#tchak

[ccnountche]

Sami Tchak avait été désigné lauréat de ce prix pour son roman "Le Continent du Tout et du presque Rien" (éd. JC Lattès) dans un communiqué diffusé en octobre dernier par l'association Akwaba Culture.

[whalesforhands]

chew your regret (geto x reader x gojo) pt.3

previous masterlist next

warnings: no fluff here folks, just suffering. gore mentions.

“Suguru?” The man let out a laugh, throwing his head back as the sun shone down on him. “He’s my best friend. My one and only.” A boisterous exclamation.

“Ah, Satoru?” He smiled, gentle, soft and affectionate. The moonlight bathed him in an ethereal glow. “In this world, there is definitely no other like him.” A serene confirmation.

“After all, we’re the strongest.”

There was a ‘we’, a ‘they’. In those conversations you’ve had, there was no ‘you’.

Maybe there never was.

No matter how you view it, Satoru and Suguru were made for each other. They loved the other in a way only they could ever understand, a love so deep it transcends meaning.

How could you ever have thought you’d be able to fit in a puzzle that never required you?

You should never have coveted what was never yours to have.

You feel the marks on your neck sear, the aftermath of your little session with the two boys. They glowed an angry red, the beginnings of the hickeys starting to mar your nape as you wince slightly at the soreness.

You floated around in a domain, eyes blank and empty as you thought and thought and thought, mind racing back to the times of your first significant memories of the duo.

Your breaths uneven as you heaved, the heavy stench of blood filling your nostrils as you shook. Your knees, scraped. Your leg having had had an arrow pierced, embedded into your flesh. You’re in pain.

It was a Grade 1 curse. What was supposed to be a straightforward, simple exorcism of the appearance of a few Grade 3 curses, your second ever solo mission, had soon taken a sharp turn.

You screamed as you felt the curse’s hands snap your arm, your staff laying on the ground, broken and useless much like your hand.

You heard the damned thing snicker, laugh at your pain as you struggled to maintain your vision. To stay awake. Stay alive. You can’t die. Not when you saw the young girl cowering behind the pillar you had hidden her in.

“Hehehe! You sorcerers are a joke!” It taunted, it’s hand gripping painfully tight around your torso, making you wince as you felt one of your ribs give.

“Oh? Not going to scream again? Perhaps I should break something else?” It squeezed tighter, it’s disgusting tentacles wrapping around you as it’s jaw began to unhinge, revealing a red, slime covered mouth, rows of yellowed, misshapen teeth and a sliced tongue. You felt bile and blood rise in your throat, desperate to fight off the pain. Desperate to fight back. You can’t be eaten here. Your vision was white hot, your broken arm feeling limp and useless at your side.

You heard a cackle.

Tchak! “Let the lady go, you ugly monster!” A small rock was thrown at the monstrous curse’s head.

No. No no no no nonnonono You felt yourself be thrown into a concrete wall, your back taking the brunt of it as you clawed at the wall with your good hand for support.

Stand up. Stand up stand up stand up.

“And what do we have here?” You heard the curse hum, it’s slimy appendages moving further and further from you. Towards the innocent civilian you were protecting.

Shit. You can’t see. The blood was rushing to your head. Your heart pounding at a mile per minute.

Your vision is gone.

You heard more screams. Your legs burned as you forced yourself up. Your eyes closed as you channeled your cursed energy.

Get the focus off the girl. You may not be able to physically see the curse with your current state, but you sure as hell can sense it.

You focus. Focus and focused and focused, a blast of your pure cursed energy surrounding itself around the girl, who was running for her life towards you as she screamed and begged for help.

You want to keep her safe. You promised, afterall.

Your mind steeled, your cursed technique activating as it formed a barrier around her just in time as the curse reared one of its ugly tendrils, forming a spike at the end as it readied to plunge through the civilian’s skull.

The tendril bounced back, burnt to a crisp by your cursed energy as the protective barrier burned, shined bright within the dark compounds of the abandoned car park.

The curse giggled. “You think that measly shield is going to stop ME?” It clawed and clawed at the barrier, the little girl curling into a ball in on herself as she cried and begged for it to be over.

The curse was futile in its attempts. You can’t break a promise. You steadied your breathing, your hair a mess and blood trailing from your face as you shakily held your broken staff in your good hand, your good elbow bracing yourself against the wall for support.

“Come…” You heaved. “Get me, you ugly bitch.”

It reared its grotesque head towards you.

“I should’ve finished you off first, sorcerer!” It broke into a run towards you, screaming agonized threats. “You’re going to wish you died just now!”

You hope your shield holds. This is your end. You can’t fight anymore. The last remaining remnants of your cursed energy flicker uselessly on your staff, dying out as you prepared for death to take you.

You failed. Failed to accomplish your mission. Failed. Failed failed failed failed failed

“Oops.” A strong wind blows in your face, the curse incinerated with one strong blast, with no milliseconds left for it to even think about its final words. “Suguru would’ve called that overkill.”

Gojo Satoru has made his entrance.

You never felt such relief, your knees collapsing where they stood as the chosen one stepped before you.

He took one look at the young civilian girl that had fainted from overwhelming fear, your cursed energy still glowing bright around her, before turning his judgmental gaze towards you.

“That was weak.” You know. “That all it took for you to get in this state?” You tried.

You couldn’t even answer him, your body burning in pain as you struggled to stay alive.

“Gotta hand it to ya, though.” You felt his presence near you, hearing him squat down to be eye level with you, his bones creaking slightly. “Pretty stupidly brave of you to sacrifice your last pitiful reserves of cursed energy on ‘er. Respect.”

You think you felt your heart throb at the compliment, before you passed out.

—

You sat within the confines of your hospital room, aimlessly staring out the window. The bandages encased almost your entire body, your cast heavy as you looked into the outside world with one eye.

(The other was tucked away behind an eyepatch to speed up recovery. Apparently, using reverse cursed technique on you in your sensitive state would cause you to potentially implode. Gonna have to wait a while before you could receive that treatment.)

You smile down at the signature Gojo had left on your cast, a crude drawing of what was meant to be him winking and sticking his tongue out.

(“You don���t have any other friends anyway. I can sign it as big as I like!”)

Beside it, was Shoko’s sign. A small message to you to recover quicker, cause being left to the two menaces was driving her insane, and she missed you so much.

(“I missed you.” She whined out, plopping her head onto your lap as you sat upright on the propped up pillow. Her short auburn hair obscured her eyes as she stared up at you, a pout on her pretty lips.)

“Please excuse me.” The hinges of the door squeaking slightly as they were opened.

Suguru was finally here. You’d didn’t think he cared enough about you to come.

“Ah, Geto-san.” You tried to bow in greeting, wincing when you were only able to bend forward awkwardly due to the pain and stiffness of the bandages as you met his eyes. “Thank you for coming to see me.”

“It’s nothing.” Suguru bowed back politely, a small bag of what he had seen you snack on during breaks in his hand.

(They were bought at the supermarket nearby after he decided it was rude to visit a hospitalized classmate without something. He’s better than Gojo.)

“I’ve come with some gifts.”

—

Suguru sat upon a chair at the side of your bed, lazily leaned back on the chair as a leg crossed over the other, hearing you fumbling with the plastic bag with your one good hand.

He broke the silence.

“Satoru told me about your mission.” He pauses, before smiling. “He’s been non-stop whining about having to fill in that report in place of you.”

(Gojo would’ve never written that report if it wasn’t for you.)

You let out a polite laugh. “I suppose I should thank him accordingly after I’m discharged, then.”

Suguru stays silent, watching, observing you.

“Were you actually going to let yourself die, trying to save that little girl?”

You stay silent, your one eye cast down towards the scratchy sheets of your bed. You don’t hesitate with your reply.

“I think protecting those who can’t protect themselves is a noble thing.”

“Even at the expense of your own life?” He cocked a curious brow.

You smiled. Genuine, soft and melancholic.

“Even then.” You direct your gaze towards him, looking him straight in the eye. “If not us, who else?”

Geto smiled. “You’re pretty strong, huh?”

——

You drift endlessly in the confines of your cursed space. You don’t think you could even forget them if you tried.

You think you’d curse yourself to remember them even in your death.

If- If all they wanted was your physical being… That’s okay, right?

You’re okay with that. Right? It’s all you can offer the two who had everything. The two who your heart hopelessly longed for.

Fate has cursed you to love.

And you’re going to accept it, wholeheartedly and in all its cruelty. You’re going to take it, cling onto the hope that they could ever love you, take and love and love and love, then die. No matter the pain.

That was just your fate, right?

masterlist next

Notes:

Gojo thinks it’s amazing that you push on through again and again, despite your weak self. Putting others before yourself is something he isn’t used to seeing, and he’s so intrigued by your weird kindness. You never stop smiling either.

Geto thinks your strength is admirable. You were clearly weak and struggling to nurture your cursed technique, you should’ve given up long ago. You don’t possess any talent. But you didn’t give up at all. Cool.

The hospital was the first time you had ever properly met eyes with Geto. He didn’t expect your one good eye to be so sparkly and full of life. You looked cute.

Your cursed technique is pretty simple. It’s more defensive than anything. A technique that allows you to make barriers, walls and transport you to void of empty space. The void is not your domain. Only you can get in and out of it.

Unfortunately for you, you crushed on Gojo first.

[rudegizmo]

Ok now that you mention it, I am actually reminiscing about my old slide phone... that keyboard was buttery

They tchak tchak tchak very goodly, much enjoy

[junk-culture]

boing.boom tchak. (ping)

[lavidadelasamapolas]

Nadie

Nadie tiene tu culpa, lo arrastrado del "lo dejo para después", me me vienes a la cabeza una y otra vez.

-Nena, se ha marchado, ya está.

-Pues no, no quiero.

No es que quieras o no, es que no está; se dice a sí misma.

Recoge su habitación, no habla, piensa, intentando restarle importancia, es sábado, son las 09:30 de la mañana, tengo todo el día por delante, recoge la habitación, dúchate, hidrátate, vístete, desayuna y vete.

Así fue, se vistió con mil capas, las suficientes para sentirse segura, protegida por sí misma, salir a la calle, querer encajar, sentirse desencajada, las mil capas harán que nadie sepa nada; seguro.

Se despidió de sus aitas, cogió la bici como todos los sábados y se fue a clases de coro, de 10:00 a 12:30 no tenía que pensar en nada más que en variar sus respiraciones, lo que le relajaba el diafragma, lo que le relajaba todo el cuerpo.

Saludó a los cariñosos amigos cantores, bendita preadolescencia.

El coro compuesto por niños y niñas de entre 8 a 17 años empezaba un nuevo ensayo, "Tchak!", energía pura, "Rhythm of Life", la odiaba. La mañana iba pasando, cada vez era más consciente de lo que había pasado, ¿me he ido a coro con este percal?¿de verdad?. Me sentía fría, pero es que, tampoco quería llorar.

Al despertar esa mañana yendo a desayunar, su madre se acercó a ella.

-Sarita, tu tía Begoña ha muerto.

Pensaba que era una broma, no entendía, hacía tiempo que no se veían, pero no tanto como para que pasase algo así, ¿no?

-¿Qué?¿Por qué?¿Cómo?

Su madre al principio no quería responder, era cariñosa pero cerrada, cerrada de los nervios, de querer proteger, de no saber cuál es la mejor opción.

-...se la ha encontrado Jon, en Plentzia.

Se puso fina a ansiolíticos, y no se ha despertado. Mi tía se ha suicidado y yo me he ido a coro, con 10 años.

Han pasado 20 años de este momento y aún me acuerdo como si hubiese sido ayer.

[italica-zoevincenti]

SKATEBOARDING IN OAKLAND from Ryan Reichenfeld on Vimeo.

*D&AD Pencil Winner* *Vimeo Staff Pick*

SKATEBOARDING IN OAKLAND is a short film about a group of friends growing up in West Oakland as a new skatepark is being built in their neighborhood.

This is not a story about surviving tough circumstances in a harsh environment; this is a story about perspective and thriving in the face of it all.

Directed by: RYAN REICHENFELD Director of Photography: RYAN CARMODY Producer: JETT STEIGER Editor: SEAN STENDER Original Score: RANDY RANDALL Colorist: BRANDON CHAVEZ

Post Production Producer: REMY FOXX Post Production Sound: MATT MILLER Agency Creative Director: DAVID KRAMER Agency Producers: LIEN NGUYEN, ASHLEIGH MARIE PARKER Production Assistants: ROMAN KOVAL, MARIO AYALA

Skateboarders: LEM WEST, PAT MORAN, RAME TCHAK, AL PARTANEN, JAFIN GARVEY, ELIJAH VAIREY, GABE MARQUEZ, TERREL NEWELL, LAVELLE VINSON, JOSH MATHEWS, MARIUS SYVANEN, ELIJAH “PRINCE” WILLIAMS, LORENZO, “APOLLO” JETSON, RODNEY “DOOKIE” WILLIAMS, CAMERON “CAM” EICHENBAUM Special Thanks: ERIK WOLSKY, MATT SHARKY, MAX SCHAAF, KARL WATSON, JAMES BARNETT, IMPRINT PROJECTS, CUT+RUN LA EDITORIAL, WAYS & MEANS, LIME SOUND, K-DUB, CSLA Commissioned by: LEVI’S

Shot on Location in OAKLAND, CA

[lefeusacre-editions]

NOUVELLE VIE, par Aléric de Gans

Pour la sortie des Limbes du Blog du Feu Sacré, Aléric de Gans nous convie dans une forêt obscure dont la voie droite a été retrouvée à grands coups de hache.

Mohamed Ali coupant un arbre.

" Si j’avais voulu Oui, si j’avais voulu J’aurais pu Mais je n’ai pas voulu N’ai pas voulu Donc je n’ai pas pu "

I.

— Original, dit le bûcheron qui a cessé de cogner comme un sourd.

— Étonnant, dit un policier sanglé dans un gilet pare-balles.

— Envoûtant, dit Cardamone Opera en sortant de derrière les fourrés. Tu écris souvent des chansons ?

— Seulement quand je suis ému.

Je me trouve au beau milieu d’une forêt de séquoias géants qui sentent la sève. Le bûcheron est appuyé sur sa hache et me regarde en souriant.

— Vous n’avez pas l’accent québecois, lui dis-je.

— Pourquoi ? Ça vous embête ?

— J’aime que les choses soient claires. Un bûcheron dans une forêt de séquoias, c’est le Québec.

— Vous vous trompez, dit-il. Regardez.

Il soulève sa hache, la fait tourner par-dessus sa tête en un superbe swing et entaille le tronc d’un arbre. Il se tourne vers moi, le visage fendu par un grand sourire.

— Seigneur Dieu, dis-je.

— N’est-ce pas ? répond-il.

Le bûcheron, c’est Mohamed Ali !

— This is my routine, crie-t-il en anglais.

Puis il se met à taper comme une brute. Tchak ! Tchak ! Tchak ! Il porte un jogging gris et des bottes de G.I. Ce bon vieux champion du monde envoie toute la gomme, je suis sidéré. Je le pointe du doigt en souriant comme un benêt.

— Vous avez vos papiers ? me demande le policier en sortant son calepin.

— Euh, non.

— Rien du tout ?

— Non, Monsieur.

— Vous êtes censé les avoir sur vous.

— Oui, Monsieur.

— Alors qu’est-ce qu’on fait ?

— Je sais pas…

— Je vous embarque ? Qu’est-ce qu’on fait ?

— Peut-être qu’on peut aller les chercher ensemble ?

— Chercher quoi ?

— Mes papiers…

— Vous plaisantez ?

— Non, Monsieur.

— Écoute-moi bien, enculé, si je te fume en pleine forêt, personne n’en saura rien, c’est compris ?

— Oui, Monsieur.

J’ai des flashs de passage à tabac, comme Rambo dans First Blood.

— Tu me prends pour un pédé ?

— Je sais pas, Monsieur.

— Quoi ?? Tu dis que je suis pédé ??

— Je…

Le temps que je réponde, le flic a balancé son calepin et sorti son tonfa. Il m’assène un coup sec en plein dans le creux sus-claviculaire. J’entends Cardamone Opera faire « ouffff… » en m’effondrant. La douleur est intolérable, ça me lance jusque dans la pulpe des dents. Le flic est penché sur moi, prêt à frapper.

— Enculé, dit-il.

— Attendez…

— Quoi ?

— Pardon…

— Quoi ??…

Je me replie sur moi en grimaçant. Je ne sens plus mon épaule.

— Tes papiers ! crie le flic.

Je me laisse rouler dans l’humus tandis que la douleur commence à se retirer. Les séquoias sont interminables, au moins soixante mètres, peut-être soixante-dix. Comme l’Arc de triomphe, me dis-je. Combien mesure l’Arc de triomphe ? Cinquante, cinquante-cinq mètres ?… J’ai l’Arche de la Défense en tête. La tour Eiffel a six étages, le point culminant de la capitale est à Télégraphe ou sur la butte Montmartre. C’est un vieux débat. Soixante mètres… Cinquante ?

— Debout.

— J’ai mal…

— Relève-toi je te dis !

Je m’assois avec difficulté. Cardamone s’accroupit près de moi et me pose la main sur l’épaule.

— Ça va ? Rien de cassé ?

— Je sais pas, je peux plus bouger mon bras.

— Tu sais, je suis une femme, je peux pas m’empêcher de prendre soin des gens.

— C’est gentil, dis-je en lui pressant la main.

Elle m’aide à me relever et entreprend d’épousseter ma chemise.

— Merci, dis-je en lui faisant signe d’arrêter.

— Je peux pas m’en empêcher, répond-elle.

— Je sais.

Je me tourne vers le flic qui porte de grosses lunettes aviateur. C’est un putain de Ricain, à n’en pas douter :

— Écoutez-moi bien, sale ordure de Yankee, vous êtes ici au Québec, pas dans votre pays de cow-boys. Faites attention à chacun de vos gestes. En tant que ressortissant français, je possède un passeport extrêmement puissant. J’ai des siècles d’impérialisme derrière moi, c’est pas un agent du LAPD qui va m’enterrer dans les bois. Je vais vous foutre la CEDH sur le dos, vous allez terminer votre vie dans une cellule hollandaise entre Platini et Kadyrov. C’est compris ?

Le flic ne réagit pas car il est figé. Arrêt sur image. Le mec a littéralement bugué pendant que je lui parlais. Je m’approche et tente de lui arracher ses lunettes, mais tout est impeccablement dur et homogène. Impossible d’extraire quoi que ce soit de ce bloc de vie gelé. Ali lui tapote la tête.

— Wow, dit-il. Ce salopard de poulet est raide comme une baguette de tambour.

— Il est maudit, murmure Cardamone.

— Tout ça ne me dit rien qui vaille, marmonne le boxeur en scrutant les environs.

— Vous savez quoi ? dit Cardamone. Ça me fend le cœur.

— Vous les bonnes femmes, vous êtes pleines d’empathie, lance Ali. Moi je m’en tamponne, ça me fait ni chaud ni froid. Qu’il crève.

Je me sens prisonnier d’un cauchemar. Et puis j’ai cette chanson dans la tête, obsédante et bidon : « Si j’avais voulu, j’aurais pu ». Mais si j’avais voulu quoi, au juste ? Me fixer des buts, devenir le meilleur et partir en fumée ? Parce que la vie n’est qu’un jeu qui n’a ni gagnant ni perdant. Alors j’aurais pu, bien sûr, j’aurais dû faire plus, comme Cardamone qui est programmée pour le care, mais je suis un homme et je n’en ai rien à foutre de rien en dehors de moi.

— Je m’inquiète pour moi, dis-je.

— Quoi ? s’étrangle Cardamone.

— Oui, j’espère que ça va aller.

— Ça t’arrive de penser aux autres ?

— Non.

— Tu es tellement égoïste. C’est écœurant.

— Et alors ? Tu ferais bien de penser un peu à toi.

Cardamone est scandalisée :

— Tu crois que j’ai le temps de penser à moi ? Tu crois que ça m’amuse de m’occuper des autres ?

— Il suffit d’arrêter…

— Qu’est-ce que t’es con.

Elle me tourne le dos et s’enfonce dans les bois. Mohamed Ali ricane en faisant du shadow boxing.

— Ça te fait rire ? dis-je.

— Les femmes… pouffe-t-il.

— Qu’est-ce que t’y connais ?

Il s’arrête :

— J’ai été marié trois fois.

— Tu les as rendues malheureuses, tout le monde sait ça.

— Hey, ferme un peu ta grande gueule avant que je te fasse ravaler tes mots !

— Fais ce que tu veux, tu m’impressionnes pas.

— Excuse-toi, espèce de tapette !

— Jamais !

Ali fonce droit sur moi en écrasant les racines avec ses grosses bottes de l’armée. Instinctivement, je recule.

— Tu veux te faire taper par Le Plus Grand ?

— Rien à branler.

— Ah ouais ?

Et bim, il m’envoie son direct du gauche en plein dans la gueule. Je vois tout noir et pars à la renverse, c’est incroyable. Le coup de poing d’un champion du monde des poids lourds peut foudroyer un bœuf, c’est à peu près aussi violent que d’être percuté par une petite auto à 25 km/h. J’entends Mohamed Ali qui me provoque de loin derrière des rideaux de brume. Je me noie dans un bassin d’inconscience.

II.

— Oh, espèce d’enculé, tu m’écoutes quand je te parle ?

Je reviens à moi. Cyril Hanouna est en train de me gueuler dessus dans un décor d’écrans pastel. À ma droite, Benjamin Castaldi se renifle les aisselles. Sur le plateau, le capharnaüm est indescriptible, il y a même un fauconnier qui lâche ses rapaces dans le hangar.

— Oh, abruti, tu nous écoutes ou pas ?

Je regarde Hanouna, je sens qu’il me hait :

— Pourquoi vous m’insultez ?

— Je t’insulte pas, tu fais ce que tu veux, c’est toi qui m’insultes espèce d’enculé, tu crois que t’es chez mamie ou quoi, il est fou lui.

— C’est obligé, les injures homophobes ?

— Vas-y ferme ta gueule, tu te prends pour qui, moi homophobe, va niquer ta mère espèce de baltringue.

Je me lève, encore chancelant de mon cauchemar en forêt. Une buse me fonce dessus. J’ai tout juste le temps de placer un genre de Dempsey roll pour l’esquiver avant que Gilbert Collard ne contourne son pupitre pour m’attraper le pantalon.

— Le gauchiste ! Le gauchiste ! hurle-t-il en faisant de grands gestes avec son bras libre.

Puis il mime un accouplement en se frottant à mes fesses. Cyril Hanouna est mort de rire, il ne tient plus debout.

— Lâche-moi, dis-je en me dégageant.

— Oh, le gauchiste est puritain ! C’est pas très 68, ça !

— Mais putain, c’est quoi ce délire ?

Je commence à courir vers la sortie mais l’entrée du tunnel est gardée par un énorme videur en costard. Il m’ordonne de m’arrêter, je n’en fais rien, j’essaie de le contourner à toute force, je suis en sueur, c’est dramatique.

— Monsieur, s’il vous plaît, me fait-il.

— Laissez-moi sortir !

— S’il vous plaît.

J’entends Hanouna qui rigole :

— Gilbert il l’a enculé, c’est énorme !

Pris de panique, je tente de pousser le videur qui fait deux fois mon poids.

— C’est magnifique mes p’tites beautés !

Le balèze me soulève comme une plume et me ramène en plein dans le cadre. Je me vois sur les écrans qui garnissent le plateau. Bigard est debout au milieu des chroniqueurs, il fait des gestes obscènes :

— Il l’a ouvert en deux, et LAH ! LAH ! LAH !

Le public est en fusion, je ne m’entends même pas crier. L’ignoble tête de Bigard apparaît en gros plan sur tous les murs du hangar, sa voix de stentor éméché roulant comme un tonnerre de graillon expulsé d’une poêle à frire. Une députée du Rassemblement national me fait des doigts tandis qu’Hanouna esquisse un pas de danse orientale, une main sur le ventre. C’est hallucinant. Je cherche de l’air par tous les pores de ma peau, j’ai des extrasystoles et un début de migraine ophtalmique. Une puissante nausée me saisit les entrailles et m’oblige à m’accroupir. Cardamone… J’ai besoin de toi… Pourquoi tu n’es jamais là ?

— Il est en train de faire un malaise cet abruti, dit Hanouna.

Mohamed Ali continuant de couper un arbre.

III.

— Eh bien voilà. À l’origine, vous avez fait un cauchemar, ce qui est somme toute très banal. Seulement, dans votre grande angoisse, vous avez ouvert une trappe pour sortir de ce cauchemar. C’est là que ça se complique. Habituellement, ce genre de trappe débouche sur la réalité et provoque le réveil du dormeur, mais dans une infime minorité de cas, il se peut que la trappe débouche sur un autre cauchemar. Or il n’en faut pas plus pour se perdre. Le cerveau humain n’est pas équipé pour se repérer dans un dédale de songes. Je ne dis pas qu’il est impossible d’en sortir, mais c’est… disons, peu probable.

— Vous voulez dire que je suis coincé dans mes cauchemars ?

— En quelque sorte, oui.

— Comme dans le film de Christopher Nolan ?

— Je ne connais pas ce film.

— Inception.

— Ça ne me dit rien.

— Leonardo DiCaprio ?

— …

— Vous n’allez jamais au cinéma ?

— Ce n’est pas… non, à vrai dire je n’ai pas le temps.

— Quand j’avais douze ou treize ans, j’allais tout le temps au ciné.

— Ah ?

— Il y avait une petite salle à Sallanches, j’adorais ça.

— Intéressant. Vous aviez l’impression d’entrer dans cette salle obscure comme dans un vagin ?

— Hein ?

— Je… allez-y, je vous écoute.

— Attendez, vous avez dit quoi ?

— Je ne suis responsable de rien, c’est vous qui…

— Non, mais répétez.

— Je ne suis pas là pour parler, c’est à vous de…

— Répétez ce que vous avez dit !

— Écoutez, je crois qu’on va s’arrêter là pour aujourd’hui parce que vous avez l’air fatigué.

— Je veux que vous assumiez. Répétez.

— Ce n’est pas le sujet.

— C’est ça, ouais. Je m’en fous, je paierai pas.

— Une séance entamée est une séance facturée, vous connaissez la règle du jeu.

— Ah parce que c’est un jeu ?

— Façon de parler.

— C’est la dernière fois que je viens vous voir.

— C’est le mot vagin qui vous trouble ?

— …

— Intéressant.

— Mais pourquoi vous dites ça ?

— C’est vous qui maîtrisez la conversation, je ne fais que paraphraser.

— Je n’ai pas parlé de vagin.

— Vous avez pourtant évoqué une « petite salle obscure »… Ce sont vos mots…

— Mais !…

— …

— C’est ouf.

— Je ne fais qu’écouter.

IV.

Une lumière blanche me réveille. Je me trouve au milieu d’un champ de blé dans une région qui pourrait être les Marches en Italie. Sur une colline au loin se dresse une petite église en pierres blanches. Pour la première fois depuis longtemps, je me sens bien. Je me lève et me mets en route en caressant les épis du bout des doigts. J’avance d’un pas léger dans la pente qui me mène à la rivière en contrebas. Dans le pré d’en face, un très beau cheval blanc s’élance au galop, soulevant des petits nuages de poussière fine. Je ferme les yeux et offre mon visage à ce soleil si doux. La musique de Gladiator commence à dégouliner d’un rack d’enceintes accroché au plafond. C’est super cool mais je sens que c’est le début des galères. Je m’arrête et regarde autour de moi, inquiet. Un réalisateur à casquette sort de sous l’église en pierres blanches et se met à m’enguirlander :

— Espèce de saucisse, tu sais combien coûte un jour de tournage ?? Tu nous plombes le budget avec tes conneries !!

Jean-Paul Rouve apparaît au milieu des blés. Il porte un petit foulard en soie mauve et des lunettes fumées qui lui donnent un air méchant.

— Il est nul, ce mec, dit-il au réalisateur.

— Laisse-moi gérer, Jean-Paul.

— C’est un poutinien, ça se voit. Il est pour Mélenchon.

— Jean-Paul, s’il te plaît ! (Puis, se tournant vers moi :) Aléric, on reprend au moment où tu caresses les blés, d’accord ? Et cette fois pas de bêtises. Quand on envoie la musique, tu restes dans ton personnage, OK ?

— Je dois faire quoi ?

— Quel abruti, dit Rouve.

— Comment ça, tu dois faire quoi ? s’étrangle le réalisateur. Tu rigoles, j’espère ? Allez, on fait la mise en place.

Cardamone Opera s’installe au bord du ruisseau. Elle porte une tunique blanche recouverte d’une stola verte qui s’accorde à merveille avec ses cheveux roux. Je suis surpris de la voir ici. Toi aussi tu joues dans le film ? lui dis-je, mais elle n’entend pas car elle fait mine de boire dans le creux de ses mains. Je l’appelle mais la rumeur du plateau couvre ma voix de criquet nouveau-né. Un maquilleur me passe un pinceau sur la figure sans me prévenir. Je toussote, de la poudre plein les yeux. Le réalisateur crie lumière et le soleil revient, plus chaud qu’au début, plus blanc aussi, presque cru. En l’espace de quelques secondes, mon maquillage se met à couler mais mon cœur insiste. Tout à coup j’ai peur que ma moustache à la Freddie Mercury soit anachronique. Je porte la main à mon visage et constate que ces bâtards m’ont rasé. Le réalisateur crie moteur ; je descends la colline en observant Cardamone qui se mouille les avant-bras ; elle a l’air heureuse alors je suis heureux ; les spots me brûlent le crâne ; elle se retourne et me sourit ; la musique de Gladiator met toute la gomme. J’ai la caméra dans le dos et les vallons des Marches pour horizon. Je ne suis plus qu’à quelques mètres de Cardamone, nous nous sourions. Là-haut sur la colline, le cheval blanc passe au trot et soulève à nouveau de jolis nuages de poussière.

— Tu m’as trouvée ? dit Cardamone.

— Oui.

— Où est passée ta moustache ?

— Ils m’ont rasé.

— C’est pas mal.

— Je suis coincé dans mes cauchemars.

— Je sais.

Elle fait quelques pas dans ma direction :

— C’est ça d’être adulte.

— J’ai pas envie.

— Il faut. Tu vas kiffer, tu vas voir.

Elle se penche et m’embrasse sur la joue avant de sortir du cadre. Le volume de la musique est assourdissant. Le réalisateur crie "coupez" et tout s’éteint.

Novembre 2022

[linsaad]

Si ton cœur et ton corps peuvent encore accepter le ravissement de l'incertain

D'ami Tchak

[bethanythebogwitch]

Ok, so the Thri-Kreen of my world live on Rakada, one of the two major landmasses of my world. Rakada used to be part of its own planet, but was relocated to my world by other lore stuff. All the sapient species of Rakada (except the Plasmoids and Neogi, who are literally aliens that crash landed on a Spelljammer and now inhabit N'Zar Xibalu, the Rakadan Underdark) are some form of animal person and were created by the animal lords (except the Gnolls, who are perversions of hyenas created by the demon lord Yeenoghu), a mostly-forgotten bit of lore from older editions that are godlike rulers of different animal species. In Rakadan legend, the Cat Lord claimed Rakada from its Great Old One masters through trickery and made it into a normal world, then invited the other animal lords to come and populate the place. There are the Cat Lord's Tabaxi, Bee Lord's Abeil, Dinosaur Lord's Pterafolk, Scorpion Lord's Tlincalli, and the now-extinct Wemics (considered by the Tabaxi to be the Cat Lord's rough draft) and Loxo. Then there are the Kreen, which are strange. Nobody can really agree on what their animal lord is. They have mantis-like heads and build underground cities like ants or termites, and their bodies don't clearly match any animal. While the other races of Rakada worship their animal lord (sometimes in multiple aspects that take the role of separate gods), the Kreen largely don't worship anything and have their own creation story. They claim to have been brought into the world on the back of something they call Xic'xtl, which is usually translated to "grandfather". Xic'xtl commanded the Kreen to dig in search of something called the "ordained vessel". Those who obeyed became the Tohr-Kreen while those who did not became the Thri-Kreen.

There are two divisions of Kreen based on their lifestyle: the nomadic Thri-Kreen and urban Tohr-Kreen. The Thri-Kreen are more well known to the other races and have a reputation as raiders and bandists, though this is an oversimplification. The Tohr-Kreen are more reclusive and reside in underground cities called hives that can extend into the sky like termite mounds. The Kreen spoken language is impossible for other species to speak without magical help due to the Kreen having different mouthparts. Likewise, it is hard to for Kreen to use speech from other languages. Fortunately, written language isn't a problem and they have short-range psychic powers to help with communication. The majority of Kreen are known as Tchak and possess little in the way of individuality. Rarer are the Tchak-Tik, who are born with more individuality, creativity, and capacity for learning. Tchak instinctively obey Tchak-Tik, who act as the leaders of their hives or nomadic bands. The individuality of Tchak-Tik often comes with a weaker connection to the psychic network of the Tchak (the Great Hive) and can lead to feelings of loneliness and isolation. Curiously, a juvenile Kreen that is separated from the psychic network will develop into a Tchak-Tik. Kreen artists, scholars, leaders, explorers, and adventurers are almost universally Tchak-Tik.

Kreen are extremely pragmatic, which has led to the practice of eating members of other races, something that does not endear them to most. There is very little sexual dimorphism between males and females, to the point it is impossible for a non-trained outsider to tell them apart. There are no gender roles and sex and gender are usually afterthoughts, relevant only to mating and irrelevant in any other situation. Kreen lay eggs seasonally, which are raised communally. Children mature to their adult size within 2 years. Tchak children are raised to fill needed roles while Tchak-Tik children will be raised by other Tchak-Tik. The Kreen are usually content to leave the other races alone, though there is some diplomatic contact and trade with the largest Tohr-Kreen hives. After the relocation of Rakada to a new world, the Kreen have found themselves in increasing tension with the neighboring Abeil over space in Rakada's northern region known as N’Zar NiTotalu-i, which means Land of the Boneless People in Rakadan. The Kreen are adept at taming and herding the many great bugs that live in the region and Thri-Kreen bands can often be seen using giant beetles as beasts of burden or riding enormous grasshoppers. They are the only peoples who know how to tame ankhegs, which they use to great effect both for digging and tunneling and as beasts of battle. Most Kreen infrastructure is made of dasl, a substance made from dirt and Kreen saliva, which becomes extremely sturdy when it dries and can hold a wicked point while being fairly lightweight. The famous Chatkcha throwing weapon and Glythka double-headed spears are made of dasl

thri kreen pretty cool :]

[melubi]

MICROPOLIS, LA SUITE DE L'AVENTURE...

Ça y est ! MICROPOLIS au bar Le Sauvage à Nantes, c'est terminé ! Cependant l'aventure continue !

Désormais il faudra patienter jusqu'au : - 11 mai pour retrouver une partie de mes petites bêtes chez Pistil et Pollen à Carquefou (d'ailleurs les fleurs séchées que vous pouvez voir sur mes tableaux proviennent de sa boutique) - 30 mai pour retrouver le plus gros du travail au Poum Poum Tchak (avec des nouveautés 😉)

En attendant vous pouvez regarder la mini vidéo souvenir du bar Le Sauvage juste là :

Encore une fois merci à tous pour l'accueil chaleureux que vous avez réservé à cette expo ! Ça me va droit au cœur ! Je ne pensais pas que mes bestioles rencontreraient un tel succès ! La moitié de l'expo est partie (les tableaux que vous observez actuellement ne sont d'ailleurs plus disponibles) ! Donc... MERCI 🤗 --------- ❀ suivez-moi sur les réseaux : TWITTER : Melubillus YOUTUBE : Melubillus INSTAGRAM : Melubillus TIKTOK : Melubillustration ❀ MES BOUTIQUES : https://linktr.ee/melubi

[completementalest]

Mumu ou la vie sauvage

Quelques jours avant d'arriver en Turquie, nous sommes contactés sur Workaway par un certain Mumu (Umit de son véritable prénom) qui nous propose d'être bénévoles chez lui. Mumu est un musicien originaire d'Istanbul qui s'est installé 10 ans auparavant sur un terrain près d'Edremit où il a construit de ses propres mains sa maison et son studio de musique (la classe). Sa proposition tombe à pic car il habite à l'est de la péninsule de Çanakkale, pile sur notre nouvel itinéraire.  

Le jour de notre arrivée (sous la pluie), Mumu vient nous cueillir en voiture près d'une grande route car son adresse n’est pas référencée sur la carte. On le suit péniblement à mesure qu'on s'enfonce dans des chemins cahoteux entre les oliviers, près du village de Kizilkeçili (un bonheur à prononcer !). En arrivant, on découvre un petit coin de paradis un peu enlaidi par le mauvais temps et l'accumulation de déchets et d'objets en tout genre. On réalise à ce moment-là qu'il y a déjà 5 autres bénévoles sur place (en plus des 6 chiens et chats) et que les espaces abrités sont restreints pour accueillir tout ce petit monde. On avait un peu fantasmé notre arrivée car pour nous les pauses riment avec chaleur-douche-lessive-lit douillet. Les deux premiers jours il n'y a pas d'eau à cause d'une récente tempête, pas d’électricité car elle provient de l’énergie solaire... Ça promet ! Finalement on prend notre mal en patience, on se bricole un abri pour la tente, on vise la rivière pour se laver et on apprend à connaître les autres bénévoles. On s'entend bien avec tout le monde et ça nous donne envie de rester malgré la rusticité des conditions. On est les plus vieux de la bande (après Mumu) et on a parfois l'impression de vivre avec une bande d'adolescents pas très maniaques. Sur place chacun.e a un rythme différent et vaque à ses occupations personnelles, entre ballade, écriture, méditation, scrolling intensif, cuisine... En bref, on comprend vite qu'on ne va pas se tuer à la tâche ici. On avait bien tenté avant de venir de cerner quel serait le travail demandé mais on avait récolté une réponse vague. Un mélange de flemme, d'inertie de groupe et de mauvais temps fait qu'on ne récolte pas les olives alors que tout le monde s'active dans la région. A la place, on se repose autant que possible, on écoute de la musique, on joue aux cartes, on socialise : c'est pas mal non plus !  

Au bout d'une semaine, 3 bénévoles quittent le lieu et 2 amis de Mumu débarquent. C'est avec eux qu'on commence enfin à ramasser des olives et ça nous fait du bien de se sentir un peu plus utiles. Le soir on boit souvent des coups (+ on se fait enfumer) et on discute longuement, y compris avec notre hôte qui s'ouvre un peu plus et s'avère être très ouvert, sensible et généreux. Parmi les moments super chouettes, il y les ateliers de batucada que Mumu organise dans son jardin chaque semaine, la fois où ses amis nous emmènent au hammam - seule douche chaude en 15 jours - ou visiter l'autel de Zeus (un gros caillou avec vue panoramique sur toute la baie), quand Simon et Mumu s'improvisent compositeurs de musique, le visionnage de la demi-finale de la coupe du monde en grignotant des graines de tournesol. Finalement on repart émus et contents de cette expérience.

Des oliviers par milliers.

La bande de joyeux hyperactifs (feat. Axel, Amaël, Adeline, Mumu, Alex et Almut).

La vue depuis la maison, plutôt pas désagréable.

Poum-poum-tchak (la batucada c’est vraiment très sympa).

La caisse claire c’est très bruyant.

Pause thé entre deux séances de poum-tchak.

Là on apprend à jouer au shithead (sympa le nom).

Bains-douches.

La dame, le chat, le pot d’eau de pluie et la balle.

Ça bosse dur chez les voisins.

Rare image de bénévoles en train de travailler.

Une belle olive de terroir.

Et paf, ça fait de l’huile d’olive.

Une bien belle récolte.

Lahmacun végétalien (régal).

Festin pour 8.

Poker à base de fruits à coques.

Improvisation musicale et rosé bon marché.

Mumu l’artiste.

Avec Muhammet et Serkan à l’autel de Zeus.

Pause café turc.

Encore un réveil matinal (11h15).

[poppins-me]

[khaosophist]

//TCHIIIIIII// KRRRRRRRR// TCHAK TCHAK TCHAK// VWOOOOM. VWOOOOM. // BEEP BOOP BIIIIIIP.//

project idea: shock collar with speech detection integration that activates the collar when it detects human language (but not animal sounds)

I should go on shark tank I think

[clownpulp]

this man is big and theres nothing u can do abt it

[anarcho-mom-unist]

A survey of my ‘spotify wrapped’ from 2020

So, I listen to music between a lot of platforms, I hate how spotify operates as a company (and like in a way that’s pretty comparable to my loathing of the publishing/distribution sides of creative industries,) and I fucking refuse to ever pay for spotify askjdhd

However based on the aggregate of my 100 most-listened-to songs from a year of mostly hitting shuffle on an artist, album, or playlist on mobile, I do have some reflections and highlights. From that I made something of a survey of that list which includes my #1 and #100 song in addition to 1 song from each set of ten, for a total of 12 songs. These represent artists and genres I really got into this year, as well as longtime favorites that are worth talking about:

1. “Bad Trip” - Bad Trip (single) - Xena Elshazlii & Fady Haroun: "Bad Trip” is probably my favorite 2020 release, like if I had to pick one. The track has incredible energy, from the soft piano and vocalization intro to the verse with it’s sparse drums, subtle bass line, and slight strings to an absolute banger of a chorus with punchy staccato synths, reinforcement of the drum groove, and addition of an electric guitar. Elshazlii & Haroun pack a lot into 2-and-a-half minutes of music, and the variations in texture, mix, & music in each iteration of the song’s discrete sections are *chef’s kiss* ---verse 1 and chorus 1 are not identical to verse 2 and chorus 2, to say nothing of the short instrumental transition b/n the first chorus and second verse. Whenever I listen to “Bad Trip” I’m compelled to hit ���repeat’ ---which is not a normal occurrence for me---and experience the builds and releases that this track brings once again. I don’t know much Arabic beyond the slang terms and exclamations that peppered my grandparents’ & parents’ speech when they spoke to each other in Armenian, but I’d be a liar if I didn’t tell y’all that “Bad Trip” is among the songs that make me want to learn the language so I can better sing along w/ them.

3. “City Lights” - Sailorwave II - Macross 82-99 ft. Kamei:  "City Lights” is the opener to Macross 82-99′s 2018 EP Sailorwave II, and it does that job immaculately. While I recommend the entire EP and an exploration of the Future Funk genre as a whole, you can’t go wrong with getting a taste of either through “City Lights.” The track bursts to life w/ synth brass chords and fast drums, quickly finding its way into punchy up-tempo horn line w/ light rhythm guitar and an active & bouncy bass line joining the mix. “City Lights” more or less goes from A to B to C and after the instrumental opening, the track shifts to a more under-voice horn line offering a countermelody to a mid-to-low register vocal line which is soon after joined by high voices punctuating the beginning of each phrase. The horns, guitars, and singers are cut from the track as the song enters its final section, a rap verse from featured artist Kamei accompanied with a slower-moving bass and light synth chords & wash in the middle register. Taken all together, “City Lights” ---like “Bad Trip” before it---packs a lot of music into a short duration & leaves me wanting more, which I especially long for when listening to the track outside of the context of the EP (which is what I usually do.)

12. “Turn to Hate” - Pony - Orville Peck: There’s a lot I could have done better in 2019, and “check out Orville Peck” is pretty high up there. “Turn to Hate” is a song that is at once heartrending, sincere, & catchy as all get out. Peck does one of my favorite possible things a musician can do on this track, and that’s make me Feel Things at a quick tempo. The vulnerable lyrics sung in outlaw country bass are supported by a fairly simple chord progression that acts as a solid foundation for a lot of texture ---moving guitar lines in the accompaniment part and middle-ground lines that move in and out of the melodic foreground. My moment of pure delight on the track is Peck’s laconic “yeehaw” that leads into a guitar solo that does so much work w/ its relative simplicity. “Turn to Hate” is an excellent song to get you into Orville Peck’s music if you aren’t already, if any of this piques your interest then I strongly recommend exploring his output of classic country meets 2010s indie meets camp gay sensibilities meets emotional realness. (This is as good a place as any to advise you to check out Yola and her album Walk Through Fire.)

27. “Water No Get Enemy” - Expensive Shit - Fela Kuti & Africa 70: I’m a newcomer to Afrobeat which is a fuckin’ shame because it contains a lot of the things I love most in music: rhythmic density and variety, jazz and “folk” idioms working together, a sense joy in the music-making with righteous anger at injustice in the music’s purpose, and a kick-ass horn section. "Water No Get Enemy” by Fela Kuti & Africa 70 is as good an intro as any to Afrobeat as it’s a delightful & excellent piece of music by the genre’s pioneer. It’s worth mentioning that in addition to its musical quality, Afrobeat is also deeply connected with Pan-Africanism and the resistance to the presence of European colonizers in Sub-Saharan Africa. To be frank, whatever I write can’t really do justice to this song or the musical movement from which it comes, go listen to it... a jam you can dance to while hating the British!? Immaculate. 

31. “Vardavar” - EP No. 1 - Tigran Hamasyan: The first of two songs from Armenian Jazz-fusion pianist/keyboardist and composer, Tigran Hamasyan, is a fast moving rhythmically dense piece of music named after the Armenian holiday of the same name ---Vardavar is a holiday of pre-Christian origin that Armenians celebrate in July in observance of the transfiguration of Christ, it involves throwing buckets of water on each other! Appropriate to its namesake, the running piano line through much of the track and the melodic lines are both exceptionally fluid and reminiscent of water. The rhythm of the tune follows a highly irregular subdivision of the bar that it’s best to feel along w/ as a listener ---seriously, unless you’re transcribing the tune or practicing/rehearsing it, don’t worry about counting---and get lost in with the flow of the music. Notable features of the track are the dense layering of instrumental/vocal lines on the melodic and countermelodic material, breakdowns & entire sections where the music takes to longer notes, “slower” feel & division of the bar, and a slower harmonic rhythm, unexpected unisons b/n instruments, and the transformation of Armenian folk melodies & texts between vocalized material and statements of the original material. There is no living musician whose work I love more than Tigran’s and if you’re not familiar with it “Vardavar” is an excellent place to start.

46. “Boyish” - Tropical Jinx - Little Big League:  "Boyish” is better known as one of the singles from Japanese Breakfast’s sophomore album Soft Sounds from Another Planet where Michelle Zauner presents the tune at a slow tempo with an unassuming instrumental accompaniment, wash of synths in the chorus, and low-register closing guitar solo which leaves the audience with a sense of melancholy & vulnerability. The original version from the 2014 LP of Zauner’s former band, Little Big League, offers a different take on the text: noisy guitars, driving rhythm, aggressive drumming on a rock groove, and a vocal delivery offering more of the rage of heartbreak than its sadness. Zauner refers to “Boyish” as an ‘ugly girl anthem’ and that intention is very apparent on this version of the track ---whereas the Japanese Breakfast take on it gave me a sense of being in the gender hinterlands b/n acceptable presentations of masculine and feminine. Both versions of the song are really worth seeking out for different reasons, and I chose to highlight Little Big League on this list because they’re a solid guitar-driven emo band that deserves appreciation in its own right.

50. “Dreaming” - Eat to the Beat - Blondie: What do I need to say about Blondie!? A CBGB act from the late-70′s that straddled the worlds of Punk and New Wave at their peak with a mix of an exceptional rhythm section (that bass!) diverse and compelling guitar work, and the captivating and ever-iconic vocals and presence of Debbie Harry. “Dreaming” might be my favorite song from Blondie and has had a special place in my heart since I first listened to them with my mom. It’s one of those songs that I’m tempted to call a perfect pop song: a joyful performance, lyrics that are at once simple and relatable ---whom amongst is unfamiliar with longing!?---music full of hooks & containing the kind of energy that just goes and takes you with it!

65. “Holy” - Shadow Theater - Tigran Hamasyan: The second entry from Tigran Hamasyan comes from his 2013 album Shadow Theater ---an excellent work as a whole---and is one of the slower, more spacious, and simpler tracks from it. “Holy” is a setting of the Armenian liturgical piece “Soorp Soorp” which is frequently used in the celebration of the Eucharist (even in the Armenian Protestant church I grew up in) and it’s achingly beautiful. There’s always something to be said about a musician capable of complex and virtuosic feats on their instrument doing something very simply and very well, and that’s what the entire ensemble brings ---including frequent collaborator Areni Agbabian who provides the vocals. Even as the texture thickens in the middle of the song, the middle ground & harmonic support coming from strings and bassoon (Ben Wendel) is simple, under-voice, and reverent. “Holy” is the kind of piece of music that offers an encounter with God ---even if one would never otherwise believe in something beyond the material; even just for a moment.

77. “The Day the World Turn Day-Glo” - Germ Free Adolescents - X-Ray Spex: X-Ray Spex is one of those bands I’ve listened to before on a recommendation I received ages ago but never really followed up on beyond the one song sent my way. “...Day-Glo” is a fuckin’ banger of song that just bursts with this wonderful energy from the jump & showcases the best qualities of X-Ray Spex’s sound: driving guitars, wild saxophone lines, and chaotically charismatic lead vocals from singer Poly Styrene. X-Ray Spex have an output that is wild and fun as hell to explore, and “...Day-Glo” is an excellent place to start ---you’d also do well to check out their more notable song “Oh Bondage, Up Yours!” 

84. “Marquee Moon” - Marquee Moon - Television: Listen, you don’t need to read some internet lesbian with a music degree go off about Television ---one of the most musically interesting acts to come out of CBGB and one of many definitive proofs that Punk is not a label that people should fucking fight about having a true definition of. Clear 11 minutes in your day, find a pair of headphones so you can experience the use of stereo in the recording and enjoy each element of the song, especially with regards to Tom Verlaine and Richard Lloyd’s interlocking guitar lines.

96. “Leylum” - Kokorec - Collectif Medz Bazaar & Sevana Tchak: Armenian folk music, baby!! Collectif Medz Bazaar offer a lively and joyful rendition of the classic folk song “Leylum” which has been burned in my mind from church and community gatherings ---the fun ones with music and all of your aunties dancing in a circle and such. Listen to this song and DM me if you aren’t dancing along of joining in on the response parts as best you can. I think this particular recording offers a nice entry point into an exploration of Armenian music, the instrumentation hits a lot of the staples of Armenian folk ensembles ---duduks, dohl, dumbek, clarinet, shvi, etc.---and the song itself is an up tempo dance tune which I find to be easier to start with than ballads or liturgical music.

100. “Electrastar” - Paradize - Indochine: Back in the hazy past of 2017, one of my friends from undergrad and I were hanging out and playing music for each other. In a departure from his usual library of French Baroque music, he played a song by French New Wave band, Indochine. That song was “Electrastar” which is a consistent favorite of mine, my favorite song from its album ---Paradize, which is already a solid record---and a great entry point into the musical output of a band which has been active for about 40 years. "Electrastar” features driving rhythm guitar, pulsing synth under the texture, eminently catchy chorus and post-chorus, and a very care-full and effective approach to the mix. Also, not for nothing but that album cover is 👀

Survey of 2020 Listening

[whirling-fangs]

Oh, but Inosuke was far from scared. He was the furthest from scared.

Boundless joy flowed through his veins, excitement trembling at his fingertips as he imagined the technique all over again. He tried to replay the moment he had seen it unfold in slow motion, but his eyes could only catch a speedy blur, and a great sensation of warmth as the flames washed over him.

"Why would I be scared? It was really awesome, what you just did! With that kind of strength, forget about trees! You could probably cut down a whole mountain!"

A realization struck the boy, his eyes widening as the thought crossed his mind.

"You could even kill him! The demon! With that kind of speed and strength, even he wouldn't stand a chance! You're just that amazing!"

An even brighter light sparkled in his eyes when the child finally spoke the most important piece of information, what Inosuke really wanted to know. His name.

If only Inosuke was better at remembering those.

"It's nice to meet you, Yorishichi! I'm Inosuke! Hashibira Inosuke! Remember my name, 'cause one day, it'll be the name of the greatest demon slayer, after you!! Now show me how to cut down trees with that breathing of the sun!"

He let the child guide him by the hand, a happy giggle escaping his lips. He was overflowing with excitement, eager to learn more and more, to absorb all the knowledge that this little child possessed.

When he was invited to, Inosuke placed himself before the tree. He tried to replicate his friend's stance, feet digging slightly into the ground, muscles clenched, shoulders tense. His effort was palpable, his resolve stronger than ever.

Breathing... Yorihachi had said something about breathing, right? Inosuke took a deep breath in, and tried to visalize the flow of air coursing through his small frame.

Only then did he let out a yell, and run towards the tree with his sword brandished. He didn't realize that he needn't actually cut into the bark, and swung the blade down at the thick wood.

Tchak.

The sword sunk into the bark, but hardly cut through. It left a visible scar into the tree, yet the most damage was rather done to Inosuke's arms. The impact sent a shockwave coursing up his limbs, so vigorous that he dropped the sword with a yelp. He could almost feel his bones rattle under his skin.

There was much he needed to be shown. So much and he didn’t know, if he had the time to do it as well. What this over was asking for, was years, countless years of back breaking and painful work, over and over. To try and teach him and even then, there was no true promise between both of them that everything he would see and learn, would actually take a firm and tight grip of his heart, some people no matter if their heart was in it or not, just had limitations on them that could not be overcome.

But maybe he was special.

“Yes ..” Was all that he could say on the matter. It was the truth, no man nor women, who walked the path of the blade, would depart so willing with there sword. It was another part of you, it was an extension of whom you were. To know a demon, had killed slayers, and then stolen their weapons was a sorrowful thought to have, but it did not settle for long, it was part, of the cruel world and another reason, why the demons that plagued one and all, needed to be stopped at all costs.

If this was training … Then he hoped he had done enough …

As he moved so quickly and perfectly, that it was impossible for humans and demons both, to follow his movements, as he cared through the tree like it was nothing at all, letting it burst into flames with the heat of the sun and in less than a second, there was nothing of it that remained.

“You’re not scared …”

As he turned and looked up at him, his enthusiasm was unlike …

It was unlike anything he had ever seen before in his life …

Most people call him a monster, a demon himself, a cursed being that did not belong, no one should have, the power he had, no one should be able to do the things that he could do and make it look so easy, as his eyes followed the movements, of the twirl of the blade within the others hand as he seemed, to be .. happy.

“Yoriichi  ..”

It was a little mutter as he looked down at the ground.

“My name is Yoriichi  …”

The first time he had ever given his name, to anyone in all of this time and it was nice, a really nice thing to give it to someone, that was not afraid of him, and had not turned against him by seeing what he could do.

“I call it … sun breathing …”

A little name, he made for himself, for what he could do and how he could do it. As he lowered his blade and moved, to take his hand and just direct him to another tree as he would not do it again, he merely placed the sword down and would take his stick, picking it back up into his hands and pointing at the try for the other boy to begin, to just, practice, that was all they where going to do, practice and practice, until his hands would hurt and even then, push further and keep going until he could not continue.

And the next day, do it all over again until he felt comfortable holding one sword in his hands, until he learned, to control it, his movements, his strikes, the weight of the sword, every single last detail, from his stance, to how he breathed as well, he would teach him.

Everything he needed to know.