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dante-vergil64 · 4 years ago

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To the Stars, The Moon Pleaded “Stay”

Sasuhina Month 2020

Day 1

Rated T

She is a most wonderful vision.

A figure of sensuality and virtue as if tailored by the gods to bring about salvation and sanctuary to this undeserving mortal ground. With skin pristine like unstained glass and smooth like tender velvet bathing soothingly in the essence of the sun as if beckoning and rejoicing in its warmth. Her hair dark, lustrous and silky beyond words in its descent against her form as if embracing her in protection and serenity. And her eyes, wide and jolly, the most captivating shade of lavender, bewitching and consuming beyond comprehension.

How is it, he wonders, that a woman like her exists? How is it, that her mere presence provokes this intense change in the contractions of his heart, in his gathering of breath, in the formation of his thoughts?

She is more than beauty, more than grace, more than warmth, more than light. She is kindness and respect. She is honesty and compassion. An angel fallen from the sky, a fairy without wings.

This he knows all too well, has known it for a long while. After all, it had been her, the one that handed him the stars, the one that found him in the dark. When he was drowning in the pain, in the loneliness of his own insignificance she had dared to reach her hand, to look at him and form a smile.

“Please don’t cry, don’t let tears inside your heart when there is so much happiness around. Smile instead, all teeth and wide, and I promise that this pain that hurts so bad…it will be banished to the sky”

It is a memory of youth, his most precious treasure.

He is unworthy of her heart, unworthy of her mind. Merely the second son, the shadow of his brother, the spare of his father. This he knows all too well, has known it for a long while. He knows his place, he knows his role.

“Lady Hyuuga turns more beautiful everyday, doesn’t she?”

“She does, undoubtedly so”

He can feel his lips smiling, his expression lost in the gift that is her. He allows himself to indulge, if only just this once, to gaze once more at her eyes, at her nose and her lips.

How is it, he wonders, that he is so lucky to be alive at this moment?

His eyes turn to his right, resting on his favorite cousin before turning around ready to head back to the station.

“You’re in love with her, aren’t you?” Shisui asks, and despite the smile lifting his lips there is something sad about his eyes

“I know my place, I know my role” he smiles, all teeth and wide “come on Shisui, there’s a ton of paperwork waiting for us”

He’s unworthy of her heart, unworthy of her mind. This he knows all too well, has known it for a long while.

But there is much he can still do, much more still left for him to give. He can vie for her protection, bring peace within the walls. He can take the burden off her friends, can take the troubles off her mind. He can wish for her happiness, can pray for her health. However far she may be, however unreachable to him, he can still try with all his might to keep the smile that she once gave, all precious and irreplaceable, illuminating her face. . . . . She’s an exhilarating performance, all fierceness and grace following wherever she goes.

Her movements, so calculated and precise, cast judgement upon the wicked in a continuous dance of silence that holds a simmering gentle fury in each and every of her soft feather touches. Dead stillness falls upon conclusion as her form forever gorgeous basks in sorrowful solemnity. Her spirit, both tranquil like the waters of a pond in coming spring and infinitely warm like the air of enduring summer, casts a blanket of protection on the weary, a promise of safety to the innocent. Her heart, pure as it is stubborn, weeps for the forsaken, prays for the forgotten, absolves the repenting. It is a tender and forgiving heart, more forgiving than anyone has any right to.

How is it, he wonders, that she continues to find the strength to forgive those who wrong her despite the pain that they cause her? How is it, that they don’t realize what an amazing woman this is, how strong and resilient and skilled she has become?

She is more than strength, more than speed, more than instinct, more than talent. She is discipline and hard work She is practice and repetition She is determination and never going back on her word

This he knows all too well, has known it for a long while. Like it was yesterday he can remember, that time he learned of the lion hiding beneath her eyes

It’s an easy memory to recall, after all, it was the first time his flash step was faster than Shisui’s, his eyes sharper than his brother’s. It begins with the report of an ambush, with her as the target and him as the backup. With fear palpable in his tongue and overwhelming in his trembling hands, he runs. But by the time he arrives she has begun, a force of nature twisting and charging with every one of her practiced steps, the absolute might of the sixty-four palms discharged upon her foes in a crescendo. And her eyes, they are still the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. This goddess given flesh is a sight to behold, and even now he remembers the staccato his heart played at the scene before his eyes. It ends with her fingers near his throat, her surprised lavender gaze overcoming the sheer look of concentration from before. He does not allow himself to wallow in the memory too long, for he knows that if he does the delicate scent of hyacinth will reach his nose and the distance that lies between them will be breached by his treacherous heart.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that sa-chan! I could have hurt you really badly. But, thank you…you know, for coming to help me”

“You really are amazing Hina”

He cannot help the strange feeling of pride every time he recalls that memory, she has grown so much, has become so strong.

He is unworthy of her heart, unworthy of her mind. Yet, he is so thankful to be able to witness this girl, a little shy and innocent and everything that is right in the world, become such a confident mature woman. It is a privilege he will never take for granted. This he knows all too well, has known it for a long while.

“Tell me dear boy, who is she? Who is this woman that consumes all of your thoughts, the one that has taken ownership of your heart?”

His gaze falls upon his mother, a look of wonder and joy in unhidden display. She’s just as lovely as when she sang her first lullaby, as attentive and caring as when he was but a young boy.

“There is no one like that. I know my place, I know my role” he gifts her a loving smile “you don’t have to worry, mother”

He brings her into his embrace, a warm farewell and a see you soon. He does not see the light of her eyes dim. He does not see the tight grip of her fist close to her heart.

He is unworthy of her heart, unworthy of her mind. This he knows all too well, has known it for a long while.

But there is plenty he can do, a lot more left for him to see. He can marvel in her movements, both the peaceful and the violent. He can wallow in her laughter, both from memories and in her presence. He can take care of her sister, to bring both joy in any way. He can steal just one more glance, lie to himself just one more time. . . . . She is a breath of fresh air, quite familiar and comforting.

Her voice is soft and sweet like cotton, her words woven with patience, thoughtfulness and care. Even so, he can’t help but compare it to the allure of a siren’s song. The hypnotizing melody of her chords. So relaxing and consoling it has long become his favorite sound. And the silence in between, that is its own special gift. The offer of her company, of her presence within reach, of the sounds of her breath and the image of her form. As if the world was in stasis, saying it’s okay, to gaze at her just one more time. And her authenticity, her concern, her love for her family and her friends is so mesmerizing and so disarming he wants nothing more than to forget her, because he knows that it is possible, downright certain that these feelings in his heart will only grow.

She’s more than innocent, more than friendly, more than loyal, more than extraordinary She is security and peace She is the water and the wind The steady rock in minds of many, the anchor deep within.

This he knows all too well, has known it for a long while. There is one such instance of time, a time his brain cannot ignore, when the mere sight of her left him speechless, because it was a glimpse into the future, another treasure in itself. And it begins with his arrival, his form weary from a mission. The night is long as stars are bright, yet his feet carry him regardless into her warm welcoming home. What awaits him is a lady, a few years younger than her sister, yet her beauty is not diminished, only hidden by mischief.

“Sa-san, you’re back! Did you bring it?! Did you?!” “Hello to you too, firecracker. I said it was a promise didn’t I?”

Her eyes sparkle in the light of her front door, a sweet souvenir within her palms, and he knows he is being ridiculous but the thought comes anyway. She has taken after Hinata. As he holds the child in his gaze he cannot help but feel content. But the moment is then stopped, not destroyed, but expanded. She emerges from inside, all porcelain and silk and lavender in her wake. And his heart gallops one more time, long surrendered to her smile. And that is when it finally happens, the vision in his eyes travels through time. And there, standing steps ahead is a much more mature woman, with no less beauty, no less grace, no less warmth. And in her arms is not her sister, not the rebellious adventurer filled with passion and mischief, but a much more inexperienced little thing, wide eyes in wonder and curiosity. It takes everything he has to dissipate that very scene, for he knows that deep within, he’s not strong enough to face it.

He is unworthy of her heart, unworthy of her mind. This he knows all too well, has known it for a long while.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time patrolling near the Hyuuga compound. Something you want to say?”

His gaze falls upon his father, the commander of the police force, forever strict and infallible. An old wound threatens to reopen, a hurt of times long past.

“I know my place, I know my role” he salutes in subordination “Sir”

He bows and he departs. He does not see the hesitation, the inklings or regret.

He is unworthy of her heart, unworthy of her mind. This he knows all too well, has known it for a long while.

But there is much he can endure, much more left for him to bear. He can handle frozen nights, her form sound and in blissful rest He can fight against exhaustion, peace and order his reward. He can perpetuate his distance, only admire from afar. He could accept his place as second, a meager warrior and protector. Whatever price he pays is little, when measured against her smile. . . . . She is an inescapable revelation, a bright enchantment of the truth.

Her mind benevolent and understanding, captivating in humility glimpses past layers of deception, offers redemption and mercy. And her eyes, like stellar windows, like nebulous ice reflections glimmer sharply with intelligence and observe with calm rapport. Despite her powers of deduction, the blessing of her sight, her only passion is to aid, to sooth the spirit and the mind. And so she sees the hearts of men, so full of sin and of regret. And yet her hope never falters nor declines, her gaze set in the path towards the sun.

She is more than perception, more than intuition, more than introspection, more than sensation. She is experience and involvement She is patience and rumination

The culmination of her years, of her talents and her efforts.

This he knows all too well, has known it for a long while. And he’s not the only one. This ethereal creature of benevolence, of boundless wisdom and stability has already taken stage, has become a steering knight. And she is power and authority and compassion and bravery. There is no soul that does not listen, there is no dimming of her light.

“We will not risk civilian settlements! That, I will not allow! If it’s gold that is the issue, then take it from my vaults. If it’s men you are In need of, I will gladly join the fight. Whatever else may come our way, whatever hardships they may be, I will protect them with my life!”

It is the idealistic way, the laborious road ahead, yet all it brings is inspiration, optimism and unification. He is unworthy of her heart, unworthy of her mind. This he knows all too well, has known it for a long while. The path she walks he cannot follow, he’ll never join her in the sun. She is destined for so much more, to such great heights, he can only be grateful, from the bottom of his heart, that he was allowed the chance to meet her.

“You should tell her how you feel. If you truly wish to make her happy, then that is the only way”

His gaze falls upon his brother, the man most treasured in his heart. With tired lines along his eyes, his pupils still glimmer with the kindness and the brilliance of his being. And it is him, Hinata’s promised, what she truly deserves. A man of honor, and integrity, and strength, a man whose everything that he could never be. A true pacifist and seer, so altruistic it almost hurts.

He is unworthy of her heart, unworthy of her mind. This he knows all too well, has known it for a long while.

“I know my place, I know my role” he smirks at his sitting brother, the white-red hat resting closely by his side “And I know yours. You have worried all your life, made me into who I am, I will always be grateful that I got to be your brother. So now it’s time for you to let me worry, for you to let me protect you.”

His feelings are inconsequential, they would only be a burden. More than anything else, his one single wish has been for them to be happy, for them to smile always, to repay them, to thank them. Because before he was nothing, before he was no-one. Shadow he may be, that is no longer the case. He knew plenty of happiness, reveled in their glow. Now it’s just time to look away, now it’s time to fulfill his role.

“Foolish little brother, your eyes are still closed even now. For all your prowess and your foresight you are still so incredibly blind. By choice no less. There is only one man who is in possession of her heart, only one man who consumes all of her thoughts, only one man who can evoke that precious smile. For all that you see her, that you know her, that you love her it never occurred to you that she felt the same” his smile is easy, teasing yet honest “She has rescinded the contract of marriage this very morning, confronted her father too. What will you do little brother, I wonder”

He is unworthy of her heart, unworthy of her mind. This he knows all too well, has known it for a long while.

And yet… She is a most wonderful vision. An exhilarating performance A breath of fresh air An inescapable revelation

He doesn’t have the chance to pursue her, to ask after the cancellation of the contract. She finds him first, refuses his words, grabs onto his body, kisses his lips.

And as her lips meld with his, as his tongue caresses hers, as he drowns in her essence he has to acknowledge that perhaps, just perhaps, he knows nothing after all.

#Sasuke Uchiha #Hinata Hyuga #SasuHina #sasuhinamonth2020 #shmonth2020 #happy sasuhina month

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herondaleholly31 · 6 years ago

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“I’ve got better things to do with my Saturdays...” Ben Hardy!Roger Taylor X Reader

Overview: The night that you, your boyfriend Roger Taylor and band mate Brian May meet Freddie is one to remember

A/N: Iya lovesssss! I have been in such a writing mood the past few days it’s insane. I’ve planned loads but all I’ve been thinking about is Ben Hardy so I hope you’ve been enjoying the content. The support the guys have been giving me is incredible and I cannot thank you all enough. Hope you enjoy.

Like and Reblog!

Word count:1900

The crescendo of clashing symbols cut through the screaming crowd. Even though you’d seen the band play dozens of times, you couldn’t help but jump around with everyone else, clapping until your hands were numb and red. There wasn’t a single person in the pub that wasn’t going wild. Brian, Roger and Tim all beamed widely, their jubilance clear even in the low lighting. Girls were swooning in the front row, one almost fainted. “Thank you everyone!” Tim yelled into the microphone “We are smile, GOODNIGHT!”

The crowd roared. Brian and Tim bowed and walked off the stage, slipping out back stage door and out of sight. Roger hesitated. He stood and waved at a couple of people, throwing his drumsticks at a pair of screaming girls. He looked up and his eyes met yours. You waved, and his face broke into the biggest grin of the night. You giggled at the slight blush that dusted his cheeks, but he stood his ground and pointed directly at you with one strong arm. There were wolf whistles in your direction but he didn’t care; he winked, grinned cheekily, and then bounded off stage after his friends. The crowd started to disperse, most going to the bar to get a drink. Everyone was in high spirits, talking excitedly about how great the band were. It made you so happy knowing how much they were loved; their talents finally being recognised. Normally you’d wait until the equipment had been packed away before seeing the boys, but this time you couldn’t wait. you battled against the crowd and slipped out the back. The security guard nodded you through. Weaving through the corridors the summer air hit you, as you walked out into an old courtyard. your legs shivered slightly-you’d only worn a skirt and a t-shirt.

The boys were sat in the back of their van, surrounded by speakers and instrument cases. You walked over to them, smiling. Roger stopped the conversation when he saw you. “It’s your number one fan!” You smiled. Roger’s face softened as he threw his arms around you, nuzzling into your neck playfully. He felt both his heart and pulse quicken, and it wasn’t because of the performance high. You kissed his jaw lightly and you drew apart, but you kept your hands clasped around his waist. Tucking a loose stand of hair behind your ear, the drummer smiled “enjoyed the show?”

“You guys were so good” you gushed.

“Thanks Y/N” Brian smiled. Tim didn’t say anything. He was always the broodier one of the band, and therefore your least favourite member. You turned back to Roger. “Did you see me in the crowd?”

“You were all I was looking at.”

He smelt faintly of sweat, but it wasn’t off-putting. “I’ll go get us some celebratory drinks,” you smiled “my treat.”

Brian and Roger exclaimed joyfully; Tim just nodded. Kissing Roger quickly You left the three and jogged back inside to the mass of bodies, all a lot louder and drunker. Stu at the bar recognised you, so when he saw you, he came over and asked if you wanted the usual. Giving him the money, you left a minute later with four bottles of beer balanced precariously in your arms. You were able to dodge most of the crowd; that was until you thought you heard someone call your name and you turned to bang into someone’s chest. One of the beers sloshed onto his shoe.

“I am so sorry!” You gasped

The man wasn't annoyed though. He smiled, and your eyes naturally drew to the large teeth poking out of his lip. When he smiled, the teeth became even bigger, but it was so charming that you felt your lips tug up to match him.

”its fine,” the man reassured ”looks like you've got a handful anyway.”

You nodded. Still clutching onto the bottlenecks you freed a finger to waggle ”I like your outfit.”

His eyes shined as he absentmindedly stroked the blue jacket that matched with his flared trousers. ”Thanks.”

You smiled, apologised once more, and then continued on your way through the crowd, this time taking more care and not spilling any more as you made your way back outside.

You didn't expect to see the band rounded on each other, an amalgamation of anger and hurt etched on Brian and Roger’s faces.

”humpy bong?”

“humpy bong, ” Tim nodded ”They’re going places, they’re gonna be big.”

“Humpy bong. Are you Joking?” Roger spat, his eyes flashing with rage.

“Don’t do it, Tim, ” Brian begged. But Tim’s face was set, and you noticed his guitar and amp were packed in their travel cases by his side. He shouldered his guitar. ”I’m sorry guys but we’re not going anywhere with this. What college gigs, pubs?” He shrugged, and the victim card became obvious. He was trying to make it seem like it wasn't a big deal-he was a coward as well as I quitter. ” I've got to give it a go.”

You didn't watch Tim as he walked past you, didn't catch was he said. Neither were you watching Brian shake his head in defeat and sit with his hands running through his hair in frustration.

You were watching Roger. He was standing there, hands slack by his side, watching the retreating back of Tim. His face a moment ago full of anger, was now crinkled in disappointment. He looked like he’d just lost someone close to him, and in some ways, he had-he loved his band and he’d just watched it crumble to ruin.

You placed the drinks on an amp and slowly walked up to him. Clocking you the drummer tried to drag up a smile. ”I guess you just heard all of that.”

”I’m so sorry babe, ” you whispered. you pulled him close, one hand rubbing soothingly on his back and the other cupping his jaw. He closed his eyes and moved to kiss your wrist-there was nothing else he could say. He was breathing deliberately, trying to calm himself down. He rested his forehead against yours, and you didn't move until his chest rose and fell at a more normal rate.

You understood that he wanted a second. Instead, you walked over to sit next to Brian, offering him a beer which he took.

”Tim’s an asshole.”

”he is, ” Brian exhaled a laugh.

”you’ll find someone new. Someone better.”

Brian patted your knee in a friendly manner, but he still looked crestfallen.

”I think he’s right, ” Roger said. He'd lite a cigarette, and the smoke billowed around his face. He went to sit down in the van, pausing to move your legs so they were draped over his lap. ”The show was a load of bollocks.”

Brian frowned ”I mean, there was room for improvement yea.”

“I’ve got better things to do with my Saturdays, ” Roger’s hand moved a little higher up your thigh, just under the hem of your skirt ”I could give you her name.”

He winked at you. You tried not to show on your face how that affected you. He took another drag on his cigarette, but he was smiling cheekily now. Brian rolled his eyes.

Someone stopped by the van. It was the guy you bumped into in the bar. He recognised you and smiled, and you smiled back. His gaze went to the band.

“Enjoyed the show.”

“Thanks, mate, ” Roger said.

“Thank you.” Brian smiled.

“I’ve been following you for a while actually.” the man confessed, shuffling slightly with awkwardness ”Smile. makes sense for a dental student.” he nodded at Roger, who looked surprised. He turned to go Brian ”and you’re Astrophysics aren’t you?”

“Yea.”

“Makes you the clever one, ” the man grinned cheekily. Brian's brows shot up, but there was humour in his tone when he turned to Rogers look of slight put out

”Yea I suppose it does.”

You laughed. When Roger frowned at you, tongue in cheek, you rubbed his arm comfortingly, still smiling.

I’m Freddie, ” the man, Freddie, introduced ”I study design. Also, I write songs. Might be of interest to you.” he pulled out a wad of folded paper from his back pocket, showed it, then blushed and stowed it away again. ”It’s just a bit of fun really.”

“You’re 5 minutes too late.”

“Our lead singer just quit.” Brian shook his head. Roger drank some beer. Freddie's eyes, however, had suddenly lit up. He caught your eye and you grinned, goading him on.

“So you’ll need someone new.”

“Any ideas?”

Freddie paused. And then, he threw his head back, hand on hip and no doubt shaking his voice. ”what about me?”

Roger laughed. ”Uh, not with those teeth mate.”

Freddie's face fell. You smacked Rogers arm. He spilled beer down his shirt, which made him yelp. ”don't be a dick, ” you frowned. Roger went to protest, but you shook your head. You very rarely got annoyed by him, and in those moments he had learnt to do what you said. To show he was sorry he circled his thumb against your skin as he turned back to Freddie.

This didn't phase Freddie. Instead, he steadied himself, opened his mouth, and started to sing.

”I know what I’m doing....... I got a feeling I should be doing all right......”

Your jaw dropped. His voice was incredible, rich and full and it hung like warm air in summer. The three of you looked at one another. And then, Brian and Roger sang, and the harmony blended together so well it caused goosebumps to erupt all over your skin

”.....doing all right.”

****

”He was amazing!” you exclaimed, carrying one of Roger’s symbols out to the van. Freddie was coming tomorrow for his first rehearsal, and Brian couldn’t contain his excitement. Roger carried the last of the drum set into the car, slammed the doors and locked it. He leaned against the van, ”you were right. About Freddie. The guys good.”

”I'm always right, ” you grinned. Roger Smiled,both hands in his pockets.

”want to celebrate?”

”does that mean going back to yours and having sex?”

”You said it, not me.” be reached out and grabbed you by your belt, pulling you in close enough for the smell of cigarettes to waft over you. ”You going to stay the night then gorgeous?”

”I've already called sick of work.”

Roger closed his eyes and mouthed ”yes”, causing you to laugh. He lent forward and kissed you, knocking any breath out of your chest. His hand stroked your cheek but refrained from doing any more for fear of being seen in public. He led you around to the passenger door and helped you inside. Racing around to the back he hopped into the driving seat and put the car in gear.

“I’m sorry I need one more, ” he groaned. He grabbed your face and kissed you again, this time more passionate and desperate. Fingers tangled in hair and Roger’s hip ached with pain as it banged against the gear stick but he didn’t care. The feeling of your chest rising and falling heavily made his body scream with longing. “How quick can you get back to yours?” you breathed.

Roger smirked against your swollen lips ”I could get there in 15 minutes.”

”make it 10.”

#ben hardy #ben #ben hardy imagine #ben hardy x reader #ben hardy x oc #roger taylor #roger #roger taylor x reader #roger taylor x oc #roger taylor x you #roger taylor!ben hardy #bohemian rhapsody #bohemian rapsody movie #imagine #fanfiction #cute #oc #taylor x reader

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sinceileftyoublog · 4 years ago

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Dogleg Interview: Buckle Up, Motherfucker

BY JORDAN MAINZER

Earlier this year, Michigan punk four-piece Dogleg released one of the most blistering, endlessly playable debuts of the year in Melee, which, yes, is a Super Smash Bros. game. At this point, much has been written about the band, from their beyond wild live shows to their Pokemon-referencing and video game-playing prowess. Lost in the shuffle is that 2020 was poised to be their year to gain even more of a national following. Released on March 13th, right as the COVID-19 pandemic hit, Melee was supposed to be supported by three cancelled tours--SXSW, an opening slot for Microwave, and an opening slot for Joyce Manor--and an appearance at this year’s cancelled Pitchfork Music Festival. Listening to the songs on the record, you can only imagine how they translate: the jerky momentum of “Bueno”, build-up of “Prom Hell”, gang vocals of “Fox”, clear-vocal anthem of “Wrist”, and odd groove of “Ender”. The band agrees that playing live is what makes them Dogleg: “Our live shows is what made us the forefront of the DIY music scene for as long as we were with such little released music,” bassist Chase Macinski told me over the phone in April.

The band’s self-titled debut EP--at the time, the band was simply a solo project of lead vocalist and rhythm guitarist Alex Stoitsiadis--was released in 2015. Full-band follow-up Remember Alderaan? (Macinski, drummer Parker Grissom) came out in 2016. In the four years between EP2 and LP1, Dogleg took their time writing what would become Melee but wasted no time debuting unreleased songs as they were finished. It was not just their energy, but their steady stream of new material that garnered the band a growing fan base, local and beyond, and eventually a deal with venerable indie punk label Triple Crown Records. “Fox” and “Kawasaki Backflip” were released as singles last November and February, respectively, and the generated hype garnered them rave reviews from publications like Pitchfork that, 10-20 years ago, probably would have scoffed at them.

Dogleg’s bigger moment--they’ve certainly had plenty of already big ones--may be on hold. Macinski continues his day job as a janitor in Southfield, about 20 minutes northwest of Detroit, while Stoitsiadis has played around with live-streamed acoustic and solo electric sets. While the group approach to writing that allowed the band to flourish when making Remember Alderaan? and Melee may not be possible without a completely reopen Michigan, and while Dogleg won’t be able to feed off of crowds for a bit, I have no doubt they’ll come back when they can with an even greater drive.

Read my interview with Macinski below.

Since I Left You: To what extent can Melee be fully appreciated without the context of the Dogleg live show?

Chase Macinski: I think you get a feeling for it. You understand it. But you still haven’t experienced it. We have been playing these songs for a long time. “Headfirst” for example, we basically had that song written by the time Remember Alderaan? came out in 2016. But we didn’t want to include it on the EP because it was close but not finished. Two weeks later, I’m pretty sure we wrapped it up, and then we were like, “Cool. We have the first song for the new album.” At that point, we thought it was time to make an album. We were playing it ever since it’s been done. As we were writing songs for the album, we were incorporating them into our live shows. A year ago, when the album wasn’t even out, half our set was still this album. Locals who saw us on the most recent tour we got to go on did catch that experience but didn’t get the whole context of the album, you know?

SILY: "Headfirst”, especially, is the most maximal song on the record.

CM: Oh yeah.

SILY: At the same time, when I read reviews of your music that say things like, “Dogleg plays loud,” or “Dogleg has energy,” it seems to leave out the complexity of the arrangements. The stop-starts, the drum fills, the crescendos. There’s a lot going on in the music, beyond it obviously being loud and fast. Can you talk about achieving a balance between raw energy and composition?

CM: We want to build up a lot of tension when we play, and we keep that in mind when we’re writing songs. We definitely try to think of, “What’s really hype? What builds up a lot of energy? What gives us butterflies in our stomach and makes us really jazzed up to hear this or anxious?” For the live shows, since we focus so much on those details, the start-stops and crescendos, it fills itself in pretty easily since we’re all focused on that and on the same page in terms of execution, that it just happens, and on the other side of that, we’re trying to be as energetic and involved and engaging with the music as possible. What we do in theory helps us out in practice, if that makes sense.

SILY: How did you approach the sequencing on Melee?

CM: We took it very seriously. It took us a lot of time to figure out what order the songs should be in. I immediately said we should start the album with “Kawasaki Backflip”, and I got some backlash on that. The other two contenders for the first track were “Fox” and “Prom Hell”. “Prom Hell” had more of an argument than “Fox” did. My attitude was, “‘Kawasaki’ starts off like a roller coaster, and that intro guitar riff is just like, ‘Buckle up, motherfucker.’ Let’s go for a ride.’” I really thought it had that tension immediately out the gate and blasted you with what could be a middle ground for the entire album, where I thought “Prom Hell” didn’t really address or show you what you can fully expect on this. For the first track, you might think something differently. After that, it was a lot of, “Okay, how does one song end and another begin?” We thought a lot about what key songs were in, what note songs ended on, how they ended, what the band was doing, what they sounded like, and then we thought about the same thing for how songs begin. “How does this one start? Does it start full-band, just guitar, drum fill?” We wanted to make sure we weren’t being too repetitive and created a sense of flow that could make one song go into the other. We even incorporated those moments where we were very specific about the time change between “Kawasaki” and “Bueno”. We were very specific about when “Kawasaki” ended and how much time passed between that and for you to hear the drums of “Bueno”. We wanted it to be an exact timing just for enough tension to be built up.

SILY: Were there any considerations to the thematic sequencing of the songs?

CM: No, not really, other than when we wrote “Ender” and decided to call it “Ender”, we knew it would be the last song. Otherwise, there wasn’t thematic sequencing because the lyrical content and the themes through the lyrics throughout the album were Alex’s thing. We write a song, and when the whole band writes the song, it’s an instrumental. Then, Alex comes up with a melody, and we all pitch in with what the lyrics might sound like, and Alex writes all the words. I’ve contributed when he’s got writer’s block and have helped him out a bit there, but for the most part, all of the themes for the lyrics he puts in.

SILY: There’s a line on “Kawasaki Backflip” that does seem like an appropriate introductory mantra to the record: “We can destroy this together.”

CM: Yeah, I mean, I think that’s a pretty powerful statement as an introductory song on the album. “Kawasaki”’s that “buckle up” song, as well, so the instrumental aspects definitely lead into that idea of “get ready for what you’re about to experience.”

SILY: A song like “Cannonball” is a bit more swaying instead of clearly uptempo. When you go into write as a unit, do those differences occur naturally, or are they forced with any sort of intention?

CM: “Cannonball” I would say occurred naturally because we wrote the song as we were practicing one day. In between songs we were practicing and making noise, I played that main verse riff, that A to C progression. I was just bored, not thinking, and playing my bass, waiting for Alex and Parker to be like, “Okay, let’s play another song.” While I was doing that, Alex was like, “Yo, what’s that?” I was like, “I don’t know, I was just messing around.” We started building on that and took that swaying feeling for what it was, and the lyrics to add to that--I think “Cannonball” was maybe the 4th, maybe 5th song on the album, so we didn’t have any idea what would be on it at that point. We knew it was a Dogleg song.

SILY: On “Ender”, are those actual strings in the outro?

CM: Yes, those are our friends who go to music school in Chicago. We know them from the School of Rock music program we all did when we were in middle school and high school. They were home for summer vacation and had their instruments, and we asked, “Yo, can we record y’alls playing violin”...I forget the other instrument. [Editor’s note: It’s double bass.] Those are actual strings. Honestly, I thought they played the parts so well, I made a comment that, “I don’t think people will think this is real because it sounds so genuine and good.”

SILY: I actually assumed it was a synthesizer.

CM: It’s legit. They’re just really good at playing their instruments. The horns are real as well.

SILY: What’s the story behind the cover art?

CM: The cover art is Alex’s aunt’s artwork. She’s a really great artist, and we’ve used her designs in the past. If you’ve ever seen the dog pack t-shirt, where it’s the bunch of dogs in watercolor--it’s also the artwork of our first EP--she also did that. She just really likes drawing dogs. We’ve never really commissioned something from her--she’s always already made something that we’ve thought is really cool, and then Alex asks her whether we can use it for the band, and she says, “Yeah, sure go ahead.” One day we were playing a show in 2017, way before we had half the songs on the album written, before “Fox” was even an idea. [Alex] was scrolling through his aunt’s Instagram and came across that picture. I saw it out of the corner of my eye and was like, “What is that?” He just goes, “It’s just something my aunt made.” I was like, “That is a fucking phenomenal piece of art. We have to use that for our album artwork.” He was like, “Okay.” He asked, we got permission. We made no edits to it. I don’t know when it was drawn or made, but when I saw it, I immediately knew it was perfect.

SILY: Is she a fan of the band?

CM: Yeah, she likes the band. She thinks it’s really cool.

SILY: Have any of these songs evolved, from the song structure to the performance, as the fans get to know both the recorded and live versions?

CM: We play the songs faster live, that’s for sure. Before we did any recording for the album, we had to decide on a tempo we wanted to play them at for the album. But since the songs were written, it’s just whatever tempo we’re feeling. For Melee, none of the song structures have really changed. But for the Dogleg self-titled EP, a lot of those songs, we play very differently live. Alex did that all by himself, recording, drums, bass, vocals, guitar. When we got incorporated in the band, that’s when we had the ability to put our spin on it. We changed and added those stop-and-go’s, different solos. No major changes to structure, but they feel more like Dogleg songs you’d expect to hear today.

SILY: Have you written anything during quarantine?

CM: Alex has been making some riffs, but we haven’t written any music. Alex says it’s pretty difficult for him at the moment. The songwriting process for every song on Melee and every song on Remember Alderaan? has been a band experience: Someone comes to the table with a riff, melody, one piece of the puzzle, and then the entire band fleshes it out. It’s pretty difficult for us to write music at the moment when we can’t get together.

SILY: Is there anything else next for you? Are you releasing any more music videos?

CM: We have some ideas. Nothing fleshed out yet. The last thing we did was the “Wartortle” video. We also have the Eureka [Records] sessions, which were all filmed before Michigan was put under lock down. We have some guitar play-throughs that will get out eventually, where it’s Alex playing along with the songs.

SILY: Is there anything you’ve been listening to, watching, or reading during or before quarantine that’s inspired you, comforted you, or caught your attention?

CM: I’ve been listening to a lot of music that I’ve listened to in the past. Once I graduated college and was really active in the temporary jobs I had and on the road, I stopped using Spotify for a long time even though I still had my account. My senior year, my Spotify minutes were huge: You listen to music when you study, do homework, whatever. Once I graduated, I couldn’t listen to music while doing things. A year ago, I was working at a hospital on a research project, and you’re not allowed to listen to music during work. I had like 15% of the music usage I did the previous year. So I’ve been revisiting a lot of old music. I’ve been listening to a band called Colossal. I forget the name of the album--it’s the only one I have in my car. The first track is called “The Dusk of Us” so it’s the first thing that comes to my mind. [Editor’s note: It’s Welcome the Problems.] Phenomenal album, really nice. I’ve listened to that a lot. My roommate has an extra PC, so I’ve been playing a lot of PC games, which I haven’t done in a long time because I don’t have a PC that can keep up. I’ve been playing [Civilization VI] with friends over Discord, which is nice, because I haven’t talked to them in a while. I haven’t really been reading anything, and I’ve been trying to watch movies I’ve been expected to watch for a while. Yesterday I watched The Matrix for the first time.

Melee by Dogleg

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vegannightschool · 5 years ago

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Manchester Pig Save

by Connor Thomas

At 4am on a dark & crisp summers morning, the soft gentle chill of the air through my open window carries the sweet songs of the early rising winged creatures. A beautiful start to a day that we had all not been looking forward to. I make a hearty wholesome Tupperware box of porridge for each of us. It’s full of bursting blueberries and zingy ginger, a hug in a bowl for the journey down. Ben arrives at 5:05 and is greeted with an energetic loving smile by all three of the hounds I share a house with. We head to Dale’s house, pick him up and finally set off for Ashton Under Lyme on the outskirts of Manchester.

We give ourselves a small pep talk on the way down, as we drive through parts of the Peak District and witness spectacular sights of low hanging intense clouds on endless rolling hills. As we grow closer to our destination, a grey mist cushions Ben’s Mini through the higher hills. In this bubble of misty thought, we rattle our brains and remind ourselves of why we put ourselves in the spectators’ seat of such immense suffering and how we are going to devour a gigantic hearty breakfast after the vigil. Self-care and the scrupulous planning of it is so important!

We pull up on a terrace parallel to the slaughterhouse. As we take our first step out the car, I feel a sharp chill; this is a re-occurring sensation I’ve found in my own personal experiences of visiting slaughterhouse areas, even on summer mornings. To our right is a high cemented wall around 9ft high with barbed wire. To our left is the ordinary world, a simple terrace that reminds me of the old family house I previously lived in. I wonder if kids still play street football like I used to at home when I was a bairn. If so, are they aware of what happens behind these high walls?

I’ve been holding a pee for a few hours now and the moment we arrive, I quickly say hello to a few of the welcoming faces in high visibility vests before I dart along the riverside to find a secluded spot to relieve myself. Behind the woods, I hear the first sound. It is piercing. It is 8:30 in the morning and we have gone from harmonious birds to deep and fiercely terrified squeals. It is their call for help, for relief. The sound is awful, like a baby screaming in pain. You know you can’t turn your back; you must address that cry for help to alleviate the sound that we ever so naturally respond to. What shocks me most is how hard it is to tell if the cry was human or non-human. The intensity of the orchestra of screams touches every millimetre of my physical structure and I just desperately wait for a crescendo to come and end it all.

It never does. It continues.

Something occurs to me. What if within all the screams, the slaughterhouse workers also cry out for help? They work with unnatural non-human tools - a far cry from the sharpened stone on a long stick, the tools used by our ancestors in times of food urgency. Nowadays we demand workers to use tools such as carousels that rotate through pits of carbon dioxide, flamethrowers so hot they burn every hair from their skin, huge harsh knives that cut through dense twitching protective flesh and penetrating bolt guns that fracture skulls and periodically miss, leaving animals to meet the sharp blade fully aware of their feelings, fellow friends and their unforgiving fate. Do you think this sounds violent? If yes, what does this violence do to the mind of the human holding the tool? Do they ever get caught in these machines or have they become machines themselves?

After ten long minutes, I walk back to the front of the gate. I am told there has already been six trucks enter the yard since the early hours. I can see the backs of the trucks which have the name of the location the pigs have travelled from. Each and every one of them has an obnoxious picture of a happy pig looking out at the drivers who follow the trucks on their long journeys. This is a comforting image to those who have never witnessed the inside of a farm, truck, slaughterhouse or probably even something I had smiled at when I used to eat bacon and sausage. Long journeys they certainly were; each individual had travelled without water or food, packed so tightly that many of them could not lie down at the same time. It took between one to four hours to reach the pigs’ final destination, while the drivers would return within the week with another hot box of snouts.

I look left. The Manchester Pig Save banner is now out of sight, blocked by a colossal three-story high trailer, fitted with small rectangular mesh slats on each level. This sight was a shock to the mind; I had seen trucks like this on videos of American and Canadian pig saves and I had never imagined it happened in the UK on this scale. Now my nostrils are twitching, something doesn’t smell good. This nose filling scent that feels so permanent. Intensified by the heat of many bodies packed so closely together; similar to that of when you’re very ill for days, you feel you need to keep cosy and the minute you lift those covers, you smell the fever inspired body odour arise from the warm depths of your quilt. It is a smell much worse than one can describe with words. Imagine faeces from your toes, up your legs and smothered on your belly as the truck comes to a sudden halt. Your friend accidently crashes their arse into your face. Now with every breath you inhale your fellow beings’ gruesome shit scent. You have no way of getting it off your nose. This confined space is abhorrently different to the woodland you are so used to stewarding, a place where you get to enact your instinct of keeping your toilet far from your sleeping quarters and much further from your snout.

“You use all of your senses when bearing witness at a vigil”. This is what I once heard Alex Lockwood talk about on a podcast about bearing witness. To me this is key, this is reality. It’s not a video filmed by someone else, neither is it your minds ability to use what it thinks is the ‘best guess’ and imagine what the experience would be like. Ask anyone who has been to a Save Movement vigil; their words can describe it so well, yet they’ll all tell you, “you must experience it for yourself”.

Back to the gates. This first truck I see is lively. The pigs look out from their confined space with searching eyes that are focused curiously on our high visibility vests, voices and video devices. At Tulip meats, the Manchester Pig Save group have an agreement that they can spend five minutes with the animals before they enter the facility. This helps us a lot and we bring pop up stools with us so we can peer into the lowest slat that usually sits around head height - this is how we gather the footage that we want to share with people. It’s also how we get to see the individuals for who they are within their confinement. It is smallest act we can do, to share their story and show them love.

The horn of the truck blares and my body suddenly becomes tense. I feel a hollowness within this stressed structure. I feel like a strong wind could blow into me and fill this empty space to such a volume that I just blow away into the grey sky, like a balloon left unattended by a distracted child. I look around at the people I’m bearing witness with. Some are in tears; others are looking deeply into their own minds and emotions. I look for a cue from Ben or Dale to see if they would want to talk about that first truck full of curious snouts. We come together and check if we’re all alright, embracing each other in a tight heartfelt three-way hug.

As we let go and share our experience within our trio, I see a car swinging in. A mother dressed in a nurse’s uniform dropping off three young men. They head into the facility for another regular day of processing. I wonder which area they work in as this plant is huge! Do they work with the tall gas cylinders that fuel the screams? How about the kill floor a real life house of horror containing the carousel of pain that spins continuously, turning life into death? The ‘process’ in this plant takes inquisitive trusting pigs and transforms them into a commodity through a process that not many people would be willing to do or witness themselves. I, along with every activist within the non-violent Save Movement have only compassion for these people. It didn’t start like that for me though. I think of how angry I was attending my first save. I blamed the workers. I now realise that this is the wrong orientation to have. If you’re feeling stuck in this rut, remember it’s not the people we are fighting, it’s the oppressive system that Melanie Joy coins as “Carnism”. Workers, animals and our planet are all under the oppression of this powerful ideology.

Twenty minutes pass, another truck indicates its intended route into the plant. We approach the right-hand side of the truck, set up our stools to give us the extra foot we need to peer in and this time we bear witness to something different. These pigs don’t look at us; they don’t even seem to know whether we exist or if they themselves exist. All we can see are either wide scattered eyes or closed eyes along with heavy breathing, like zombies from an apocalypse film. This trailer is filled with misery. There are scratches, wounds, blood and shit all over the pigs. Most of them seem to have deformities on their bodies, they simply look either unconscious or completely unhappy and unnatural. I jot in my notebook that they seem to have no perception of anything but their own bodies, crashing around and pushing each other with their heads held low. Are they aware of what is coming, or have they come from one of the 85% of UK standard intensive pig farms? The epitome of ultimate despair.

As this truck leaves, I spot the driver hosing down the now empty insides of the trailer in the cleaning section. He departs after switching his now wet and faeces covered t-shirt. Just as he leaves, we see two other trucks flashing their indicators in the direction of the slaughterhouse gates. The first smaller truck of the two standing at two stories high drives straight in as the security must clear the busy road for the next truck, which is huge. I approach the second truck. I look up from my position at the side of the truck and see four levels of this ginormous structure. I then glance through more mesh and witness a mixture of lifeless looking bodies and frantic searching eyes in this first level.

I think of my dear friend Lesley, who has been to a vigil here before. She told me to talk, sing and vibrate with love towards these creatures who have probably never known this feeling before. Suddenly I feel a state of shock and find myself gazing into a pair of blue eyes that are looking directly back at me. Connected by this glance, I feel the urge to sing words to this individual and that’s exactly what I do. The ever so slight sense of embarrassment you may feel singing to a pig in the back of a slaughter truck suddenly disappears. Along with everything else except those blue curious eyes. It is a moment in which you realise that you are giving this pig a comfort it has never known in its life before.

The horn blares.

My chest is tight.

It’s not raining Connor.

Those are your tears.

As this truck pulls into the yard, my emotions overwhelm me due to this connection with the eyes of the individual. Those eyes I will be able to recall in every animal I meet. What the fuck can I do? I walk through the crowd of activists, straight to the riverside as the waterfall of emotions floods from my eyes. Frustration gets the better of me and I can feel the heat of anger arising. As this heat arises within me, I feel the cool calming hand of Dale on my right shoulder. Followed by Ben’s to my left. My eyes begin to dry up as we take a stroll through the thin line of woodland that surrounds the tall slaughterhouse walls.

Another six or seven trucks have come in the time we are present.

Now the worst part of a vigil is upon us. Here comes the abrupt return to reality on the other side of the wall. We came closer when you were in pain. We stayed with you when you were afraid. We wish we could watch over you, all through the night. Remember that every day, we’ll never give up the fight.

We walk from the back and head to the front. We gather our things and leave at 12:30. We’re heading straight to Manchester to fill up on some tasty delights at a rainbow beauty of a café named: Boho Utopia! We fill ourselves up on a full English breakfast and a mega chocolate, peanut butter & banana cake milkshake. We’re heading home now. What a day.

I can only try again from my own experience to describe the sensory circus that occurs when you walk to the back of the slaughterhouse. These words come to me at that moment in time, you may have a different experience:

Screams. Terror. Pain. Dominance. Burning. Crying. Witnessing. Helplessness. Hopelessness. Damage. Violence. History. Shock. Fire. Anger. Rage. Suffering.

The afore list of words is the dark side to describe the reality of a vigil. I’m going to share a different list of words now, under the title of; ‘How you feel when you talk to people who stand side by side with you at The Save Movement’.

Inspired. Committed. Fulfilled. Hopeful. Happy. Fair. Joyous. Connected. Warm. Calm. Loved. Empathetic. Caring. Truthful.

I want you to add to this list, your own words that come to mind when you think of an animal vigil. Let us tell everyone why bearing witness is one of the greatest things you can do in your life! You can simply think of these in your head or share them on Facebook, Instagram or under this Tumblr post. I’ll get you started with a few easy ones:

Tea. Cake. Coffee.

#vegan #activism #veganism #animals #pig #pigs #savemovement #witness #protest

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vgtrackbracket · 4 months ago

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Video Game Track Bracket Round 2

Summer (Nature's Crescendo) from Stardew Valley

youtube

vs.

Nightmare King from Wandersong

youtube

If you want your propaganda reblogged and added to future polls, please tag it as propaganda or otherwise indicate this!

Nightmare King [Wandersong]:

Not the nightmare king song you've probably heard before but a banger nonetheless

#tournament poll #g: stardew valley #g: wandersong #stardew valley #wandersong #dream king #wandersong act 7 #wandersong game #round 2 #t: summer (nature's crescendo)#t: nightmare king [wandersong]

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tkmedia · 3 years ago

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Back from the Brink: Chris Byrd’s Fight for Life

ATLANTIC CITY, UNITED STATES: Chris Byrd (R) celebrates his IBF Heavyweight Championship win over Evander Holyfield with boxing promoter Don King (L) 14 December, 2002 in Atlantic City, NJ. Byrd won the 12-round bout by unanimous decision. AFP PHOTO/HENNY RAY ABRAMS (Photo credit should read HENNY RAY ABRAMS/AFP via Getty Images) 21 Jul by Joseph Santoliquito This story appeared in the August 2021 issue of The Ring. WHETHER CHRIS BYRD’S RETURN TO BOXING HAPPENS OR NOT, THE FACT THAT IT’S EVEN POSSIBLE IS PROOF THAT HE ALREADY WON THE FIGHT OF HIS LIFE The park hummed only with the doleful cry of a desperate man swaying gently on a swing. That’s where Laurie Byrd found her baby brother, Chris, the two-time heavyweight titlist, a few blocks from his house one April night in 2017. Chris’ face was a ghoulish mask, his bloodshot eyes bigger than coffee saucers in the twilight. Laurie stood at the park’s edge for a moment wondering what monster had possessed her brother, once a lovable, hyper kid with a beaming smile who would follow her to basketball practice. Chris was wondering, too. His mind was twisted and he didn’t know what to do next. Drown himself in the Pacific Ocean? Hang himself from a balcony for the neighborhood to see? Stuff his mouth with pills and never wake up? “The pain started and that changed everything.” – Tracy Byrd During a 16-year, 47-fight pro career, the undersized Chris Byrd faced some of the most formidable heavyweights of his era, including David Tua, Evander Holyfield, Vitali and Wladimir Klitschko and Ike Ibeabuchi, gorging himself and trashing his body to barely get over 210 pounds. But for close to a decade after his final fight, Byrd was faced with a battle more daunting than any presented by those big punchers. His clash came against the horrors of anxiety, depression and despair – constant agony that shoved him to the brink of suicide. If not for Laurie interceding that spring night in 2017 and a handful of others who came to Byrd’s rescue, this would be a far more somber story. Byrd, a middleweight silver medalist at the 1992 Barcelona Olympics, defied logic as a heavyweight in the pro ranks, where he would routinely battle opponents who were larger than he was – often by a wide margin. Now Byrd, who will turn 51 on August 15, is thinking about returning to the ring for the first time in 12 years. He says it’s to make up for what he missed during his prime, a real chance to show what he can do at his more natural weight of 160. He says he’s a changed man from the walking Halloween costume he wore for many years, enduring the relentless throbbing in his feet, back, hips, shoulders and knees. He almost lost his family over it. He almost lost who he is. He almost lost his life. To outsiders, Chris and his wife, Tracy, lived an idyllic life. They were the perfect boxing couple, as close to a modern version of the Beaver Cleaver TV family as there can be in boxing. Their three children – Jordan, Justin and Sydney – quite literally grew up before the boxing community’s eyes. They seemed well-adjusted; they were a joy to be around. Hardly anyone uttered a sordid word or had a negative attitude when it came to Chris Byrd. It’s why Byrd’s post-boxing career, at least the first incarnation of it, seems so difficult to fathom. “Everybody in boxing loved Chris Byrd. And you would meet Chris and Tracy, and who could not love them?” said Steve Cunningham, the two-time IBF cruiserweight titlist. “They named our daughter, Kennedy. We’re that close to the Byrds. Chris is the easiest guy to get along with, a nonhostile guy, except when you’re in the ring with him. “Chris always had it together. My wife and I always looked at Chris and Tracy as our big brother and sister. I love Chris Byrd. When people ask me who my favorite all-time boxer is, I don’t say Muhammad Ali; I don’t say Sugar Ray Leonard. I say Chris Byrd, because I was in four or five training camps with him. I knew the odds were against him on the business side and the size side. I understand what he was up against – and he still went on to become a two-time heavyweight champion.”

Byrd gave away almost 30 pounds in his TKO loss to Wladimir Klitschko in April 2006. (Photo by Torsten Silz//DDP/AFP via Getty Images) Chris Byrd’s pain first started in 2009 in his left pinky toe. It was just a light tingling sensation. At first, Byrd (41-5-1, 22 knockouts) ignored it, but as it continued to worsen and started to spread, his personable disposition grew dark. Byrd’s last fight was a victory, a four-round knockout over the terribly overmatched Matthias Sandow in Germany on March 21, 2009. After that, the gifted southpaw became a trainer, following the same path as his parents, Joe and Rose Byrd, who trained their eight children in their fabled “dungeon” in the basement of the Byrd home in Flint, Michigan, the incubator of Chris’ awkward, slick style. By 2010, the pain had spread. Chris couldn’t sleep for more than two or three hours at a time. Doctors tried to find answers. Chris was diagnosed with peripheral neuropathy, a sometimes excruciating condition caused by nerve damage. Chris was prescribed numerous anti-inflammatory medications. But the pills had awful side effects, which came to a head in June 2010 when Chris went to see a basketball game in which his sister Laurie was coaching in Los Angeles. Chris went to the game with Tracy, his son Justin and his nephew. After the game, as the family was walking to their car in the parking lot, Tracy mentioned Justin had said something disrespectful to her. The boys were teenagers at the time. “When we got in the car, I lost it on my son and nephew,” Chris recalled. “I remember screaming at them and wanting to fight them. I was going crazy. I went into a rage. I got out of the car and challenged my son and my nephew to fight. Someone saw this and called the cops. Tracy was trying to tell me to stop. My son and nephew wouldn’t get out of the car, they were so scared. I was circling the car yelling and going crazy. “I was able to calm myself down when I realized I was acting nuts. I got back in the car. Everything calmed down, but everyone was looking at me like I was crazy. We started driving out of the parking lot and immediately cop cars were driving towards me and behind me, blocking me in.” There were six police cruisers. Chris stopped the car. The police jumped out, guns drawn, and told the family to get out of the car and hit the ground. Chris and his family complied. After being handcuffed and interrogated, the police allowed Chris’ family to go without any charges. This, however, convinced Tracy that something was wrong with Chris. His doctor immediately took him off the medication. “I used to sit in my garage all day and not talk to anyone. I remember telling Tracy that I wanted to end it all. For me, life was over.” – Chris Byrd “I started having issues in my hips and both shoulders, and the neuropathy spread all the way up my leg,” Chris recalled. “I could not take the pain any longer. I was no longer sleeping at night. I was starting to feel a little better with the drugs, but then I started to have outbursts. I would lose my temper. “I finally told Tracy about all of the thoughts I was having. I would have dreams of killing myself, Tracy, my entire family in their sleep. One night, I had a dream of hanging myself from my balcony, naked, so the whole neighborhood could see me. I was so aware these thoughts were not normal. I was so scared of these thoughts. They were so real and so vivid, but I was too scared to tell anyone, because I thought everyone would think I was crazy.” By August 2010, his family did. “Chris became someone different, someone I didn’t know,” recalled Tracy, crying. “I still love him. That will never change. He’s always going to be the love of my life. His pain started small and gradually got worse, and worse, and worse. I spent years taking Chris to doctors, begging anyone for help. It reached a point where it became too much for him. It was hell. Chris sucked it up. We were still a family. We did things together. Everyone knew Chris was in pain, and during that time it pained me seeing Chris that way. We had a great marriage that everyone saw. My kids had the best dad, and I had the best husband. “The pain started and that changed everything.” Chris spent the summer of 2010 in his bedroom. He was severely depressed and did not see the point of living anymore. Justin was so worried about him that he spent the summer with his father, watching TV. The only time Justin left his side was when Tracy came to bed, or to get his father food.

As a result of his ordeal, Byrd (with wife Tracy and son Justin) would see family bonds stretched to the breaking point. (Photo by Jens-Ulrich Koch/DDP/AFP via Getty Images) The rage and thoughts of suicide subsided for a time, though the pain continued to worsen. It reached another crescendo in 2017. Tracy hid anything that Chris could grab to possibly harm himself, like knives and medication. One weekday morning in April 2017, Chris got up from another bad night. “That morning I woke up from the pain and I couldn’t take it anymore; all I wanted to do was take some pills and go to sleep for good,” he remembered. “I used to sit in my garage all day and not talk to anyone. I remember telling Tracy that I wanted to end it all. For me, life was over. No one was able to help me. I couldn’t take medication because of my mental state. This was the eighth or ninth time I went through this. My family was used to it. “But this outburst was worse than the others. I was in pain everywhere. When you’re in real pain, you don’t think right. It’s when it got super serious. I would say that it was the closest I ever came to doing something. I wanted to walk into the ocean, and when I thought I would float back to the shore, I didn’t want my family to see me that way. I remember sitting on the ledge in my backyard, and I wanted to leave the house.

He may have been small, but Byrd could always hang with the heavyweights. (Photo by Johnny Louis/FilmMagic) “My family tried to grab me and I threw them off me. I would go crazy. It would be like blacking out. I had been going to doctors every day, and I had enough. When I finally broke, I broke. It led to that.” Chris walked through the front gate with tears streaming down his face. Drunk on emotion, his ungainly stroll led him to a local park a few blocks away. Laurie followed from a distance. When Chris sat on the swing, Laurie approached him to see if he was OK. Chris sneered at her, warning her away. Chris kept repeating, “I want to kill myself; I want to cut off my foot; I don’t want to live anymore.” “The pain was so unbearable, and I kept telling him that I couldn’t understand what he was going through; it was like Chris was possessed,” recalled Laurie. “I looked at Chris and it was like I didn’t know this person. “I was scared of him because I didn’t know what he was going to do, but I was there to protect him, too. To see him go through that broke my heart. I talked to him and I told him, ‘Momma wouldn’t want to see you like this.’ That calmed him down. (Rose passed away in June 2015.) “It was like an angel came down and landed on his shoulder. He calmed down. He said, ‘You’re right. She wouldn’t.’” The pair started laughing and everything went silent. They eased back up, brother and sister, and walked to the house. It seemed like a lifetime to get there, with Chris repeatedly saying, “I’m good, I’m good.” “That’s the closest I came to actually doing something extreme. Then a million thoughts go through your head that you can’t do it,” Chris said. “It hit me that those committed to suicide are committed to doing it. I thought about how many people I would hurt. I was never committed to doing it. I didn’t want to cause my family any pain. That’s what saved me. I second-guessed myself the whole time.” Four months later, a chance meeting changed everything. *** What Chris Byrd experienced is very much like what many retired NFL veterans go through, living with omnipresent pain. He was dealing with 11 years of no sleep while in constant agony. He was growing psychotic. Today, Byrd says he is in a good, lucid state of mind. That journey to recovery began in August 2017 while among a group of people discussing the medicinal benefits of cannabidiol (CBD), one of the many chemical compounds found in marijuana. But unlike THC, marijuana’s main psychoactive component, CBD has no intoxicating effect. This is where Chris met Tammie Thomas, a cannabis consultant. She didn’t know anything about Byrd but felt instant compassion when Chris shuffled up as the last speaker of the meeting. His feet didn’t spread more than 12 inches apart as he walked to the front of the group. Within seconds, Chris was sobbing. “I couldn’t believe that they had Chris speaking,” Thomas remembered. “He was announced as a former two-time heavyweight champion. This guy? A former two-time heavyweight champion? My heart hurt for him.

“Afterward, I knew Chris was going to be bombarded with people, so I passed along my number to him. Chris told me he suffered from neuropathy, which destroys your nerves. It’s very hard to combat and hard to treat. I told Chris I knew I could help him, and Chris was shocked, because for 11 years he had gone to every doctor he could to deal with the pain.” Byrd waited a week to call Thomas and asked her for a home consultation. His entire family, who had grown frustrated with Chris’ behavior, would be on hand to listen to Thomas talk about the therapeutic benefits of cannabis. Thomas noticed something about the Byrd family as she spoke to them. In her opinion, they were done with him. “Chris couldn’t finish a sentence without his family answering for him,” she said. “I asked Chris what he was going through, and his family just cut him off. They treated him like a washed-up fighter that they put in the corner. I remember being with Chris alone in his kitchen as he was making his smoothie, and he looked at me and said he wanted to start boxing again. “He had this look that no matter what anyone thought, he was going to fight. I remember leaving the house that day thinking he had no support and no one believed in him. I thought about it again that night and if he had one person to believe in him, he was going to be able to do it. Chris was ready to check out. Chris did put his family through some hell, too, but there were people who did give up on Chris.” From Tracy’s perspective, she was protecting Chris from himself. “I didn’t and don’t want to see Chris fight again, and I would do anything to this day to protect him,” Tracy said. “I still care about Chris. I would consider myself blessed to love again the way I loved Chris. No one ever checked out on Chris. It was torture for me and torture for the kids. I finished Chris’ sentences – but I did that the whole time Chris and I were together. I fought for him for 12 years, and I checked out when he started getting involved with these new people in his life and Chris wanted to fight again. “Fighters go through life thinking it’s only us who go through pain. It can create mental illness.” – Lamon Brewster “Chris’ family still supports and loves him. No one wants to see Chris get hurt. I stayed, and I stayed, and I stayed. This wasn’t Chris Byrd, the underdog guy boxing loved. I checked out when it reached a point of no return. He was set in his mind that he was going to fight again. He’s completely different. But it will kill me to ever see Chris get hurt. I would die for him.” Thomas told the Byrds that if you took the whole cannabis plant from the ground and used it raw, it’s proven to have strong medicinal purposes – though only in high doses. “If people think they can smoke a joint and it’s going to cure all of their ailments, it’s the farthest thing from the truth. It’s a pain pill; it’s temporary; it’s a band-aid,” Thomas said. “When the high wears off, you’re back in pain again. The first two, three months with Chris, he was on 1,500 to 3,000 milligrams a day, drinking it and doing suppositories. “Those were our two primary methods of delivery. When you do it through the rectum, you don’t get high, because it bypasses the liver. When you inhale, ingest or smoke cannabis with THC, it processes through the liver, which converts it into a psychoactive compound. By doing suppositories, that’s avoided.” Three years after they met, Byrd has been relatively pain-free.

If not for the smile, many boxing fans probably wouldn’t recognize the slimmed-down Byrd of today. (Photo by Gabe Ginsberg/Getty Images) “Once Chris’ body was healed, he is probably doing about 100 milligrams a day as maintenance to control inflammation, not because he needs anything healed,” Thomas said. Another cathartic moment occurred in 2018, while on a speaking engagement in Yuma, Arizona, with Chris’ cousin, former WBO heavyweight titlist Lamon Brewster. Now 47 and mentoring at-risk children in Indianapolis, Indiana, Brewster was with Byrd during a massage therapy session. The masseuse struck a nerve in Byrd’s left ankle and he exploded in agony. Brewster could feel the emotion from across the room. “And it was good, because we’re fighters and we make a living hiding our pain,” Brewster said. “We’re programmed to do that. Fighters go through life thinking it’s only us who go through pain. It can create mental illness. Chris sat up and slammed his first down on the mat. He said, ‘I can’t do it. I can’t deal with this for the rest of my life.’ “The one thing about being a champion is we’re normally by ourselves a lot. When you’re alone like that and you’re in pain, there is no one you can express that to and explain what you’re feeling. I never saw Chris like that before. It caught me totally off guard; I didn’t try to calm him down. What he was going through I would put no one on earth through. “I kept encouraging him to talk more. I wanted him to get it all out. If the river is overflowing, you don’t try to stop it. I kept telling him, ‘Let it out! Let it out, cousin!’ Read the full article

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jieyu · 4 years ago

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First Rehearsal in Ludwigs rehearsal room

Lennies hands vulgarly pass into moisture. [1] A considerable amount of ointment emit a fragrant odor [2] which he gently rubs with a scrupulous movement, with many fatty drops coming, especially from the cellular texture [3] of the ointment, for him to bathe his hands in. The ointment is made from kiki, a fruit that is sown in the fields [4]. The ointment is his eternal spirit. And that Eternal Spirit moulds forever, for his mortal child, images to remind him of the Infinite. [5] Applied in his hands, his hands transcend into a compound of silky tissue. In so far as the tongue communicates with others by speech, Lennies hands can now do so convincingly by the ointment, by its odor. [6] A ritualistic habitude, before he reaches to assertively stroke the first notes on this rather uncharacteristically bright Steinway and Sons. F sharp dominant chord. A fugue. Unfortunately, it is a Steinway with a coarse texture devoid of grace, charm, or rhythm. [7] That, he can bearably deal with. That, but Ludwig. The music theatre. For an exiled pope, the only theatre he could reserve. Ludwig. An island in the city. Embodiment of disentanglement. Distinct separation from his domain. Walls of the lonesome. Sonic isolation. What a horrendous space for rehearsing. Ludwig. For the proportions were what they should be, everything about it had been designed and calculated by a meticulous mind for purposes of maximum clarity in sound travel. [8] It is precisely the audible sound of voices and instruments in the reality of oscillating sound-waves [9] Ludwig fetishizes about. So, as Madrid was once placed in the mathematically absolute centre of Spain, so was the Steinway in Ludwigs rehearsal room. And the room, a room carefully crafted on the basis of simplex sigillum veri. [44] The interior, a reduction to white walls with soundproof wainscoting, brass strips (electrical conduits), suspended lighting fixtures and supercardioid microphones, mirrors, and two Thonet chairs. [5] From a logical point of view, the space could not be more reasonable. [10] The sound-waves have to reflect perpendicular to the precise walls if wished to be brilliant [11] and clear in articulation. Lenny plays an ornamented lower D ostinato that mushes into the first F sharp motive. A kind of protective coloration, he played. Though, it wasn’t really a color, but rather a colored sound, noise. [12] Ludwig is not made for noise. The brass strips echo particularly the higher frequencies of noise to remind the player of his inaccuracy in intonation. Brisk chrome. Stiff synthetic leather. Although adjustable in height, Ludwigs Thonet fights against Lennies bodily movement and the noise he creates whilst playing. Lenny fights against the idea of moving his vintage mahogany chair with cream colored leather upholstery, that gently screeches when he shifts his bodyweight in order to glide over the notes, from his very own rehearsal room to Ludwigs room. Lennys rehearsal room. A room he had made his own instantly after moving into Ludwig. Lennys room is carnal warmth, a coexistence where his Italian Marble and weathered woods feel at ease in its presence. [37] A textile skin. [22] With all the niches being plastered exuberance, decorated with painted stucco. [48] A room, a yearning for bronze relics, silver ceremonial objects and embroidery fabrics. Kermes minerals can be found next to the ointment flasks on the cupboard. Lennies spiritual alterants. [47] So unsurprisingly, Lenny naturally does not feel his usual drift in Ludwigs rehearsal room. For Lenny, noise is texture. Not for Ludwig. It is because Lennies pouring texture is not compatible with the onstage presence of Ludwig and the lack of bodies meant to incarnate it. [13] A pyramidal cascade of rubatos. The pyramidal cascade of Lennys very notably imprecise, however vivid rubatos entirely dissolve to accentuate the upward crescendo of four rocket like full scale accords. [7] And yet a syncretism of sensitivity keeps his accords from crystallizing into perfect solids. [8] Notable dissonance; before the eternal silence, the dominant chord! [14] Ludwigs turn. Ludwig dims the suspended lighting fixtures to 47% power. Ludwig now plays a dodecaphonical arpeggio generated by three oscillators, played at 120 BPM at 80dB.

One arpeggio appears, then another, then another, and so on, almost like the steady ticking of a metronome. [12] They are merely provided here to shape a certain pattern of expectations. [15] Algorithmic Selection. Autopoietic systems. [16] A well calculated process through lines of code, sequences of zeros and ones, links and repetitions, scans and databases. [41] The oscillators carefully select sine waves passing through the volume control hub, set to 40 ms of oscillation decay. Sound creation is synced between all four adjacent walls with each a perforated screen. [17] Unlike the soundproof wainscoting, these polymer screens refract the sound, so as the sound waves connect in the central focal point, after being equalized to a 110Hz lowpass, in order to bypass frequency interference between the generated oscillation and resonating objects in the rehearsal room, but Lenny. Neither the polymer screens nor the wainscoting calibrate towards bodily flesh. Disturbance of An otherwise absolute clarity of what is structural acoustic frame and what is not. [18] Disturbance of the calculated isomorphic partitioning and hexachordal combinations. There is no climax. The Arpeggios stop.

II.

Dress Rehearsal in the living room

F sharp mixolydian chord. Variation of a fugue. Reflection, luster, refraction, luminosity, darkness, color, softness, absorption, liquidity [19] Audible clarity of meta sound. The touch is inspired. [20] Lennys sound moves fuzzily this time - in this particular Ludwig, it moves in confused color, and the music was suddenly brassy, evil, haunting, flourishing in high crescendo [12], wild in gesture and motion. [21] Did the lower D ostinato already merge into the first F sharp motive? A reasonable uniformity of coloration. Variations in texture. [22] Texture as difficult and in some ways as secretive as the vision of potential history which it embodies. [20] Texture consonant with the onstage presence of Ludwig. [13] An alteration of Ludwig. Lenny had replaced about half of the soundproof wainscoting with his emerald marble panels. The heavy doors deliberately opened for the textures to delicately infuse each other through mutual reflections. The Steinway, now with some of Lennies Kermes minerals unmethodically placed on top of the piano’s cast iron frame, desires to move out of its perfect symmetrical positioning, so that accidental interference can start to enrich the sound. The brass strips of Ludwig, he had replaced with velvety felt, fixated with a considerable amount of organic rubber. Rubber so soft and sticky. [43] The Thonet, however, grew on him. The Thonet vibrates. Ludwig vibrates, the space quivers in every corner. [22]. Lenny notices the absence of the lowpass. As he reaches for the low A sharp diminished trill, it is as all the metallic doorhandles and railings start to respond. A change of timbre. A gentle resonance. Augmenting Interference. The screens do not refract absolute clarity. Spiritual reverberation. So much so, that the imperishability of Ludwig can be momentarily questioned. A pyramidal cascade of crescending rubatos decrescent in eclipsing emotion yet intent. Lenny reminisces of Antonio Gherardi, his companion, another special devotee of the conservatory he was sent to every summer by mother Mary. Gherardi was a very handsome man, with a full face, white skin but high in colour; he had an arched eyebrow, a lively eye, red ears, vermilion lips, a bold air [23]. Together, they drew freely on the existing grand works of Bach, Scarlatti, Händel. A musical palimpsest. When Lenny plays, Gherardi plays. No dissonance; no eternal silence, no dominant chord… [14] …as Ludwig has already started. Lennys rubatos were mimicked beginning at 6 dB, so as the hearer is left only with the general impression that language is [24] unconsciously continuous. Alpha, beta, and gamma particles, inscribe themselves in the soft tissue of the soundscape. [42] Oscillations between the code of utility and the code of beauty. [38] Each three decibel increment represents a 100% change in sound pressure. [25] Each sequenced BPM increment represents a 100% change in movement. This time, each decibel increase feels significant, each sequence presents bodies in motion. [13] Sound in motion. The arpeggios have been awaken by their individual micro-collisions with Lennies emerald marble. The stereophonic LFO pad, raises the apex of the melody by a mere halftone, complemented by the velvety felt it projects a mountainous sound of the breath of millions, shrivelling the grasslands [37] of rationality. A sonical error? Though, what can it be but motion? What can it be but metallic emotion? [22] The metallic luster that was clearly describable as moving within grayscale was now almost ivory in color. [12] Metallic interplay between shapeshifting fleshy arpeggios. Chunky pads. Dance of a serpent. [13] Intense oscillation. The metallic luster approaches some kind of a climax and stops. [12] The stage will not prepared for [17] the vacuum of silence.

III.

Premiere from the concert hall

The impenetrable walls of Ludwig, absorb the city’s cacophonous hustle and bustle. The impenetrable walls of Ludwig, today surrounded by the gasping anticipation of the appetent gathered. The anticipation cannot be wrong because it is what has taken the curious bunch to the premiere [45]. Patiently, they stand, as an indivisible mass, gathered as concentric ripples to the droplet of enigma. The droplet however does not grant access for the ripples as for the performers to be within each others uninterrupted profoundness. So outside, they wait, the gathered. Gathered ripples from all kind of liquids, all stretches of water. The space that has been opened by the tension and ‘expectation’ of endless speculation has to be filled with no less than ethereal matter. Air of short-lived serenity. The calm before the storm. [40] Just before the serenity turns unbearable… F sharp dominant tone cluster accompanied by dodecaphonical staccatos. Elevation of a fugue. Reflection, luster, refraction, luminosity, darkness, color, softness, absorption, liquidity, atmospheric density, instability of shape [26]; soul, spirit, breath, ancestors, fire, form, God. [27] Sound space creation in all directions, space creation in a continuum. [28] Rejuvenation of particularities. Ondulation of the sum. Evaporation of opaque bodies as objects disappear from sight. [29] The hall, a sophisticated form in sophisticated surroundings, a space subtracted from the whole, exposition of shifting thicknesses and firmnesses of walls and floors. [19] The walls, an organification of a synthetic body. Organic bodily tissue deliberately introduce layers of carbonization over fused sheets of metal. [12] The corners of the space, constantly in act of reconstruction between pliable skin and alveolar texture [51]. Absurd perforation and disintegration. The instruments, as well as a handful of sumptuous onyx and glass vases, appear to float on grounds, perpetually dampened by an unclassifiable, strangely fragrant solution reminding of both lubricating saliva and electric liquid. The ceiling is cut open; exposed, oculus: a circular opening 8.92 meters in diameter that is at the hall’s apex. The oculus illuminates. [49] The collected brass strips, fused into a colossal euphonium, attaching to the oculus, reaching into the troposphere. Exhaustive sound embracing all air particles. Composures being made up of the clearness of the skie, and moisture of the air, hath joyned together an indissoluble superficies. [30] Hall of Supreme Harmony. [31] Unity in fluids and solids alike, in compounds and in elements. [39] Fluid extravagance. [35]

L/L. L is free movement, outside any zone of both rational and sensorily apprehension, as L becomes L, movement equals rest, freeing its expressive power once the links that oblige bodily positions to signify fixed emotions are undone. [13] In retrospect, the bodies of L/L not only tend to indicate a world beyond themselves, but this movement beyond their own boundaries, a movement of boundary itself, appeared to be quite central to what their bodies are now. [32] Boundlessness. Absurd perforation and disintegration. A precarious balance. [33] How L matured within L, how noble, majestic the proportion; their bright, vivid colours have finally acquired all their brilliance. [5] Their musical hyacinth has risen to intense varieties with bright blue, pink, and distinctly yellow sound petals. [34] Kaleidoscopic fireworks of a thousand suns. Touching the luminous troposphere. Glance into the garden of unison. Creation and decay. Its flowers breathe parallaxing perfume, its grasses devise celestial white noise and its birds warbled amid the bloom. [50] Everlasting growth of harmonious fruits, fertilized by the scintillating Chorus of six-hundred voices. [40] A pyramidal cascade of crescending yet decrescending rubatos formed by the interplay of L/L, opens an inconceivable temporal dimension; the duration of time in time. [35] L in L, total synchronicity, now rings both sharp and explosive and as regular as an atomic metronome [12]. An intensely densified aural landscape. The rhythm is both stable and unstable. 3⁄4, 4⁄4, 6⁄4, 8⁄4, 4⁄8, 6⁄8, 8⁄8, 9⁄8, 5⁄4, 7⁄8, 12⁄16. Monophony, Micropolyphony, Macropolyphony. Adagio, Andante, Moderato, Vivace, Presto. 80, 112, 168, 324 BPM. 10 Hz to 20000 Hz. The embodiment of Metastability. [36] What a gleaming ethereal outflow of modular systems of coordination, of scientific methods of experimentation, laws of automation, and precision [37]. Of eternal source, matter; the form, the shape and the arrangement of the visible invisible. [1] Matters reached an ecstatic climax. A thing of indescribable awe. [12] Space in sound or sound in space. For us to dream there, to be in harmony with the irrationality of the depths... [8]

Consonance; eternal sound. [14] Awakening of the city. Galamb Barong.

[1] Seneca_Complete Works [2] Augustine_The City of God [3] Bichat_General Anatomy Applied to Physiology and Medicine [4] Strabo_The Geography [5] Mallgrave_Architectural Theory [6] Aquinas_Summa Theologica [7] Payne_Renaissance and Baroque Architecture [8] Bachelard_The Poetics of Space [9] Buehlmann Hovestadt_Symbolizing Existence [10] Eco_From the Tree to the Labyrinth [11] Hugo_Les Miserables [12] Asimov_Complete Robot Anthology [13] Ranciere_Aisthesis [14] Proust_In Search of Lost Time Vol III [15] Buehlmann_Mathematics and Information in the Philosophy of Michel Serres [16] Weinstone_Avatar Bodies [17] Hays_Architecture Theory since 1968 [18] Leatherbarrow Eisenschmidt_Twentieth Century Architecture [19] Evans_The Projective Cast Architecture and Its Three Geometries [20] Steiner_After Babel Aspects of Language and Translation [21] Kemp_Behind the Picture [22] Prince_Historical and Philosophical Issues in the Conservation of Cultural Heritage [23] Voltaire_Candide [24] Kittler_The Truth of the Technological World [25] Hovestadt Buehlmann_Quantum City [26] Evans, The Projective Cast Architecture and Its Three Geometries [27] Sloterdijk_Critique of Cynical Reason [28] Mallgrave_Modern Architectural Theory [29] Alhacen_Theory of Visual Perception Books 1 2 3 [30] Agrippa_Three Books of Occult Philosophy [31] Koolhaas_Elements of Architecture [32] Butler_Bodies That Matter [33] Foucault_The Birth of the Clinic [34] Darwin_The Variation of Animals and Plants under Domestication [35] Braidotti Hlavajova_Posthuman Glossary [36] Braidotti Dolphijn_Philosophy After Nature [37] Ockmann_Architecture Culture 1943 1968 [38] Schumacher_The Autopoiesis of Architecture Vol 2 [39] Rousseau_Collected Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau [40] Joyce_Ulysses [41] Burrows_Fictioning [42] Morton_Hyperobjects [43] Zimring_Encyclopedia of Consumption and Waste [44] wikipedia_Music and Architecture [45] Ayache_The Blank Swan [46] Gannon_Reyner Banham and the Paradoxes of High Tech [47] Laennec_A Treatise on the Diseases of the Chest and on Mediate Auscultation [48] Marzano_The Roman Villa in the Mediterranean Basin [49] Yerkes_Drawing after Architecture [50] The Book of the Thousand and One Nights [51] Laennec_A Treatise on the Diseases of the Chest and on Mediate Auscultation

#a/rme #text

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doctorwhonews · 7 years ago

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Torchwood: Aliens Among Us - Part 1

Latest Review: Written By: James Goss, Juno Dawson, AK Benedict Directed By: Scott Handcock Lead Cast: John Barrowman (Captain Jack Harkness), Kai Owen (Rhys Williams), Tom Price (Sgt Andy Davidson), Paul Clayton (Mr Colchester), Alexandria Riley (Ng), Jonny Green (Tyler Steele), and Eve Myles (Gwen Cooper) Supporting Cast: Stephen Critchlow (The Mayor), Rachel Atkins (Ro-Jedda), Ruth Lloyd (Vorsun), Sophie Colquhoun (Madrigal), Rhian Marston-Jones (Quenel), Lu Corfield (Brongwyn), Rhys Whomsley (Osian), Sharon Morgan (Mary Cooper), David Sibley (Vincent Parry), Sam Béart (Catrin Parry), Anthony Boyle (Hotel Manager), Sam Jones (Toobert Jailert), Wilf Scolding (Personal Trainer) Released by Big Finish Productions - August 2017 In receiving the licensed green light to revive Doctor Who’s first full-fledged TV spin-off show, Torchwood, as an ongoing series of audio dramas in May 2015, Big Finish set themselves arguably their most daunting challenge since embarking upon a mission to do likewise for Who back in 1999. Like its mother show in the 1970s, the four season-strong, adult-geared BBC sci-fi drama had reached the height of its televisual powers by 2009, producing an award-winning miniseries in Children of Earth which suggested its writers had finally perfected their efforts to blend universe expansion with compelling, mature storylines capable of attracting newcomers alongside ever-devoted followers of the Doctor. Just as the arrival of iconic figures like Colin Baker, Sylvester McCoy and John Nathan-Turner bred behind-the-scenes troubles which ultimately sealed Who’s 19-year hiatus, however, so too did Torchwood’s golden age of on-screen success reach a swift, turbulent crescendo just moments after its apex. The Starz-produced fourth season Miracle Day lacked the narrative momentum, multi-faceted supporting characters or overall British charm which had reaped Children of Earth such universal acclaim two years beforehand, once again prompting a previously beloved sci-fi saga to enter an indefinite purgatorial state, particularly as its showrunner Russell T Davies faced heartbreaking personal struggles not long after the run’s Summer 2011 broadcast. But between their sensational opening trio of monthly runs featuring beloved characters like Gwen Cooper, Toshiko Sato, Ianto Jones and of course the indomitable Captain Jack Harkness (if you’ve yet to try The Conspiracy, Uncanny Valley, Zone 10, Broken or Corpse Day, then head to Big Finish’s website when you’re done here and remedy that error), the tremendous The Torchwood Archive serving as both a fitting series coda and 10th anniversary special, and box-sets like Before the Fall offering profound insights into the titular secret agency’s mysterious past, Big Finish have more than confirmed their status as the brand’s perfect gatekeepers for the foreseeable future. Next up on their agenda, then? Continuing the story where Miracle Day left off, albeit making a few welcome course corrections en route to ensure that Season Five doesn’t trigger another near-death experience for Torchwood. Even with the support of the mighty Russell behind them, can the studio pull off such a Herculean feat, no longer simply hopping between eras of the show for standalone romps but instead conveying a whole new arc over the course of 12 episodes and three box-sets? Let’s begin the quest to find out with Aliens Among Us – Part 1, evaluating each of the four hour-long instalments in detail before ascertaining whether James Goss and company should ever have bothered embarking upon this audacious campaign… Changes Everything: “Torchwood is dead.” There’s an unmistakable sense of irony about wright James Goss’ decision to invert the title of Torchwood’s pilot episode in naming Season Five’s opener. While the Cardiff of “Changes Everything” has undergone no shortage of transformations, between mass immigration, mass homelessness and mass alien infiltration, while Jack and Gwen were fighting to end the Miracle in the US of A, this compelling first chapter largely works to re-establish much of the show’s pre-Miracle Day status quo, from the shattered but still intact Hub to the team’s iconic SUV to Jack and Gwen back in business at Torchwood Three’s helm. Much of the real change, then, comes with Goss’ introduction of two deliciously morally and psychologically complex new – potential in one case – recruits to the team this time around. Enter the irritable but courageous civil servant Mr. Colchester and the intrepid but concerningly ruthless ex-paparazzi Tyler Steele, the former of whom comes off as initially closed-minded yet has plenty more to him than meets the eye and the latter - brought brilliantly to life as an unashamedly slimy rogue by Jonny Green - bound to rile most listeners with his self-serving rationale as much as he does the rest of the team. For reasons that will become obvious by the end of the hour, Russell’s influence upon the characterisation of these two new players is as clear as daylight, lending them the same dramatically layered but equally realistic personalities that one would expect of any of the Doctor’s 2005-2009 companions or indeed any employee at Torchwood until the Miracle. It’s thanks to this pair of ever-evolving characters largely taking centre-stage – especially in Tyler’s case – here that a somewhat necessarily by-the-books set-up storyline revealing the existence of an unseen alien community pulling the strings in Cardiff remains thoroughly engaging to sit through, though that’s not to say the plot doesn’t pack any dramatic heft in its own right. Much as we’ve encountered plenty such shady organisations such as those behind Season Four’s Miracle or indeed the Committee at the heart of Big Finish’s Torchwood monthly range to date, that the latest foes to emerge from the Rift provoke racist sentiments and terror attacks across Wales’ capital city gives “Changes” a disturbingly relevant edge, the depiction of bombings taking countless lives sure to unsettle anyone following today’s headlines but all the more relevant a subject matter for the show to tackle. As with most season premieres aiming to kick-start a season-spanning arc, the extra narrative legwork “Changes” must perform ultimately robs the opening outing of the chance to become a stellar standalone outing, but even so, by injecting the show with a fresh, volatile new team dynamic at Torchwood Three and harrowing poignancy via its topical real-world ties, Goss sets Aliens Among Us off on a promising trajectory indeed. Aliens & Sex & Chips & Gravy: “Right then, let’s go to a hen night.” Has any episode title ever served to summarised the core tenants of Torchwood as a work of mature yet oft-hilarious drama than the epithet Goss attributes to Season Five’s sophomore outing? Probably not, but thankfully the man responsible for helming the brand at Big Finish doesn’t get complacent off the back of this unparalleled achievement, instead finding time to devise a largely isolated storyline which dedicates almost an hour’s worth of time to developing bothEve Myles’ Gwen and Paul Clayton’s Colchester, not to mention exploring the fascinating interplay between these two world-wearied soldiers as they march into one of their most unlikely – not to mention hugely comedic – missions yet. Laden with outrageous set-pieces – from absurd hostage situations to drunken car chases – and unsubtle but warranted politico-religious commentary, Goss’ script follows these veteran crime-fighters in their efforts to determine how young Madrigal’s upcoming wedding nuptials are connected to the still-mysterious powers manipulating Cardiff for their own ends, only for their investigation to result in the increasingly inebriated Maddie causing them no shortage of explosive grief throughout the night. One does admittedly get the sense as “Aliens & Sex & Chips & Gravy” progresses that Goss thought this delightfully disbelief-uprooting premise was entertaining enough to fuel an entire hour of audio drama, since the second act of proceedings feels rather padded, throwing in convoluted further plot developments and additional characters who don’t add a great deal to proceedings beyond further exposition surrounding the nature of Madrigal’s betrothal. All the same, with Myles and Clayton on top form as they explore how their respective characters deal with leading lives of near-total dishonesty when balancing work with family ties, with Sophie Colquhoun’s Madrigal serving up a veritable array of painfully chuckle-worthy one-liners with each successive pint consumed, and with Goss even finding time to resolve loose plot threads from Titan Comics’ Torchwood strip by revealing the fate of the Ice Maiden’s crew, “Gravy” achieves more than enough in its running time – and builds more than enough intrigue for what’s to come – to stave off any occasional sense of plot tedium. Most importantly of all, that Episode 2 gave yours truly the joy of writing out its pitch-perfect title in full for this review is reason enough for its existence. Orr: “Who knew there was an alien black market right in the middle of Cardiff city centre?” Clearly not content with allowing Goss to expand Torchwood’s core roster with Colchester and Tyler, Juno Dawson adds another player into the mix with Orr, a third RTD-endorsed recruit whose alien heritage affords her some, well, alluring abilities that play glorious havoc with each member of the team here. “Orr” once again marks a near-complete tonal departure from its immediate predecessor, returning to explore the haunting implications of extremist fanatics for a Cardiff already at economic war with itself, while also throwing in aspects of romance and series-changing tragedy for good measure along the way. As one might well imagine, handling such a delicate balancing act – and having to carry the burden of progressing Aliens Among Us’ overall arc in a far more substantial manner than “Gravy” with the full-scale arrival of the season’s core antagonist – would prove a challenging at best prospect for even the most accomplished of scribes. Sure enough, what with tackling weighty concepts like housing shortages, illegal commercial transactions hidden in plain sight and shapeshifts forced to cater for their onlookers’ sexual fantasies, Dawson can’t quite avoid imbuing “Orr” with a lingering sense of tonal discontinuity at times, struggling to decide whether to focus on the hearty laughs Orr’s powers inspire, the aforementioned topicality of her plot or indeed setting up a twist set to inextricably alter Aliens Among Us’ trajectory for the next nine episodes. Thank goodness, then, that the merits of those individual plot and character threads are strong enough to leave the listener suitably chortled, emotionally wrought and ultimately captivated to discover what lies around the corner as soon as the show’s iconic end credits sting kicks in. As shown by her sublime Torchwood one-off outing The Dollhouse back in April, when left to her own devices Dawson’s got more than enough comedic and dramatic chops to pull off a standalone storyline for the range, but even if “Orr” can’t quite match that entertaining Charlie’s Angels-riffing adventure’s lofty heights, as a penultimate instalment for Part 1 it’s got more than enough to keep fans and newcomers alike engaged. Superiority Complex: “All life is equal – animal, mechanical and everything in-between.” Those wanting Part 1’s concluding instalment to serve as a gripping mid-season finale which leaves one desperate to hear the next four episodes might need to restrain those expectations somewhat. Much as “Superiority Complex” affords the whole team plenty to do as they infiltrate a prospering alien hotel to determine the source of recent on-site murders, with John Barrowman clearly relishing Jack’s newfound role as a typically flirtatious barman and Orr’s abilities granting her unprecedented access to employees’ psyches, it’s certainly not concerned with resolving or substantially progressing many plot threads established so far, barring a last-minute cliffhanger which promises dire straits for Torchwood Three come October’s Part 2. With that disclaimer out of the way, though, listeners can focus on simply enjoying the sheer lunacy of the team’s present situation, one member hiding a particularly juicy secret as she spars wits with disgruntled guests and Orr’s encounters with the hotel’s true management proving both ridiculous and tangible given the current exponential growth of artificial intelligence. Between uniting Jack with a British monarch in The Victorian Age and transforming Cardiff into a disease-ridden warzone in Outbreak, AK Benedict is no stranger to devising logic-eschewing premises anyway, but “Complex” tests the extent to which your disbelief can be suspended like never before, an experiment which if nothing else ensures an unpredictable listening experience presumably akin to watching an episode of the original TV series while under the influence of narcotic substances. Better yet, come Episode 4’s credits we’re left with the unmistakable, gratifying sense of a truly reinvigorated Torchwood, one packing a familiar status quo but with revitalising new elements in the form of the team’s latest recruits, and the fresh, unstable dynamic between protagonists old and new ensuring that both the standalone and arc-orientated instalments compel. If Goss and company could work to justify Kai Owen and Tom Price’s top billings as Rhys and Andy – neither of whom get much in the way of dramatic meat until “Superiority” – next time around, and develop the elusive Ro-Jedda as a multi-dimensional antagonist for Jack et al to battle, then Part 2 could take the show to Children of Earth-rivalling heights once more, but for now, the show’s well and truly back on form, and long may it reign as such at Big Finish. http://reviews.doctorwhonews.net/2017/08/torchwood_aliens_among_us_part_1.html?utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=tumblr

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jazzworldquest-blog · 5 years ago

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USA: Tony Adamo Was Out Jazz Zone Mad

"Tony Adamo’s song-poems celebrate his own exodus from the Moloch madness of Western civilization and his initiation into a deeper experience of meaning via the jazz life." —Kirpal Gordon Kirpal Gordon, adjunct associate professor of writing studies at Hofstra University, and Benny Gottwald, composer, arranger who works with spoken word artists, discuss Tony Adamo's Was Out Jazz Zone Mad. Gordon's prose poetry, fiction, journalism, alternate lyrics to the Great American Songbook and book/music reviews have been widely published. In 2011 he formed Giant Steps Press, a writer's cooperative. Kirpal Gordon: As a bassist, composer and arranger who has worked with spoken word artists and vocalists, what did you make of the blend that Tony Adamo and his band created in his latest release from Ropeadope Records, Was Out Jazz Zone Mad? The first thing that jumps out to me is its jazz-funk- blues direction driven by that Hammond B3 organ and guitar. Benny Gottwald: I was immediately hit by the power of that B3; Roger Smith and Mike LeDonne are not messing around! Another voice that jumps out to me, as a bassist, is Mike Clark’s superb drumming. He threw me for a loop! First, he comes in with feel-good swing pockets on tunes like “Birth of the Cool” only to contrast that with his highly syncopated funk grooves in “Fly, Jump, or Die.” Clark speaks to the diverse and capable krewe at play on this record. Sticking with “Birth of the Cool,” I was also highly impressed by Adamo’s layering of references to the jazz canon; on that track, most obviously named in honor of Miles, the cat talks about taking “giant steps ‘round midnight.” He’s got the energies of three greats—Mingus, Miles, and Trane—all intermingled in one big mind of a song, and if you listen closely, you can hear the band comping on the changes to “Giant Steps.” You gotta dig that layering of influence, all compounding together, balancing out the musical and lyrical blend. Kirpal Gordon: I hear you on the layering and the blend in “Birth of the Cool.” Tony Adamo is like a gone scat-singer improvising in and out of the song form. He bends-mends-soars-roars syllables of whack-a-doodle wonder, incredulity, and well-being on the chronic. He’s got that jazz DJ love of the tradition, but now Hometown’s a blues shouter as well! He sang some on Tony Adamo & the New York Crew, an earlier CD, but he really stretches out with this band underneath him. You’re so right about the rhythm section, especially on the opening track, “Rain Man.” With Mike Clark working that drum kit, Adamo locks into that funky jazz feeling; it’s risky, too. The band is particularly steady and strong, throwing him invitations to further his flow on two vocal tributes—“B.B. King Blues,” a blues shuffle, and “Boogaloo the Funky Beat,” reminiscent of James Brown—and Adamo lifts off. He croons and then he rhymes, then sings some more; after musical solos, he improvs on the artists that he roll-calls to mind before returning to the head. It’s a joyous dexterity: vocalese hoo-doo meets the jazz tribute poem; spoken word spontaneity bursts into song. He’s gone to the Gil Scott-Heron School of Crossover Crossroads, and the band is with him working deep grooves that he slides his syllables through. The trick with funk is to keep it greasy and not let the riff wear out its welcome. The best example of the ensemble keeping its many parts well-oiled is in the laid-back “Too Funky to Flush” (check “Stormy Monday”), Adamo’s shout out to the Big Easy, its ettoufee and its clave, its blues wisdom and its Congo Square drumming. Let’s just say: smiles are guaranteed. Benny Gottwald: Yes, “Too Funky to Flush” indeed had “black magic dancing in my veins.” I was immediately impressed by how such a lyrically evocative tribute to Nola could chill out on the axis of a smooth 6/8 feel. Talk about juxtaposition, especially when they hit the stop-time; that B3 keeps it real while Adamo paints a Big Easy portrait, letting the tune begin to cook just like mother’s gumbo. “Too Funky to Flush” is, of course, not the only tune where Adamo takes the sounds he’s heard in the street and throws them into the mix of a song. “Boogaloo the Funky Beat” does this big time. Yeah, one could couch it as a tip-of-the-hat to James Brown, but that funk won’t stay on the couch for very long; it’s a get-up-and-groove kind of vibe. Tony Adamo really is the chef on this record for sure, some lyrical spoken word benedictions here and some lofty crooning there. He tells us as much: “mixin’ it up now, home-cookin', rice, and beans with a cold beer on the side.” Kirpal Gordon: Hey, Adamo is a force of nature. Now if we’re talking favorite track, I lean toward his tribute to Leon Thomas, “General T.” The band morphs out of guitar-organ funk blues to music that stuns and steps listeners into another dimension. Reverend Adamo marries his praise shouts to the spooky, trippy, atmospheric sound that drums, trumpet, bass, alto saxophone, and piano lay down. Talk about a taste of Wayne Shorter’s “Iris” from the mid-Sixties Miles Davis Quintet: The band’s got tentacles reaching into space; they touch many stars. They comp, roll, weave, crescendo and wrap within and without Adamo’s recollections of Leon Thomas at the Village Vanguard. He describes General T’s approach as “Keepin’ his words zip-locked fresh,” but the same could be said of Adamo, whose power of jazz wit-ness never fails or stales. Benny Gottwald: Adamo put me back in the Vanguard with General T himself. The Reverend is marrying musical elements left and right with unlikely beauty. Check the B3’s left hand on “I’m Out the Door,” giving hard swing and talking up a storm with the drummer—Joey DeFrancesco and Billy Hart would be proud! One listen to that track and I am sitting in the studio while Bobby Hutcherson plays his last record, enjoying the view while the cats come out to play chorus by chorus. If you had to get my favorite track on this record, it might just be that one. Kirpal Gordon: Taken all together, his tales and regales on these tracks celebrate his love of this musical art form. He’s acknowledging, much like Walt Whitman did on opera, that funk-jazz-blues is a manifestation of his muse. And like our national bard’s “Song of Myself,” Adamo’s song-poems celebrate his own exodus from the Moloch madness of Western civilization and his initiation into a deeper experience of meaning via the jazz life. No wonder he’s enthusiastic. He’s escaped the asylum. It’s all there on the final track, “Fly, Jump or Die.” Adamo mixes tales of his Bronx neighborhood jumping from building to building eight stories high with observations on how a tenor saxophonist flies, jumps or dies their way through a solo followed by a guitar solo that flies, jumps and re-births his theme. A smart end to a new direction from Adamo and krewe. Personnel Mike Clark: drums; Donald Harrison: saxophone; Bill Summers: percussion; Lenny White: drums; Michael Wolff: piano; Richie Goods: bass; Tim Ouimette: trumpet; Mike LeDonne: organ; Jack Wilkins: guitar; Delbert Bump: organ; Elias Lucero: guitar; Roger Smith: keyboards; Kyron Kirby: drums: Wayne Delacruz: Hammond Organ, Chris Pimentel: guitar. https://news.allaboutjazz.com/kirpal-gordon-and-benny-gottwald-review-tony-adamos-was-out-jazz-zone-mad-ropeadope-records.php

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fashiontrendin-blog · 6 years ago

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Men’s Necklaces Are Going Mainstream. Here’s How To Wear Them With Style

https://fashion-trendin.com/mens-necklaces-are-going-mainstream-heres-how-to-wear-them-with-style/

Men’s Necklaces Are Going Mainstream. Here’s How To Wear Them With Style

Unless you raided your dear mother’s jewellery box when you were younger or ran around South East Asia on your gap year like Leonardo DiCaprio in The Beach, chances are, as a man, you’ve never thought about thrusting a chain over your head.

But with an ever-increasing roll call of the coolest men in the world now opting for the men’s necklace (Gosling, Hemsworth, Rocky – need we say more?) and shifting attitudes towards a much-needed blurring of the previously gender stereotyping in fashion (men wear watches, women wear jewellery – let’s all groan in unison) now is as good a time as any to experiment with a chain over your head. Here we take a look at everything you need to get started, from picking the right pendant and length of chain to how you can fit it effortlessly into your already assembled wardrobe.

Ryan Gosling

The History Of Bling, From Henry VIII To 50 Cent

Men weren’t always so averse to a bit of bling around the scruff. The ancient Egyptians were proponents, studding their sheet gold neck wraps and strung beads with amulets and talismans to protect and bring luck to the wearer. Men of the Renaissance period were also fans with the extremely wealthy lavishing all manner of plaques, chains and pendants upon themselves as well as stupendous gem-laden creations that would stretch to their shoulders. Don’t believe us? Check out Henry VIII in his famous portrait by Hans Holbein, sporting a herculean gold chain that would put Run DMC to shame.

RUN DMC

This male love-in with the necklace died out in the 1600s, but returned in the second half of the 20th century when chains once again went from pious symbols of religion to conspicuous signifiers of wealth. Dog tags, Elvis and disco played their parts, but it was in hip-hop fashion that necklaces became the ultimate symbol of decadence with artists punching through the social hierarchy, the ice hanging around their necks offering proof of how far they’d climbed.

In the last decade men’s jewellery has evolved again, now more of a fashion accessory than anything else. Necklaces have sashayed down the men’s catwalk for the likes of Prada, Balmain and Raf Simons in recent seasons. And from high to low, even those unlikely fellas from reality TV show Love Island have been dolling up their perma-tanned torsos with online jewellery retailer Jewlr reporting a 500 per cent increase in sales of men’s necklaces while the show was on the air.

Balmain

“Men wearing jewellery is definitely having a renaissance,” says Alex Simpson, founder of men’s jewellery brand Alex Orso. “There has been a 1990s streetwear revival in recent seasons, which has seen chains, pendants, medallions and rings rise in popularity. This has been picked up on Instagram and street style blogs, which in turn has influenced the styling of characters on mainstream reality TV to create a self-perpetuating trend which I don’t believe has reached its crescendo yet.”

Picking Your Metal

The first step to making like the Pharaohs and the catwalk waifs is to pick out your necklace – starting with the material of your chain and then the pendant to add the unique styling that has made them so popular. “A necklace should feel comfortable and casual almost like a family heirloom,” says Michael Saiger, founder and creative director of US-based jewellery company Miansai.

An oxidised sterling silver chain offers a more masculine and timeless vibe with the colour shade working best in winter months underneath tailoring and next to navy blues and grey. A yellow gold chain is brighter creating a contrast that really pops against black while complimenting warmer tones like orange and brown.

If you’re looking for a casual necklace to fit with a more dressed-down style, then consider waxed cord which especially suits the summer months and days flaunting around the pool while a beaded necklace might have worrying gap year connotations but can add bulk and width to a skinny neck while drawing attention to a sharp jawline (if you’re blessed with one) and works well in combination with other chains.

David Yurman

There are also plated metals to consider but Saiger recommends sticking to the golden two if you are concerned about your skin reacting to the chain. “It’s always best to stick with only sterling silver and solid gold if you have sensitive skin. Those types of metals are extremely fine, and will not react to your skin regardless if you sleep with them or wear them just for the day.”

Aside from the material, there are also different chain designs with the interconnected oval links of a cable chain being the most common. Different chain designs will alter the feel and look of the necklace like the bulkier mesh chain (several different chains linked together for a textured look), the sturdy curb chain (interlocked links designed to lay flat) and the ever-so-fancy Figaro chain (an alternating pattern of differently sized flattened links).

Alex Orso

Make The Pendant Personal

Now, you can of course just stick with the chain, but adding a pendant brings that oh-so-important personality to your look with the ability to turn heads and get the conversation flowing at a dinner party quicker than you can say “Jam Master Jay”. Proud wearer of the men’s necklace Ryan Gosling, has the tag of his beloved dog George attached to his chain, after he sadly passed away in 2017.

However, there’s no prescription for the pendant and it’d be foolish to just follow the lead of the celebs. Just keep your eye out for something that you connect with or can regale an anecdote through, whether it’s a letter or a diamond-encrusted dollar sign. “Ultimately any purchase is personal and based on a selection process,” says Simpson. “What are you attracted to? What complements your style? And what does it say to others about your character?”

Along with a personal touch, Saiger advises looking towards vintage designs in a pendant. “Something that merges the past with the present will always be in style.” For example, one of the key styles at Miansai is the rolled penny necklace which takes its inspiration from the old penny machines found in museums and amusement parks.

David Yurman

Also, note that particular pendants have different meanings. An anchor is an age-old symbol of strength with obvious ties to the sea, while a popular motif for Los Angeles based jewellery brand Nialaya is the Hamsa hand, which is believed to ward off evil spirits and bad luck in Middle Eastern and North African cultures. Other popular pendant styles are the holy cross with its connotations to Christianity, the skull which represents mortality and the feather which is the universal symbol of peace, pacifism and spiritual unity.

“In all scenarios, it must feel natural and should never make you feel self-conscious,” says Simpson. “Some pendants are quite bold or heavy, so it’s worth thinking about where and how long you might be wearing the product.”

David Yurman

Choose Your Length

The most common length of the chain is between 18 and 22 inches, which will sit just below your collarbone while a long necklace will be around 26 to 30 inches long with the pendant hanging around your chest area. A longer chain will help elongate the neck while drawing attention to a broad chest, while a shorter chain will be more readily visible. Anything shorter than 18 inches and you’re getting into choker territory.

“We offer two lengths of chain with the longer length having a more relaxed feel for a night out,” says Simpson, “while the shorter length is to be worn with more formal pieces like a shirt.”

It’s also worth layering multiple chains and experimenting with varying lengths at any one time, with beads working particularly well in a shorter length against a longer chain.

Daniella Draper

How To Wear It

“Long pendant-style necklaces work well over either a loose crew neck or a V-neck T-shirt so the pendant follows the line of the V,” says Sarah Gilfillan, founder of personal styling consultancy Sartoria Lab. When putting together your outfit and necklace, Gilfallan also suggests matching metals for a more considered and put together look. For example, if you’re stepping out with a silver watch on your wrist and a silver buckle around your belt, go for that metal in your necklace choice too.

When it comes to the rest of your clothing choices, the offbeat addition of a necklace suits a casual look such as a white T-shirt and leather jacket according to Gilfillan. “If you do want to wear it with tailoring, I’d go for an open neck shirt with a simple chain showing at the neck of the shirt. If you want to make more of a statement and go for full-on 1980s look, then wear your shirt done up to the top with no tie but with a chain or pendant that is worn over the top of the shirt. Also, ensure your shirt collar is fairly small and neat, and avoid button downs so your necklace can be the point of focus.”

And to kill off two trends with one stone, Gilfillan regards the men’s necklace as the perfect accompaniment to the laissez-faire attitude of a Cuban collar shirt. “The current open neck camp collar shirt styles are perfect for showing off multiple necklaces. Wear with an extra button open to show off those necklaces, and style with slim cut turned up jeans and trainers, mixing gold and silver pendants and chains together for a contemporary look”.

The Kooples

The Best Brands For Men’s Necklaces

Miansai

Hailing from Miami, the bling bling capital of the world, Miansai offers surprisingly subtle signature pendants on chains or waxed cord. Riffing on nautical themes that include anchors, hooks and long, lost treasure in timeless, elegant designs the brand is also favoured by the celebrity crowd with Hollywood actors Zac Efron and Tom Holland both spotted wearing it.

Buy Now: £115.00

Thomas Sabo

Since its founding in 1984 German jewellery company Thomas Sabo has become one of the leading brands in both women’s and men’s jewellery as well as having their designs legally protected worldwide so no-one can steal them for themselves. Its pendants aren’t for the faint-hearted mind, with Day of the Dead skulls and daggers aplenty as well as chunky and colourful beads.

Buy Now: £139.00

Topman

If you were a British teenager in the 2000s there is every chance you raided the Topman bracelet section during your lunch hour with the high street chains necklace range similarly easy to pick up. Inexpensive, stylish and in a range of sizes and designs they make for good layering options with your more expensive pieces or as an entry point if you just want to dip your toes in the trend.

Buy Now: £10.00

Tateossian

A London jewellery maker where the emphasis is on the men rather than the women, Tateossian has become the go-to place for luxury cufflinks in its 28-year history. That’s not to say it doesn’t make a smashing necklace, with some intriguingly unique designs including a diamond pill crafted in aid of the Elton John Aids Foundation and tiny pieces of meteorite sourced from South America.

Buy Now: £295.00

Alex Orso

Minimalist masculinity is the name of the game for London jewellery brand Alex Orso. With pendants in bold designs from 22-carat bottle caps and Komodo dragon claws to polished stone shark tooths, Alex Orso takes a compelling shape and simplifies it for the man who wants to enhance his look, not complicate it. Each pendant comes with a brass chain which you can choose in a short or long style.

Buy Now: £115.00

Luis Morais

Wanting to ignite your inner Keith Richards hipster pirate? Well, a Luis Morais necklace is the one for you with the Brazilian jeweller’s rock and roll vibe favouring the boho beads, colourful skulls and mystic stones the rocker has built his look on.

Buy Now: $900.00

Emanuele Bicocchi

Of course no men’s style list would be complete without a tip of the hat to the Italians. And so we have Emanuele Bicocchi sauntering in for a welcome spritz of sprezzatura. Sterling silver reigns supreme in the Florence jewellery designers collection who has seen his quite gothic creations being worn by the likes of Zayn Malik and Russell Brand.

Buy Now: €149.00

Nialaya

A Dane in America, less a well-trodden Hollywood story trope, more the perfect setting for Jannik Olander to launch spirituality inspired jewellery brand Nialaya. Handcrafted in a Los Angeles workshop, religious imagery from the East features prominently in the designs (especially from Buddhism) which are bang-on for the cosmo gent who wants it to look like he found himself in the local temple on his backpacking tour but really never left the side of the pool.

Buy Now: $219.00

Northskull

Excuse the name, Northskull is not some Danish death metal group born out of the depths of hell, rather it’s an elegant jewellery brand just for us boys. Based in London, reasonable price points and straightforward designs make it an easy choice for those guys who want the designer look to slot into their daily wardrobe without having to shell out on overpriced rosary beads.

Buy Now: £220.00

Sif Jakobs

If you’re worried that the addition of a necklace will have you come across all wannabe show-off rapper, then take a gander at the Sif Jakobs collection of pendants and tell us there is no subtlety in donning a necklace. The Scandinavian jewellery maker creates all its jewellery out of sterling silver and focuses its design on a similar rectangular design spun through various different twists.

Buy Now: €129.00

Serge DeNimes

The fashion brand of Made In Chelsea star and menswear influencer Oliver Proudlock, Serge DeNimes draws heavily on Proudlock’s taste and penchant for boho-chic necklaces. Ever the pacifist, the feather is a recurring motif in Proudlock’s collection as is the patron saint of travellers, Saint Christopher.

Buy Now: £40.00

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thewesbrown-blog · 7 years ago

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Kansas City

There she was. Sat on the backseat de-clawed, de-fanged and drugged out of her mind. The car came scudding in towards The Dreamland Motel, summer 72 and Smokey the wrestling bear riding in a pink Cadillac. Earl Black pulled up, one thumbless hand on the wheel.

Harley Cage was wearing aviators and a leisure suit, hazy in chassis gleam. "Get in," Earl stretched for the passenger side door. "She ripped the truck apart. I had to belt her up in the back."

"Well I’ll be damned," Harley said. “She's happier than ol' Blue layin on the porch chewin a big old catfish head."

Harley was one of the toughest guys in the business. His in-character and out-of-character voice sounded exactly the same. It was enough to make grown men quiver. He had beaten polio as child, shaken off cancer and survived several near-fatal car crashes he mostly caused. Nobody would ride with him. He got in the car.

Earl was wearing slacks and a t-shirt with a bear on the front.

"You're a kooky ass guy, do you know that?" Harley said. "Crazy as a pet coon."

Smokey was famous. She had wrestled over three hundred matches. Most barely lasted a minute. She starred in films. Earl let her wrestle on set with film stars like Clint Eastwood and Lee Marvin. Football players like Rod Marinelli or Dick Butkus. Everybody wrestled Smokey. She was only six-two and three-hundred but was regularly billed as eight five and six-fifty. This was wrestling. Showbusiness. Smokey was a special attraction and got Earl Black booked across the mid-South. But the act was getting old and the shows were drying up. Earl had side-lined himself. Everybody said so.

Harley growled at the bear, "Who you looking at beautiful?"

Then looked sadly at his flannel jacket and gold medallion.

"The boys keep ribbing my threads."

"It’s because you wear the same Goddamn suit every day,” Earl answered. “You look like Iceberg Slim."

There was a bottle of dog shampoo on the creamily-upholstered backseat above the sheets of bedding and Smokey snored, drool windswept from her snout.

"There’s even a lizard on the circuit now," Harley said. "Some punk is wrestling gators in the Great Lakes."

"Assholes."

"You need to change up the act. Keep yourself fresh. Everybody’s looking for the next big thing. One guy has a snake in North Carolina."

"What do I do with Smokey?"

"Send her to a retirement home, a circus, a zoo. I don't know. Just let her go out the same way we all do, on top."

"People love Smokey," Earl responded angrily. "People don’t just see her as a bear, a special attraction, she’s a character. A worker in her own right."

“I’m not trying to ride you or nothing.”

Smokey sat up. The rear-view filled with the small black eyes, rounded ears and long snout of the three-hundred pounder he rescued from the roadside as a cub and called his daughter. They had a lot in common. Both had been orphaned. Both ate five thousand calories a day and they could share the same meals.

She wasn't the love of his life but he wished she was.

They drove passed El Dorado falls. There were ranches, hikers in the distance, and a waterfall. Before he was a wrestler, Earl was a merchant seaman. He sailed the world for five years. He was scouted in a gym in New Zealand and found work ever since. He went country to country, territory to territory.

Smokey fell asleep again, ramrod straight, still dozy. Paws rested on her grey-pink belly, racked with nipples. Earl was the son of a clergy-man. Something about the sea, like the night sky, scared Earl and he liked it. The immensity. The sense of the infinite. The road felt the same way. The great pink ship of his Cadillac sailing down the highway sky stretched out before them. This was life on the road. The wilding sun. On the long straights the car streaked into a blur.

"Wichita was hot last night," Harley said. "Some hillbillies tried to invade the ring and we had to fight them back to the dressing room."

"I had similar in Calgary but I got caught in the top rope. They’re loose up there, you know? A woman wrestler laid out a lumberjack with one punch."

Earl’s spoke in a low monotone staring at the road.

"Anyway, when I got back to the dressing room a pair of twins were waiting for me. Russians, I think and I made a real pig of myself," Harley stroked his whiskers. “How about you? Any luck?"

"Not lately."

"You got to get yourself out there. I bet that thing is a pussy magnet."

"She's been a good friend to me. That's for sure."

Earl turned on the stereo, Wichita Lineman. I hear you singing' in the wire. I can hear you through the whine. Smokey, paws waving, bellowed.

"Please," Harley groaned. "I’m hungover."

"You’re always hungover."

"That’s because I’m always drinking," he growled pilling his cap over his eyes. "You should party, you know? I'm serious, I worry man."

"Most music is just noise to me. This is a real song. Smokey likes country. It seems to keep her amused. Bears have a great sense of humour, you know? They like to play around."

"I’ll bet."

"They do."

"They also stink of shit. I think the bitch has shit herself."

"Of course she has."

"It's rotten. I might puke."

"It's natural."

"It naturally stinks of fucking shit, hombre."

Smokey sat up hearing raised voices. The car rock and rolled. Her long sloped snout, mouth half open, grunted a moan. When her massive head moved it was animatronic and fabulous, night shade dark

Harley gagged and quivered.

"Let me out dude. I'm gonna retch."

"We'll be there soon."

"Let me out."

"We don't have far."

Harley pulled a snubnose Smith & Wesson from the glove box and pointed it at Earl's head.

"Jesus Christ, motherfucker." He yelled. "Stop the Goddamn car."

Earl slammed the brakes. The car drifted in a skid-marked half moon, prairie dust rising.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" He bashed his fist on the dashboard. “For Godssake. You trying to get us killed?"

Harley doubled-up, Smokey roared. Then he puked. They sat wordless in the spun-out vehicle. Brake pads scorched. Earl checked on Smokey and then walked into the flatland. What could he do? Harley was a veteran. He couldn't risk being kicked off the show. He had Smokey to feed. A luxury flat in Wichita with a swimming pool, floral wallpaper, a refrigerator, etc.

Bushes, loamy grasses, silt. The afternoon sunshine was overwhelming. He walked in the heat to cool his anger. The flies buzzed static. He stopped for a whiz by a wire fence where a wooden sign read Keep Grassland Free: No Government Acquisition painted with the kind of psychedelic styling, hand-lettered, like the placards of the peaceniks who protested outside shows, only to tell him what he already knew.

Animals are humans.

A shot fired. Greyish-brown topsoil spun. Another shot drilled past his trouser leg. Harley laughed smoky-eyed. Then he fired again.

"You're an asshole!" Earl shouted. "Do you know you're an asshole?"

At five forty-five they arrived at The Memorial Hall. Outside fans crowded, trying to get closer to Smokey. Earl pushed past. The hippies were waiting with animal rights slogans on placards. The venue hosted Pink Floyd last night. Thursday was All-Star Wrestling. The first of the month was a television taping. The matches would play across the state on cable. There would be three and a half thousand people in the arena. A hundred thousand watching on TV. When they parked up, Earl chained Smokey's muzzle and walked them to the stage door.

Who would stop them?

Harley carried his bag in silence. Earl wheeled his luggage in a duffel bag, all black.

They hadn't spoken for nearly forty minutes. They had spats like this. It was part of riding with Harley. He was always getting them in trouble with promoters for being late because he got them into a scrap with truck drivers or rode around a hundred miles an hour.

He didn't have to be buzzed to go crazy.

"You're not still hot because I goosed ya?" Harley asked. "It was a prank for God's sake. You know I'm a good shot. I was aiming for your trouser leg."

"What if you missed?"

"I've shot squirrels between the eyes as they jump tree to tree," he laughed. "I'm the best Goddamn shot for twenty states."

Earl scratched his head so he had a reason to not make eye contact.

"These slacks cost nearly fifty dollars."

"You'll earn nine times that tonight."

They entered the locker-room making sure to shake everybody's hand, softly, almost not-touching. They were only practicing the illusion. A queue formed and the boys greeted her like a dog. The promoter had ordered a bucket of meat and salad from a nearby diner. The room was large and bright and Earl began to undress and re-dress, pulling on his black tights and sitting down on a cantilever bench he laced up his knee-high black jackboots with a skull down the side.

Harley sat across the bench changing into his new red trunks. He had three-quarter boots, hockey socks pulled up to his shins. He rubbed baby-oil into his grizzly body. He told Earl his theory that the soft slick would gleam right through the tube. Colour-transmission changed everything.

"I don't believe it," Harley spoke into his hand. "I'm down to take a clean fall against The Coyote. Jesus, that guy is the shits."

"Isn't he the promoters nephew?"

"Damn right."

Running order, match length, and results were taped to the door. Earl pointed at the card.

"He wants me to go ten with Smokey."

The first bell had rung. The show was under way and the locker room looked like it would before a football game, a team of guys talking through high spots interspersed with wrestle-talk, what was going on in other promotions, who they should look out for, who was getting over.

Trainees were running ring-jackets back to the locker-room. Stage-hands. Now and then, the ring crashed with a slam. The crowd came in a crescendo and sounded like day-trippers going down a roller-coaster. Earl barked at one of the trainees to change the sheets on the backseat of the Cadillac. Smokey would shit about five times a day and constantly sprayed the upholstery with piss.

He sat there drinking a bottle of Coca-Cola.

Smokey was feeding, face-deep in the bucket.

Ted Walker, the promoter, introduced himself and they all shook hands. He had a white beard and uneven tan lines. Walker and his brothers had served in the Vietnam War. He was part of an underwater demolition team.

"Do you guys have everything you need?"

"Smokey likes a Coke after her match."

"We can arrange for that."

"Make sure it's in a bottle, please." Earl said without eye-contact. "She can't drink out of a cup and things like that can make her cranky."

Walker looked him in the eye.

"Anything else? What the hell. I can get her a bowl of porridge too if you want. I'll make sure it's just right."

"She doesn't like porridge," Earl said with no sense of irony. Walker glanced at Harley circling his finger round his temples.

"Have you got anything different?" Walker asked.

"I don't need anything," Earl said.

Walker looked at the tattoo on Earl's name reading 'Rebecca.' "I don't understand why people get tattoos," he spoke like a sergeant, "Who is it? Some darling?"

"She was my daughter," Earl said.

Then he spent a few minutes doing free squat and push ups, working up a rhythm. Blood-flow.

When he got the call he led Smokey by the muzzle down the walkway. There were two-tiers of fans already cheering her on. At ringside he asked for a mike. Then he told the crowd nobody was man enough to wrestle him. Earl Black was a specimen. All the women in the audience should go home and wash the dirt from their husband's fingernails because this is what a real man looks like. The crowd booed. He held his hands to his ears and squirmed. Boos, louder. Somebody threw a can of soda. It just missed his head. A smile shaped on his lips.

The referee kept his distance near the corners of the ring. Earl circled his opponent. They locked up in the middle of the ring. Smokey up on her hind legs, toe to toe. He grappled her with one arm over hers and the other slipping inside, trying to knock her down. He slid his forearm across her snout, wet-nose streaking down his arm knowing one whip of her head could break a rib. Smokey knew how to do a flying mare and used it, multiple times pulling Earl by his neck. Earl rolled. The crowd cheered. Smokey clambered over him and he had a face-full of smooth-skinned belly. Her six nipples rubbed over his face. She was lightly-odored maybe even a little cat-like. She smelled like home. He swung his weight out from under her and took her head in a grovit, burying his face in her fur, the blue-black darkness. The chain was long enough to allow them to manoeuvre the twenty foot by twenty foot square ring but easily tangled about Earl's feet. This is how his thumb was pulled clean off. Without him having to look, Smokey swept his legs from beneath him and he tumbled to the matt. He grabbed the referees legs who fell comedically over him and everybody laughed. Smokey lay her bulk across the Earl's chest and the referee made it back to a conscious footing to count the three. The crowd half cheered, half sighed.

Smokey sat down, grunting, on her rump in the middle of the ring enjoying a Coca-Cola from a glass bottle, fizz on her cold wet nose.

Earl somehow knew then it was over.

That night they were headed back for Wichita. Earl had read in a guidebook that Kansas was named after the tribe meaning "people of the wind". He had tried to tell Walker but he pretended he already knew. Harley had been staying in The Dreamland Motel for three weeks and had six more left in Missouri. Before this, Harley worked Florida, Kentucky and Texas before then. He was always in demand. Earl had done the Missouri circuit for five years, since she died. Going round in circles. He led Smokey to the car and sat her down in the Kansas City dusk. The sky was a purplish dark, rivulets pinked in the clouds. A brown moth scattered across the bonnet.

Harley came a few minutes later, a couple of blondes on his arm, kissing goodbye. The Russians, Earl guessed. He watched him run across the car park and vault into the pink Cadillac, throwing his overnight bag in the backseat.

"You'll rip my damn wing-mirrors off," Earl said.

"Harley has still got it, baby."

For the first few miles they didn't speak. The whole journey would only take about two hours. They were soon past Wilson Lake. There was already nothing here. Bush, desert, telegraph poles, leafless trees. Smokey sleeping in the back. Earl turned the stereo on. I hear you singin' in the wire. I can hear you through the whine.

The song relaxed his mind and he thought about his car. A 1956 Cadillac DeVille.

A two-door coupe.

Automatic three-speed gear box and he didn't care he was doing near one-hundred mph in the dark.

Facts like this eased him. He liked to recite them. Over and over.

"I'm a simple guy," he began. "I don't want to be recognised everywhere I go. I don't want a thousand women hanging off my arm. I don't like people taking liberties."

Harley turned his head.

"I have your back buddy, don't you ever forget that."

"My back? You like me driving you around."

"What?"

"Nobody else will ride with you."

"Here's something you might not like to hear. I can get a ride wherever I like. Goddamnit, I'm so hot right now I could get Walker to drive me there by limousine while I entertained a whole troupe of Kansas City Chief's cheerleaders," Harley said. "I ride with you because I'm quite of the few guys who likes you. I get it man, I get what you're going through."

The night was chilly and now totally dark. Already ten thirty. Earl kept one thumbless hand on the wheel. Blends of streetlight captured on the pink gleam of the chassis wings almost seemed afloat. The car made a moaning sound. Brake pads still sore.

Earl answered, "I'm not going through anything."

"You need to see the bigger picture, no matter how much it hurts."

"And what is the bigger picture?" Earl was disconsolate. "I didn't realise you were some kind of shrink now too."

"Smokey is holding you back man. In every way imaginable. You don't go out. You don't get bookings. You've let your act become a sideshow."

"She is not a sideshow."

"If you even cared about her, you wouldn't drive her round in the fucking car like one."

"What did you say?"

"I mean, she's a wild animal. You gotta let her go. You gotta let go for your own sake."

Earl pulled up. This time he snatched the revolver from the glove box and pointed the weapon at Harley. Snubnose to his head. "Get out," he said. "Get out of the fucking car."

"Whatever."

"Get out and walk."

He felt the gun’s cold scorch on his skin. His neck tighten for the pulsing metal.

"I'm going, man. You're fucking beyond help."

Harley loosed open the door. He looked back shaking his head. Then set off, overnight bag in hand, down the roadside.

Earl sat in the car playing the same song on a loop. He couldn't get past it. Earl clambered into the backseat and reached both arms around Smokey. He thought of Rebecca. He muzzled his face in Smokey's blue-black fur finding solace there. She made a motor-like noise and they butted heads in a friendly way as if they were wrestling. She could never be his daughter. After Rebecca died he drove through deserted streets every night alone until he found Smokey, a bearcub, still blind, lapping her fallen mother, a totalled pickup rolled on its side, blood spattered like a horror scene.

Smokey moved a single comforting paw across his face, claws stubby-shorn though still scratchy and he looked at her eyes dark sadness. Humans are animals too. He opened the door, unmuzzled, she ran into the night. He looked up at the stars recalling some things he had hoped for and some things he hadn't.

This story was originally published in Ink Magazine, a periodical showcase of new work from unpublished writers.

#wrestling #harley race #pro wrestling #short fiction #amwriting #bears #tagteam #fiction #kansas

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localfreshies · 7 years ago

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New Post has been published on Local Freshies | Be a local wherever you go

New Post has been published on http://localfreshies.com/expect-tahoe-flume-trail/

What to expect on the Tahoe Flume Trail

Mountain biking isn’t just about the adrenaline-pumping-downhill variety you see in the videos, but a chance to enjoy the mountains in a different way. If you want to see the Sierra Nevadas & Lake Tahoe in a totally different light, the Flume Trail should be on your bucket list. With a little bit of pedaling, you’ll get unrivaled views and scenery that are unlike anything else in the world. Here’s a little bit of what to expect on the Tahoe Flume Trail.

The Flume Trail gives you unparalleled views like this

The History of Flumes

Being from the flatlands of the Midwest, when I first heard of its name I wondered… “What the heck is a flume?” After talking to a few folks and doing a bit of research, I came to find out that during the heyday of the lumber and mining industries, there was a need to transport fallen trees down from the steepest sections on a mountainside to the mills. All along the Sierra Nevadas, flumes were built and consisted of 2 boards, 2 feet wide constructed in a V shape, that were then filled with flowing water. The lumberjacks would throw the logs into the water and it would then transport them quickly to a sawmill at the bottom of the mountain.

It was also one of these flumes that inspired the amusement park ride that you see in places like Disney World. The owners of one of them, James Fair and James Flood, suggested that an east coast reporter by the name of HJ Ramsdell accompany them on a ride down their 15-mile flume. Just how insane does that sound? Personally, I would never have done that ride, but somehow they talked Ramsdell into doing it. Here’s a recount of the ride:

You cannot stop; You cannot lessen your speed; You have nothing to hold to; You have only to sit still, shut your eyes, say your prayers; Take all the water that comes, filling your boat, wetting your feet, drenching you like a plunge through the surf, and wait for eternity… It is all there is to hope for after you are launched in a flume-boat.

Fortunately, you don’t have to take a bare-knuckled death ride to experience the Tahoe Flume trail. All you need is a bicycle and a little adventure in your soul.

The adventure begins in Incline Village

As you may have read in past posts, this summer we jumped head first into the sport of mountain biking. After exploring a few of the trails on the south shore, we decided to expand our horizons and check out the most famous singletrack in our area: the Flume Trail.

On a cool morning, we pulled out of South Lake Tahoe and headed north to Incline Village. On the southern edge of town lies the END of the path and a company named Flume Trail Bikes. From here, you can rent a bike or bring your own and take a shuttle to the beginning of the path. Arriving thirty minutes before the shuttle, we put our name on the list and eagerly awaited the drive up to the start of the route.

Spooner Lake State Park – Entrance to Flume Trail

Throwing our backpacks and ourselves into the shuttle van, we pull out of the parking lot. After a 15 minute drive, we arrive at Spooner Lake State Park and unload our bikes. From here, we’re given a quick intro of what to expect this morning. A warning is given… “The first 4 miles are the toughest so take it easy as it’s a steep continuous climb all the way to the highest point. But from there, it’s a fun-filled ride back to the shop.” Hopping onto our trusty steeds, we begin our adventure.

Snowy Peak and a High Meadow

The winding road up to Marlette Lake. Snowy Peak to the right in the distance

The trail starts on a wide gravel service road, canopied by massive groves of Aspen. With last night’s rain, the trail is smooth and dust-free. Just beyond our vantage point, we can hear the sound of rushing water. Continuing our ascent, the Aspens are replaced with Evergreens. As the forest thins out, we make a large swooping turn and are then exposed to a HUGE valley surrounded by massive mountains. On the right of the valley towards the top of the ridgeline you can see a teeny-tiny cut into the mountain… that’s the Tahoe Rim Trail. Knowing how wide the Tahoe Rim Trail really is, it gives you an idea just how large the landscape features are around us.

From Marlette Lake it’s all downhill

Riding through the meadow, we head back into the forest canopy and continue our climb up. The path continues to get steeper until we crest at the summit to the Marlette Lake basin. We pause for a moment to take in the view of this high alpine lake and catch our breath. Was it as bad as they said? Nope, but it definitely took a bit of work to get here. We then decided to coast down to the shore of Marlette Lake for a closer view.

Propping our bikes against the rocks, we walk over to the beach and sit down on a massive piece of granite. A sense of calm comes over us as we attempt to absorb the sight. The water looks like a sheet of glass with only a few ripples. Wisps of clouds float along the sky making us all smile. We could stay here for hours enjoying the serenity but alas, this isn’t our final destination. Throwing our packs back on, we continue pedaling our way around the lake. Towards the other side, the wide path suddenly narrows to a tiny singletrack barely discernible from the granite outcroppings. “Are we going the right way?” Unaware of other options, we continue onward.

A little bit of fun before the views

Pausing to take in the views

Quickly snaking our way down through some tight trees and a boulder-strewn corridor, we pop out the other side onto another thin singletrack. On our left we can see it falls steeply away but the thick vegetation hides just how steep it is. It wasn’t until we made a tight 90-degree turn, exposing us to the deep blue body of water known as Lake Tahoe, did we understand the thousands of feet below us that existed. We stare at the spectacle before us for a moment. The smoke from the forest fires creates a haze over the peaks making it look more like islands you would see in the Caribbean than a mountain lake.

Sand Harbor – The Crescendo of the Flume Trail

The crescendo of the Flume Trail – Sand Harbor

Continuing our ride, we focus on the trail ahead. Segments of it are literally cut out of the granite walls on the mountainside. It’s hard to imagine this tiny path holding a flume filled with water and logs, let alone us! One of our crew suddenly stops at a small outcropping and points to our left. Pulling up next to him, we look towards where he’s pointing. There lies Sand Harbor.

One word explains seeing Sand Harbor: WOW!

The boats floating along are but tiny specks and the colors of the water are unlike anything else in nature. On the shoreline, the color palette starts clear, fading into different shades of blue & green until it finally finishes into a dark hue. One word: WOW! Taking a few snaps with our camera, we continue onward. The mostly flat trail zig-zags its way along the ridgeline until we end up on a large service road. From here we quickly descend down a sandy path at a furious pace, braking a lot more than you would like to admit & finally arriving back at the shop.

Which Mountain Bike Trail is the best in Tahoe

Standing with our bikes by our truck, we reminisce on our full day of adventure. Just a few months ago we were barely riding our bikes through our backyard network of singletracks and now we had just finished the Flume Trail. I know what your next question is – “Is the Flume Trail better than the other ones around Tahoe?”

The answer isn’t that simple. Each path is so vastly different. For example, the Corral Trail is a great one if you’re into jumps and banked turns while Cold Creek is more of a snaky-fun run that allows you to get a mix of everything. If you’re looking for views and scenery than I absolutely agree that the Flume is king. But if you’re looking for other types of adventures, you will have to explore each one to figure out which is right for you. All we know is we will continue to venture further into the vast network that exists around Tahoe and enjoy each one just as much.

What to expect on the Tahoe Flume Trail

Shane Ricketts doing his best to stay on the Flume Trail while still having fun

For those who want to experience this amazing adventure themselves, here’s a few things to be aware of:

If you bring your own bike, it costs $19 for the shuttle. Otherwise, the shuttle is FREE if you rent a bike through Flume Trail Bikes.

Arrive 30 minutes early to make sure you get on the next shuttle.

If you’re afraid of heights, just know that there are certain sections with steep drops. It might scare the heck out of you. Fortunately you can walk these segments if you wanted to.

The first 4 miles of the 14 mile journey are the hardest with a continuous climb to Marlette Lake. From there, it’s a nice leisurely bike ride full of awesome views.

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