. Back and forth…Shuichi inspects the canvas, only to realize it’s no canvas. It’s a pane of glass. Hammertime feels imminent…but knowing Monokuma, and knowing he’s leading us here, this is a trap, meant for him to seize power back from Monodam and restart the killing game. What is the flashback light gonna make us remember this time?

A hidden passageway behind the glass…with his job done, Monokuma disappears. I do not trust this at all.

If the rest of the 4th floor is a hammy haunted house, this part is like…a factory. I am reminded by that sword that we know nothing about the facility where the Ultimates suppressed their memories.

There’s a door with what appears to be a giant camera lens on it…an Ultimate Lab, or…?

Inside is…a computer room. A giant machine is inside, marked with a giant X. It is silver with a glowing green button in the center. Could it be…a giant Xbox?! Oh hey look who’s here, the Kubs.

Monodam praises the Ultimates’ teamwork in solving the painting puzzle. Should we tell him just who we teamed up with to solve it? Probably not.

The puzzle wasn’t that difficult...well, not in-universe at least, and not after we found out where it was…

Yes, Monodam. The outdated piece of junk that is your father helped us…making me very suspicious in the process.

The computer room, with a giant computer. A computer that’s amazing! You could create entire worlds with the computer! Then, is this what created the world we’re in now? What the hell is it? Is this a digital world after all? Are we just AIs created by a hijacked Neo World Program or something?

Monotaro wasn’t supposed to tell us that. Monodam is worried that Monophanie knew that, and let Monotaro take the fall…I’m not sure if Monophanie or Monotaro will be the next Kub victim, or whether they or Monokuma himself will be the ones to permanently depose Monodam…

Monodam warns his two siblings that not getting along will result in punishment…for both of them. Yeah, he’s gonna totally get killed off by his siblings…

Shuichi can’t make heads or tails about the computer. Let’s investigate the treasure chest instead. Time for memories! Let’s gather everyone up and use this Flashback Light.

Kokichi arrives after we find the light, tells us he’ll gather everyone in the dining hall, and leaves. Time to put this baby to the test. I suppose the remaining six labs, including Rantaro’s, will have to wait till another chapter. I do wonder if anyone besides Rantaro will die before their lab becomes accessible…If no, then Kaito, Kokichi, Keebo, Tsumugi, and Shuichi himself are safe. I’m not too worried about Kiyo, either. Angie, Tenko, and Himiko seem like the people who might have a chance of dying in this chapter…I don’t think Miu will die, since I saw a screenshot of her that said case 3 on it. So if she isn’t the blackened, she’s safe. And Maki…I doubt she’ll let us hang out with her in this chapter. We couldn’t hang out with her last chapter either. So she’ll probably survive till at least chapter 4, so we have free time chances with her.

Maki wasn’t invited by Kokichi to the dining hall. Kaito hasn’t shown up, either…bet he’ll come by with Maki in reluctant tow.

As for the big computer? Keebo can’t do much with it. A robot that isn’t computer-savvy…huh. Miu sounds interested in it, though.

Kiyo asks what Keebo’s talent is. Ultimate Robot, of course. If Kokichi can be an Ultimate Supreme Leader, Keebo being a robot can be a talent.

I can’t imagine Keebo being good at comedy routines…

Hate to say it, but Kokichi is right…Keebo being a robot isn’t just his Ultimate talent, it’s his only talent. Perhaps the professor who built Keebo could be considered the Ultimate Roboscientist, but Keebo has nothing he’s particularly good at besides being himself.

As Shuichi is about to mention what Monotaro said, Kaito shows up. Sure enough, he’s brought Maki. She is none too thrilled to be here, and immediately upon Kiyo calling her a professional killer, she tries to leave. Kaito stops her by grabbing her arm. You’re on thin ice, Kaito. Hope you can skate.

So, his remark about taking down Maki’s mask was…he can’t bring himself to believe Maki could kill people in cold blood. I dunno, I can.

Keebo asks if Maki is really the Ultimate Assassin. Someone’s who’s killed people before. She says yes. (to which question, though?)

Maki hid it because she knew everyone would react this way, and she was right, and I was right about her reasons for hiding her talent.

Whenever anyone learns Maki’s talent, they fear her. Fear turns to hate, turns to a pre-emptive strike. She’s revealed her identity before. Every single time, it ends with someone trying to kill her.

Kokichi wonders if everything Maki has been through has left her unable to value human life. Kaito says she’s an assassin, not a murderous fiend. Nice DR1 reference there, Kaito.

Maki knew they would react like this, and that when she explained herself, they wouldn’t believe her. She tried her best to avoid everyone, but Kaito kept dragging her into things.

Maki makes a declaration. She has no intent to kill any other Ultimate here. She will kill anyone who tries to kill her, but she won’t kill those who don’t try a pre-emptive strike. I believe her.

C’mon, Shuichi. This is where Kaede would’ve reaffirmed that she still believes in Maki.

Shuichi remains silent, and Maki leaves. No flashback light for her, I guess.

In the end, though, everyone agrees to use the light to get more memories, more clues. But they must not use those clues as motivation to leave, lest murders happen.

Inside of that light, Shuichi sees…a shrine. The shrine from chapter 2’s opening. But this time…it’s filled in. Filled in with 16 pictures. 16 memorial pictures, flanked by candlelight…and part of the scene from chapter 2. But a few lines in, Shuichi regains his senses, and the scene ends.

But…how can that be? Shuich is bewildered. How could he have witnessed his own funeral? Not just his own funeral, either. A funeral service held in memory of all the Ultimates who were and are here.

Everyone proceeds to freak out. They all had the same memory restored…

Gonta theorizes that they might already be dead. But then where are they now? The Academy sure is hell, but not literally, right?

Kaito decides the memory must have been of, maybe, a play they did for a school festival. C’mon, man. Don’t turn away from the truth…whatever it might be.

He does have a point that it’s awfully strange that they were able to watch their own funeral, and are still alive right now…I have a theory, actually.

What if Shuichi’s memory of wanting to die with everyone else was…

What if the Ultimates DID die with everyone else? A few survivors holding a memorial service would make sense.

And as for how they’re alive now…it’s one step further than Dangan Ronpa 2. In DR2, the characters were avatars, created from their own memories pre-Hope’s Peak. But they still had flesh and blood bodies that those avatars were attached to. What if…the Ultimates are just perfect simulations? In which case, the end of the world that the computer created would result in their own existences disappearing, without there even being real bodies to retreat to like in DR2.

It’s also awfully suspicious that everyone had the same memory. What if it was 12 (well, 11, since Maki left early) copies of the same memory? It might not even be a memory that they themselves had. They’ve got no way of knowing, right?

Kaito states that it’s definitely false, he’s alive and hearty! Miu makes a hard-on joke, Tenko asks what I’m sure is a completely innocent question about what males being hard in the morning means, Miu gets pissed that someone else is making dirt comments (even without meaning to.)

Himiko and Kaito are kinda disappointed that the memory this time wasn’t worth much. Kokichi is also disappointed…but not in the memory. He claims that his disappointment in his classmates is a lie, so we don’t get to hear what he was talking about, but I bet it’s turning away from the truth because it doesn’t seem to make sense at the moment.

We eat and return to our rooms. Shuichi ponders asking Monokuma for assistance in figuring the whole funeral thing out, but decides against it. So. He can lie in bed trying to solve a problem without knowing the necessary facts. OR, he could have Free Time. Who to hang out with? I’m interested in knowing more about Kaede and Rantaro’s lives, and finding out Ryoma’s backstory, but that’s impossible till Academy Mode or whatever the School Mode equivalent is called. Or, until we play through the game again. We hung out with Kokichi and maxed out his friendship fragments…and Maki doesn’t want to get involved with anyone. I wasn’t planning on hanging out with Kirumi, but she’s also off the list due to being dead. We also can’t hang out with ourself. (Well, we can hang out with Shuichi in chapter 1, but not now.)

That leaves…Keebo, Tenko, Himiko, Angie, Kiyo, Kaito, Miu, Gonta, and Tsumugi. I’ll hang out with either Keebo or Kaito this chapter…next time!

[prettynerdyjuicemaloose-blog]

Beauty Basics - Foundation

Foundation is a puzzle, and by that I mean it comes in many forms, shades, finishes, levels of coverage and is a very personal choice among makeup users. Thanks to individual skin types, chemistry and stylistic preferences, there is not one, or even 10 “right” foundations out there. You really gotta shop around, is what I’m saying. If you’re new to this category of beauty, the options are endless and incredibly daunting. With this post I’ve tried to sub-categorize the types of foundations out there, and explain a bit about what you can expect from each kind. In the future I’ll post about methods of finding the correct shade, but for now…

General Types

Liquid Foundation - This is probably considered the most common form of foundation, in the widest variety of shades for every skin-tone (depending on brand). Application varies; can be poured out onto clean surface, back of hand, or directly onto sponge or brush. Can also be dabbed on the skin first in small dots and blended in after.

Stick Foundation - Usually a solid, creamy consistency in a twist-up tube. Coverage is typically heavier and more concealing. Can be applied to the face from the tube in stripes and then blended with tool of choice. Probably the least messy type of foundation.

Pressed Powder Foundation - Comes in a compact as a pressed powder. Can be applied with a puff, brush or sponge. Coverage varies, but can cause potential cake-face if used too liberally or not blended well. The beauty-centrics among us who prefer a thick mask on their face might use powder foundation on top of liquid foundation as a sort of setting powder.

Mousse Foundation - Exactly what it sounds like, it’s liquid foundation whipped up in a fluffy, airy concoction. This formula is meant to feel light and barely-there on the skin, which usually means sheerer coverage. Can be applied with a brush or a blender sponge.

Mineral Foundation - Popularized (if not invented) by the brand bareMinerals, many major brands now carry their own line of mineral based makeup, namely foundation. The general concept is that the pigments are primarily derived from minerals such as titanium and zinc dioxide, which is promoted to be non-irritating to sensitive skin, as it leaves out preservatives and filler ingredients. Traditionally comes in the form of a powder, which is applied in swirling motions on the face using a kabuki-style brush.

Cushion Foundation - Evidently a trend brought to us by our Korean friends, this type of foundation comes in the form of a sponge heavily saturated with liquid foundation and placed in a compact. A separate sponge is included to soak up the foundation you want to apply and blend onto your face, and can typically be stored in the same compact. You would normally expect a sheer or medium coverage with this, but that depends on the formula.

Spray or Aerosol Foundation - Foundation in a spray can! Fun for the kids! This is probably the messiest foundation with a bit of a learning curve to it. It’s also less common than liquid foundations, and may not come in a wide variety of shades. That being said, it is the foundation of choice for the coveted “airbrushed” finish. Some recommend spraying the foundation on a brush or a damp blender sponge and applying it on the face in the same way one might a liquid foundation. The more adventurous among us will spray it directly onto the face (and hair, and eyelashes, and counter, and wall behind you, and nearby pedestrians…)

Coverage Variations

Sheer or Light  - This type of coverage lets your skin show through the makeup, so that your freckles and all the little imperfect things that bring you character aren’t hidden. Since it does help even out skin-tone and lessen the look of redness, dullness and imperfections, many use this level of coverage for the “your skin but better” look, or the “no makeup makeup” look, where you look like you “woke up like this”.

Medium or Natural  - Your typical coverage for wanting to step up the look of your skin without ending up like a mannequin. If used with a light hand, you can get away with minimal makeup without looking strange, but with a good formula you should be able to build up layers to the coverage you prefer.

Full or Heavy  - This is what you get when you’re wanting to hide your shameful skin from the world. With full coverage you’re more likely to achieve the “photo-shopped” look, but you could easily step into mannequin territory if you’re not careful. Many beauty enthusiasts will apply full coverage foundation to create a blank canvas on top of which they can sculpt and contour and highlight what they want, achieving a unique look and sometimes even manipulating the shape of the face. Not really meant for that natural, no makeup look unless mixed in with another medium, like a moisturizer.

Finishes

Matte - This type of formula is preferred for those who want to their face to not reflect as much light and potentially look oily or greasy. If your skin type is on the dry side, you might end up looking dryer and accentuate any flaky patches of skin you have.

Dewy - Foundations with this finish may have moisturizing ingredients that leave the skin looking more hydrated and glowy. Preferred for those dryer skinned individuals who want a formula that emphasize dry patches of skin. On the flip side, people with oily skin may find their makeup breaking apart and sliding around with this formula, or at least looking mega-shiny at the end of the day, .

Satin - The sweet spot between dewy and matte, good for those with combination skin if they find matte is too drying and dewy too un-drying. Or wet. Or whatever.

The thing about BB and CC Creams (and DD, EE or whatever):

BB and CC creams are another trend that we apparently imported from Asia (Korea I believe), just like all things cool.

BB (usually stands for Beauty Balm) is a foundation-type makeup that provides other skin benefits, such as SPF or natural ingredients that help improve the skin’s condition. This is actually my “foundation” of choice, as I’m pale af and need all the SPF I can get.

CC stands for Color Correcting, which is applied to products that provide coverage or “correct” areas of discoloration on the face, such as redness or darkness under the eyes, etc.

The thing about tinted moisturizers:

They’re fine I guess, just don’t expect much coverage. You can just as easily make your own by adding a little foundation to your favorite moisturizer.

This breakdown only goes as far as my knowledge and experience with the subject of foundations. Formulas vary as often as individual preferences. I hope, however, that this list will provide some with a decent starting point in deciding which avenue they want to explore.

[underopenskies]

What a day

((So i did my first ever commissioned work for @smooth--criminal. :D Super excited! Here’s the commission, folks~ It actually pertains to how Vlad got his two most prominent scars on his face. :) Jobs can go bad at the turn of a dime and for the most unexpected reasons.

Word count: 3068

Rome was a beautiful city, like several of the many, many other cities that he had gotten to see and visually explore a little bit through the books that he had read when it was younger. None of the books compared to seeing it with his own eyes- truly, everything was better when seen for yourself. From the Coliseum, to St. Peter's Basilica, to Castel Sant’Angelo, to Ponte Sant'Angelo, to the Trevi Fountain and the Pantheon- it was all beautiful and old and full of such a rich history.

Vladimir wished he had time to stay and visit them all, and learn more about the rich history of the city itself, just as he did with every other city he’d gotten to visit. He had a particular fondness for Italy and it’s cities- he was moderately proficient in Italian, unlike his brothers, however...

But he didn’t. Vladimir didn’t have time to walk in the light like normal skeletons did. He got to see them during the night, when the streets were dark and empty of life, other than the other shadows like himself. Even in the dark, the towering monuments were magnificent to see. The Trevi Fountain was his favorite though. It was lit even at night- though he had not seen anyone there when he had met his contact.

The stone horses and stone men were beautifully sculpted, and Vladimir had admired them while he picked up the details from his contact. Such a beautiful city, so bright and lively-

But every light had it’s shadow, and every closet had it’s skeletons. Rome was no different- and Vladimir was here to remove a few of the skeletons tonight. Kir- his father- had sent him on mission here to pick up a job for a crime boss that held his father’s… Well, as close to ‘friendship’ as his father could ever have with someone who wasn’t one of them.

Vladimir had picked up a task that was really more suited to Vanya. Vanya was… frankly better suited for the job that Vladimir was supposed to do. His brother better handled uneven odds- mostly because he absolutely loved it when the prey outnumbered the predator. Claimed that it made his job more… fun.

Most of the jobs pertaining to taking out a rival mob usually entailed just removing the boss- usually it was the boss that someone had problems with, or one of the members, and they needed that someone in specific removed. At least, that was his experience with them. But this…

He had been given a list of names of who he was supposed to kill, as always- and on this list, it stated that he was supposed to take out the entire gang, and all of their immediate families. He was supposed to wipe them clean off the map. Not only was it to clear space for Kir’s friend to move in and take over those sections of the city, but it would serve as a message to the other mobs in the city that they had connections and were not to be trifled with. He was supposed to deliberately leave the bodies where they were, and leave them to rot and be found by the police.

That would send a larger message than hiding them would- or rather, it would send a more immediate message.

Vladimir wondered if cutting off their horses heads and leaving them in their beds while they slept would not simply be easier and much, much more traumatic. It wasn’t his place to question however.

The mission itself and the strange parameters placed upon it was not necessarily a huge issue at first- in fact, the strict parameters meant that Vladimir would be going home with quite the hefty sum of money from this particular job. The gang was sixty men strong, and very large, so they spread their homes out quite far. Vladimir took his time, and hunted them down one by one through out the first night.

The first night, he found twelve of them, and his gun claimed fifteen lives. One of them had been having a family poker game night with three of the other targets- lucky for Vlad that meant that they, and their families, were ripe for the pickings. Fifteen families were culled from the world that night- wives, lovers, children, mistresses, maids, butlers- anyone in the house as it was instructed. Once the fighters were dispatched, it was naught but a child’s play to remove the civilians.

The second night, he managed eleven more, and their families as well. Stealing about the night and taking lives was second nature to him- of course, it was much easier as an adult now that he could drive and see over the steering wheel of the car. Biking made everything much harder, including getting away from the scene.

However, the third night, they got wise to the sudden deaths of their men and their families. Everyone still left alive- which was thirty-four strong and then the mob boss himself which bumped the number up to thirty-five even- holed up back at the mob boss’s house and fortified it against nearly every sort of attack they could think of. Thirty five four men all defending one man and one house was a lot for even him to handle at once.

So Vlad had to play it smart. He had to bide his time and wait- and take them out when they least expected it, and when they were at their most vulnerable to attack.

They had brought their families with them, and children were wont to make a mistake.

He struck as soon as one did, after three weeks of waiting and lurking.

Once one of them had left one of the windows open to let the cool summer night air flow in, he had dispatched the four guards watching the gates outside with careful snaps to their necks, and then crept inside.

He went room to room initially, and took out the civilians first before they could raise alarms. Women, children, elderly- if they were there, they died. He even did the unspeakable- and he killed several new infants cradled in their mother’s arms. Vladimir hated that aspect of the job- killing children was not something he ever, ever wanted to do. He took no joy in it, no pride- he made their deaths as swift and painless as he could. A broken neck and a knife up through the skull- it was the easiest most painless death he could do.

It was the only mercy he knew how to give.

Once the civilians were out of the way, however, Vladimir was free to work.

Of the thirty men remaining, two thirds of them were sleeping. There were ten of them upstairs with the boss. Twenty were asleep downstairs. They had been operating in shifts like so for the past several weeks, while Vladimir had observed from the shadows. They kept their men ready and fully rested in case of a full frontal attack, having assumed such a thing had happened to the men and their family.

What they didn’t plan on, however, was for the attack to come while their men slept- and from a trained assassin.

The twenty men in the rooms below had several fans running in the room, to help beat the heat that the massive house seemed to retain. The whirring of the blades running hid the sounds of Vladimir snapping neck after neck.

The last one woke up, but didn’t get awake enough before Vladimir was on him. His neck was snapped as well, and he watched the life bleed from his eyes.

Once they were dead, with throats slit for good measure because a broken neck did not always for sure mean that one was dead, Vladimir prepared his gun and blade and headed upstairs.

He found his first opposition at the top of the stairs. The man was dozing lightly with his legs crossed in a chair, a cigar burning away in his mouth. The cherry at the end was nearly spent, a clump of ash ready to fall down onto his suit. Vladimir was thankful that it was dark in the hall when the stairs creaked under his foot. Vladimir didn’t stop in his walking- he continued up to towards the top, even as the man jerked awake.

He squinted down at him, reached up and flicked the cherry from his cigar, and squished it out from his heel. “Eh? Alanzo? Cosa stai facendo? Non è ancora tempo per un cambiamento di turno. Torna a letto.”

"Alanzo è morto. Così sono Angelo, Santino, Tasso, Teodoro, Zeno, Vittorio, Drago, Massimo. Tutti loro, e le loro famiglie morte. E adesso ... anche tu morrai, Nico." Vladimir didn’t give him the chance to shout. With practiced ease, he darted up the last few stairs and grabbed the smaller man by the throat. The guns were abandoned to swing to his sides by their clips, while the knife was brought up and shoved up through the bottom of the man’s neck and into his skull- and then twisted.

Nico gurgled, and slumped in his chair with nary a noise beyond that, spilling blood down Vlad’s sleeve as he yanked the knife back.

Vladimir snuffed the cigar, so it didn’t light the house on fire. That was not part of the contract- or it would have been stated to burn things. No, this was strictly a kill mission, not a burn.

He moved on past there- and came across his first mistake that he made that night.

He had slid past a door that was closed- and presumably empty, as he was fairly certain that, according to the floor plan and what he had seen through the window, that it was a tool closet- and continued a ways down the hall, when there was a splitting pain the side of his skull.

It staggered him, nearly knocking him off his feet, and he could see through the window that someone had taken the sharp end of a shovel and swung it at him. The sharp end had gone right into the angular edge of his cheekbone, and forcibly separated the bone. The purple ectoplasm that made up his blood gushed forth over the shovel’s edge as he staggered away.

It took all of his training to focus through the pain, to whip around and spot the woman now running instead of sneaking, with her clothes askew from an obvious rendezvous with a lover, as another one of the mobsters men swung the shovel at him again.

Vlad hadn’t stopped to count and check and make sure all the civilians had been there- there had obviously been one missing, and here she was.

Blood poured down his cheek from the massive split in his bone, and Vlad didn’t hesitate to whip out his gun as he dodged the second swipe from the shovel. He shot the woman in the back of the head and watched her fall to the floor, tumbling and then proceeding to roll down the stairs as the force of her momentum carried her forwards.

"Il mio Ambra! Stronzo, ti pagherai!" The man’s anguished cries drew pounding steps from the others- before he too fell dead, a bullet lodged between his eyes.

Vladimir could hear the feet beginning to converge on his location, and he grabbed the shovel. It was tightly clenched in his hands, and he moved to meet the footsteps rushing for him- and as they came lurching around the corner, Vladimir swung.

The bladed end, the same end that had cut into his face, plunged into the face of the first man around the corner. He went down with a cry, hands coming to flail weakly at his face. The next man Vladimir caught around the neck, and snapped it unmercifully, but kept him clutched close as he supported the dead weight. The cock of a gun prompted him to turn towards it and aim one of his pistols.

The body he held in front of him did good to absorb the bullets- or if it didn’t, it slowed them down enough that the reinforced weave of his coat helped to keep him from feeling the bullets as they slid into his gear. They stopped before they reached his flesh and his bones.

Vladimir could not say the same for the bullets that the men across from him received. One by one they all fell dead- until only Vlad remained.

He did a quick count of the bodies- the two gunmen in the hall, and the one at the corner with the shovel in his face made three. Not counting those three, there were... seven men in front of him, and one in his arms. With the three he had gotten, that made... Eleven men. He’d gotten the ten gunmen, and the boss all in one.

He’d gotten them all.

Vladimir exhaled softly and let the body in his arms fall, shoulders slumping. His face hurt to high hell- but it was done, and he could go collect his pay. He took a step forward to go collect the head from the boss- which would be more than proof enough that the job was done- and then stumbled as he was struck across his skull.

His mind fuzzed, pain rocketing through his head, and Vladimir hit his knees, barely managing to roll onto his side to avoid the second swing as the shovel was ripped out of the right side of his skull and swung at him again with no mercy to be shown.

To be fair, Vladimir would not have shown himself mercy either.

He rolled onto his back and skittered away, blood gushing down into his eye as it rushed from his split marrow. He grew woozy- but there was little he could do.

Vladimir set himself to baring sharp teeth at the man who’s face he had ruined with the very shovel that he wielded now. One of his eye sockets was ruined, weeping a dark green blood in gushing waves down his front, along with his nasal cavity, but Vlad had obviously hit too low for it to damage anything deeper. Half of his mouth seemed damaged, but his tongue seemed to still work, for he was flapping it at him wildly.

It took Vlad entirely too long to focus on the words he was saying over the fire of agony burning through his skull. The purple wash of his magic was blinding one of his eyes- but he could still focus and see the one remaining enraged green color of the short man standing above him like some sort of vengeful wraith.

"-Avrei dovuto farti fare a cazzo di essere cazzo, stronzo, sono dura come unghie e non morirò così cazzo facile. Hai ucciso il mio capo, probabilmente hai ucciso mia moglie, il mio ragazzo e tutti gli altri Nella nostra famiglia ... così voi e tutti voi, femmine di mamma, meritate di bruciare. Una volta che tu muoio, ti farò cacciare e finirò tutti." The man- who’s name he couldn’t recall- opened his mouth to continue his rant, when Vlad proceeded to kick upwards.

The man choked as his leg struck him in the balls, and he fell down- right onto Vlad’s knife. The shovel dropped, and Vladimir rolled the gurgling man off of him, before drawing out his knife and stabbing him in the chest again and again, until he stopped moving.

“Mozhet byt', vam stoit sosredotochit'sya na tom, chtoby ubit' menya vmesto monologa.” Vladimir rasped, falling into his native tongue. The Russian language was almost a relief to speak, after having to stick to Italian during his stay here.

When it was over, he took a shaky breath, cleaned his knife, and began to tear strips of cloth from the clothing on one of the bodies that had been shot. It was no sanitary bandage, but it would work for now until he could get to his car where his medical kit was. It had been repeatedly pounded into his head that they could never go to the hospital. They asked too many questions, got too many people involved- you had to learn to do it yourself, or you died trying.

A lot of his siblings had died trying despite their mother, Vladimira, for whom he had been named, taking time out of their training to make sure they got the most proper medical training that she could give.

Shakily, Vladimir got his skull bandaged. Once he was tightly bound so his skull wouldn’t fall apart or crack open further, the white strips of shirt staining a murky purple from the blood from his marrow, he got to his feet and collected the head from the boss, and then got out of the house. The shots would draw people to the house, even silenced as his weapon was- for no gun was ever truly silent- and he had to get away before they found him.

He wasn’t in the best condition for driving, but he just had to get far enough away that he could rest and better bind his skull. Or... or call his brother. Yes- calling his brother might not be a bad idea. But... he had to drop off the head first before he could call for his brother. Calling for his brother implied he needed help- which he did- but would also cause conflicts in the contract.

Father would disapprove of him calling for help either way. Maybe it would be best just to tough it out and get home without calling for help.

Proof needed to be supplied before the job could be considered over. Once he got his pay, he could go home and recover- and that was precisely what he planned on doing. He just... had to make it to his car first, and hope that he was not too concussed to drive. He’d cleaned the blood from his socket as best he could, but his eyes felt blurry. He would drive all the same, but it would make things more... difficult.

“Kakoy grebanyy den'...” He murmurs as he reaches his car- and then proceeds to fumble and drop his keys, kicking them just a little under the edge of the car. “Snachala moye litso, a potom moi chertovy klyuchi ... chert voz'mi.”

Translations in order:

Italian:

“Eh? Alanzo? What are you doing up? It's not time for a shift change yet. Go back to bed.”

“Alanzo is dead. So is Angelo, Santino, Tasso, Teodoro, Zeno, Vittorio, Drago, Massimo- All of them, and their families, dead. And now… you too will die, Nico.”

"My Ambra! You asshole, you'll pay for that!"

"-Should have fucking made sure I was fucking dead, you asshole. I'm tough as nails, and I'm not going to die so fucking easy. You killed my boss, you probably killed my wife and my baby boy and everyone else in our family- so you and all of you mother fuckers deserve to burn. Once you die, I’m going to hunt you down and end you all."

Russian:

“Maybe you should focus on killing me instead of monologuing.”

“What a fucking day...”

“First my face, and then my fucking keys... god dammit.”

[dreamy-divine]

FINNY CAN I GET A YEAR IN PREVIEW PLEASE IM LOVE U

I’m getting to this super late, sorry man

January: Cassiopeia/ Queen of Fire

In the myths Cassiopeia angers Posiedon by bragging abut her daughter Adromeda. In order to avoid his wrath and save their people, Andromeda is chained to a rock by the sea as a sacrifice. In the end however in the end she is saved by Perseus. This card tells a tale of rebirth and breaking free. In this case you are both Cassiopeia and Adromeda. In January you may have found yourself chained to your routine. The best way to deal with this is to evalute what you’re doing in day to day like that doesn’t make you happy that you can change. Do subtle things to make your life different each day so you don’t fall victim to your routine.

February: Corona Australis/ 4 of Earth

This card is based on the Chinese constellation The Black Tortoise of the North. It tells the story of a Taoist deity. He realized in order to achieve enlightenment and become a god, he neded to purge himself of his sins. To do so he washed his intestines in a river, turning it black and creating a black tortoise that terrorized a nearby town. He then had to tame the tortoise to right things. This card tells us that to achieve your goals, you must take strong actions. However such drastic measures may have some unexpected results, don’t panic. Even if things feel like their going all wrong, you can turn the mess into a positive with a little effort and the right point of view.

March: Sagitta + Idus/ 6 of Fire

This card is based on two separate constellations, and as such, it brings up two different points. First you have Idus, the proud archer with bows in hand. This constellation is based on Lautaro, a Mapuche warrior who had to defend his village from invading Spaniards. He warns that in March you may find yourself having to stand your ground a lot. You’ll likely have the displeasure of having to defend your decisions, thoughts and ideas, or emotions from others judgments. It’s uncomfortable but you’re strong and you’ll be able to handle it. Then you have Sagitta, the arrow. Arrows hold a very important symbolism. In order for an arrow to go anywhere it needs to be pulled back until it can’t be pulled any more, only then can it be released to soar forward. Similar, March will really weigh down on you. You’ll feel like you’re only going backwards and are going to hit a breaking point. It’ll be just before that that you’ll spring forward and do things you never imagined. Just hold on.

April: Sextans + Octans/ 2 of Earth

In April the year will finally calm down a little bit. Sextans and Octans were tools used for navigating that lead to many scientific discoveries. This card stresses the importance of knowledge and learning. In the month of April, take some time to learn something knew. Whether it be a knew craft, reading up on something you’v always wanted to learn about, or just doing more research on a current hobby or interest. Read and Learn and Enjoy yourself.

May: Mensa/ High Priestess

I suggest you take it slower in May, cause it’s gonna be a weird month.  The Mensa card references the constellation above Table Mountain near Cape Town. It’s an oddly flat mountain, covered in fog who’s magnetic pull le.ads ships astray. So yeah, needless to say if this is the card your month is based on, it’s gonna be strange. You’ll likely feel lost in a fog for the month, like you can’t make any decisions and you don’t know what direction to go in. It’ll be okay. Just make sure to think things through and ground yourself and you won’t crash.

June: Columba/ Page of Water

June is going to be a great month for you. Just super peaceful. Columba is the constellation based on the dove that told of the ending of the flood in the bible. This card is quite literally a symbol of peace. There’s not much to recommend in June. Just relax and enjoy yourself, it’s really not too good to be true, enjoy it.

July: Horologium/ 8 of Earth

Horologium, the celestial clock. Time will play an interesting part in July for you. The past and the future will dance around your mind. You’ll find yourself looking back on the past often. But just as often you’ll be wistfully look towards the future. In July you’ll need to remind yourself that the here and now are a gift and everytime you’re worried about the past and the future, precious seconds are ticking away.

August: Gemini/ The Star

Gemini is the astrological sign of the twins and is often described as being “two faced”. In truth this is not wrong, but it’s also not right. Gemini reminds us that there are multiple sides to a person. I recommend taking time for self reflection in August. Look at all your sides, your good ones and your bad ones and figure out how to bring about a harmony among them. Focus on how you can take the things you are unhappy with and channel them into a positive. Along with learning how to communicate with all sides of yourself. August is a good month to practice better communicating your needs with others. You’ll come across as less “moody” to others if you aren’t afraid to tell them what you want and need flat out.

September: Auriga/ King of Earth

September is gonna be a month that puts you through some work. It won’t be negative. But you’ll find yourself very busy. September is gonna remind you again that it takes a lot of effort to achieve your dreams. This will be the month to work on making any changes you want to see in your life or to work towards any large goals you have. Your life will be hectic and full but it won’t feel bad. You’ll find yourself feeling acomplished rather than overworked.

October: Sculptor/ Ace of Fire

October is gonna be another quiet month for you. The sculptor is the artist and shows creative vision. She shows that your life is entering a period where your creative energy will be at a high. Take advantage of this. In October you should work with the arts. Write, paint, sculpt, design. Connect with the creator inside yourself and allow it to empower you. If you do, you’ll be able to carry the aspect of the creator into more important areas of life as well. Teach yourself that you “sculpt” your own life and you can shape things how you want them. You’re not helpless to fate or others wishes.

November: Phoenix/ The World

Through out the year there have been different points where growth was stressed. November is gonna be the culmination of all of those points. Like the phoenix dies and is reborn from the ashes, in this month you too will transform into someone new. It may not be quite as dramatic. But you’ll likely find that if you look back on who you were at the beginning of the year, you’re a different person. It will be exciting, embrace it. You’ve grown so much by this point, be proud of yourself.

December: Canis Minor/ Page of Earth

December could end on a bitter note for you if you allow it to. Canis Minor is the under dog constellation, often times over shadowed by Canis Major. You may feel like you too are an under dog in December. It’ll seem like nobodies acknowledge how hard you try, or that everyone is simply paying more attention to someone flashier than you. Don’t let it drag you down. Instead remind yourself of how proud you are of your accomplishments as your opinion of yourself is the most important. Then surround yourself with people who make you feel seen and validated. Don’t be afraid to tell people if you feel like you’re being pushed to the side. It’s okay to ask for attention.

Challenge for the year: Pictor/ Temperance

Pictor is the easel of heaven. Despite being the easel, it’s actually depicted as horses that pull a chariot. Although they seem unrelated, the do have similarities. The artist can’t paint without an easel and the chariot cannot move without horses. Over the year you have trouble learning to ask for assistance of your own. There’s nothing wrong with admitting that you need some help.

Lesson to learn with year: Hydrus/ Ace of Water

Hydrus is a water snake; elegant and completely in his element in the water. This card hold a lot of symbolism in it. You have the snake which represents wisdom and flexibility. The water which is used to represent our emotions, and the lotus flowers to depict mind and spirit. In 2017 you’ll need to learn to find emotional clarity. You’ll have to learn to reflect on your emotions and how they affect your body and soul. But more so then that, you have to become comfortable with them. You can’t change how you feel, learn to accept your emotions and become at home with them.

[jackybooks]

Stephen King - On Writing | A Memoir on the Craft

Stephen King - On Writing | A Memoir on the Craft

I believe large numbers of people have at least some talent as writers and storytellers, and that those talents can be strengthened and sharpened. If I didn’t believe that, writing a book like this would be a waste of time

V.C.

There were more doors than one person could ever open in a lifetime, I thought (and still think) - “endless possibilities of life”

By the time I was fourteen, the nail in my wall would no longer support the height of the rejection slips impaled upon it, I replaced the nail with a spike and went on writing.

I think I was forty before I realized that almost every writer of fiction and poetry who has ever published a line has been accused of someone of wasting his or her god-given talent. if you write(or paint/dance/sculpt/sing), someone will make you feel lousy about it, that’s all.

Mindset of writing

If stone sober people can fuck like they’re out of their minds - can actually be out of their minds while caught in that throe - why shouldn’t writers be able to go bonkers and still stay sane.

Writing is a lonely job, having someone who believes in you makes a lot of difference. They don’t have to make speeches, just believing is usually enough.

Stopping a piece of your work just because it’s hard, either emotionally or imaginatively, is a bad idea. Sometimes you have to go on when you don’t feel like it, and sometimes you’re doing good work when it feels like all you’re managing is to shovel shit in a sitting position.

I’m convinced that fear is at the root of most bad writing

Toolbox

Vocabulary

It ain’t how much you got, honey, its how you use it.

Put your vocabulary on the top shelf, and don’t make any conscious effort to improve it.

Use the first word that comes to mind, if it’s appropriate and colorful.

Concision

"My first kiss will always be recalled by me as how my romance with Shayna was begun"

"My romance with Shayna began with our first kiss. I'll never forget it”

You might also notice how much simpler the thought is to understand when it's broken up into two thoughts. This makes matters easier for the reader, and the reader must always be your main concern;

Adverbs

To write adverbs is human, to write he said or she said is divine.

On Writing

Good writing consist of mastering the fundamentals (vocabulary, grammar, the elements of style)

Reading

To be a good writer, you must read a lot and write a lot. You cannot hope to sweep someone else away by force of your writing until it has been done to you. If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have time(or the tools) to write, simple as that.

The real importance of reading is it created an ease and intimacy with the process of writing; one comes to the country of the writer with one’s papers and identification pretty much in order.

Once weaned for the ephemeral craving for TV, most people will find they enjoy the time they spend reading. I’d like to suggest that turning off that endlessly quacking box is apt to improve the quality of your life as well as the quality of your writing.

We read to experience the mediocre and the outright rotten; such experience helps us recognize those things when they begin to creep into our own work, and to steer clear of them.

You learn the best by reading a lot and writing a lot, and the most valuable lessons of all are the ones you teach yourself.

You must begin by being your biggest advocate, which means reading the magazines and publishing the kind of stuff you write.

Write with the door closed, rewrite with the door open

When you write, you want to get rid of the world, do you not? Of course you do, when you’re writing, you’re creating your own worlds.

Your stuff starts out being just for you, in other words, but then it goes out. Once you know what the story is and get it right - as right as you can, anyway - it belongs to anyone who reads it.

The place can be humble(probably should be. and it really one u needs one thing: a door which you are willing to shut. The closed door is your day of telling the world you mean business; you have made a serious commitment to write and intend to walk the walk as well as talk the talk.

But you need the room, you need the door, and you need the determination to shut the door. You need a concrete goal, as well. The longer you keep to these basics, the easier the act of writing will become.

If you're a beginner though, let me urge that you take your story through at least 2 drafts; the one with the door closed, the one you do with it open…

Keep the door closed

There comes a point when you want to show what you're doing to a close friend, either because you're proud of what you're doing or because you're doubtful about it. My best advice is to resist this impulse. Keep the pressure one; don't lower it by exposing what you've written to the doubt, the praise, or even the well-meaning questions of someone from the Outside World. Let your hope of success(and your fear of failure) carry you on, difficult as that can be. There'll be time to show off what you've done when you finish... but even after finishing I think you must be cautious and give yourself a chance to think while the story is still like a field of freshly fallen snow, absent of any tracks save your own.

Here's something else - if no ones says yo you, this is wonderful! you are a lot less apt to slack off or to start concentrating on the wrong thing.. being wonderful, for instance, instead of telling the goddam story.

You've done a lot of work and you need a period of time to rest. Your mind and imagination - two things which are related, but not really the same - have to recycle themselves. My advice is you take a couple days off - go fishing, and then work on something else, something shorter, preferably and something that's a complete changer directions and pace from your newly finished book.

Resist temptation, you'll very likely decide you didn't do as well on that passage as you thought and you'd better retool it on the spot. This is bad. The only thing worse would be for you to decide the passage is even better than you remembered - why not drop everything and read the whole book over right then? Get back to work on it! Hell, you're ready! You're fuckin Shakespeare!

After 6 weeks - Revising/Rewriting

If you've never done it before, you'll find reading your book over after a six week layoff to be a strange, often exhilarating experience, It's yours, you'll recognize it as yours, even be able to remember what tune was on the stereo when you wrote certain lines, and yet it will also be like reading the work of someone else, a soul-twin, perhaps. This is the way it should be, the reason you waited. It's always easier to kill someone else's darlings than it is to kill your own.

With 6 weeks of time, you'll also be able to see nay glaring holes in the plot of character development. I'm talking about holes big enough to drive a truck through. And listen, if you spot a few of these big holes, you are forbidden to feel depressed about them or beat up on yourself. Screw-ups happen to the best of us,

When reading your own draft - only god gets it right the first time and only a slob says "oh well, let it go, that's what copyeditors are for”

I love this part of the process because I'm re-discoverying my own book, and usually liking it.

Underneath, I'm asking myself the big question: Is this story coherent? What I want most of all is resonance, something that will linger for a little while in Constant Reader's mind and heart.

Most of all, I'm looking for what I meant.

The forumla for revision

2nd draft = 1st draft - 10%

When to open the door

Someone once said - All novels are really letters aimed at one person. At various points, the author is thinking, "I wonder what he/she will think when he/she reads this part?"

And if what you hear makes sense, then you make the changes. You can't let the whole world into your story, but you can let in the ones that matter the most. And you should.

Kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scrubber's heart, kill your darlings

What to write about

The big question - what are you going to write about? And the equally big answer, Anything you damn well want. Anything at all, as long as you tell the truth.

What would be very wrong, I think, is to turn away form what you know and like or love, in favor of things you believe will impress your friends, relatives, and writing circle colleagues.

When I'm asked why I decided to write the sort of thing I do write, I always think the question is more revealing than any answer I can possibly give. Wrapped within it, like the chewy stuff in the center of a Tootsie Pop, is the assumption that the writer controls the material instead to the other way around. "The book is the boss”

What you know makes you unique in some other way. Be brave.

If you’re a lawyer, your story about lets say lawyers & gangs whatever will be very good because its grounded on experience and truth.

Structures of Writing

Stories and novels consist of 3 parts - Narration, Description and Dialogue.

Narration Moves the story from point A to B, and finally point Z

Description Creates a sense of reality for the reader.

Small example -

The cab pulled up in front of Palm Too at quarter to four on a bright summer afternoon. Billy paid the driver, stepped out onto the sidewalk, and took a quick look around for Martin. Not in sight. Satisfied, Billy went inside.

After the hot clarity of Second Avenue, Palm Too was as dark as a cave. The backbar mirror picked up some of the street-glare and glimmered in the gloom like a mirage. For a moment it was all Billy could see, and then his eyes began to adjust. There were a few solitary drinkers at the bar. beyond them, the matire d’, his tie undone and his shirt cuffs rolled back to show his hairy wrists, was talking with the bartender. There was still sawdust sprinkled on the floor, Billy noted, as if this were a twenties speakeasy instead of a millennium eatery where you couldn’t smoke, let alone spit a gob of tobacco between your feet. And the cartoons dancing across the walls - gossip-column caricatures of downtown political hustlers, newsmen who had long since retired or drunk themselves to death, celebrities you couldn’t recognize - still gambolled all the way to the ceiling. The air was redolent of steak and fried onions. All of it the same as it ever was

The maitre d’ stepped forward. “Can I help you, sir?” We don’t open for dinner until six, but the bar -

“I’m looking for Richie Martin,” Billy said.

If you want to be a successful writer, you must be able to describe it, and in a way that will cause your reader to pickle with recognition. When it's on target, a smile delights us in much the same way meeting an old friend in a crowd of strangers does. By comparing two seemingly unrelated objects - a restaurant bar and a cave, a mirror and a mirage - we are sometimes able to see an old thing in a new and vivid way.

Practice the art, always reminding yourself that your job is to say what you see, and then to get on with your story.

Dialogue What brings the characters to life through their speech

And the cardinal rules of good fiction is never tell us a thing if you can show us, instead. "Annie seems particularly happy that day" If I have to tell you, I lose.

Dialogue is a skill best learned by people who enjoy talking and listening to others - particularly listening.

Some people don't want to hear the truth, of course, but that's not your problem. If you expect it to ring true, then you must talk yourself. Even more important, you must shut up and listen to others talk

I think the best stories always end up being about the people rather than the event, which is to say character-driven.

Every character you create, is partly you.

Practice is invaluable(and should feel good, really not like practice at all) and that honesty is indispensable. Skills in description, dialogue and character development all boil down to seeing or hearing clearly and then transcribing what you see or hear with equal clarity.

Good fiction always begins with story and progresses to them it almost never begins with theme and progresses to story.

~~Plot?~~ I won't try to convince you I never plotted like I never told a lie, but I do both as infrequently as possible. I distrust plot for 2 reasons.

Because of our lives are largely plotless, even when you add in all our reasonable precautions and careful planning;

I believe plotting and the spontaneity of real creation aren't compatible.

My basic belief about the making of stories is that they are pretty much make themselves. The job of the writer is to give them a place to grow.

Plot, I think, the good writer's last resort and dullard's first choice. The story which results form it is apt to feel artificial and labored. I never demand a set of characters that they do things my way. On the contrary, I want them to do things their way

Most of the ideas come from "situations" - what if vampires did this what if what if

these are all situations which occurred to me - while showing, while driving, while taking my daily walk

I believe stories are found things, like fossils in the ground, he said that he didn’t believe me. I said that’s fine, as long as he believe that I believe it. Stories are relics, part of an undiscovered pre-existing world. The writers job is to use the tools in his or her toolbox to get as much of each one out of the ground intact as possible.

Why Write

I did it for the buzz, I did the for the pure joy of the thing, and if you can do it for joy, you can do it forever

Writing did not save my life - but it has continued to do what it always has done: it makes may life a brighter and more pleasant place.

Writing isn't about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends, In the end, it's about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well. It's about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy.

The rest of it - and perhaps the best of it - is a permission slip: you can, you should, and if you're brave enough to start, you will. Writing is magic, as much as the water of life as any other creative art, The water is free, So drink, drink and be filled up

Talent renders the whole idea of rehearsal meaningless; when you find something at which you are talented, you do it(whatever it is) until your fingers bleed or your eyes are ready to fall out of your head. Even when no one is listening(or reading/watching), every outing is bravado performance, because you as the creator are happy.

If God gives you something you can do, why in God’s name wouldn’t you do it.

Quotes [No theme]

"there's just enough of me left inside to know that I am globally, perhaps even galactically, fucked up.”

"and telling an alcoholic to control his drinking is like telling a guy suffering the world's most cataclysmic case of diarrhea to control his shitting”

The work starts to feel like work, and for most writers that is the smooch of death. Writing is at its best - always, always, always - when it is a kind of inspired play for the writer. I can write in cold blood if I have to, but I like it best when its fresh and almost too hot to handle.

Remember you are writing a novel, not a research paper, the story always comes first.

It seems to occur to few of the attendees that if you have a feeling you just can't describe, you might just be, I don't know, kind of like, my sense of it is, maybe in the wrong fucking class.

“One word at a time”