#that said our radioactives were very tame

[raskies456]

really hit tag limit on cat Geiger counter post for the sake of making the one kitty litter radiation cleanup joke

[kitcat992]

Identity Crisis  | Chapter 3: Grounded

“Beginning clinical trial 10.F—G in three...two...one...”

The liquid dropped from its contained, secured case the moment the buzzer went off, the sound piercing and sharp. The feel of it always got to him; dense, thick, slimy, and somehow worse than all the times that came before. Like a raindrop, it hit the back of his hand with a pluck.

It was hot.

It was always hot, burning against his skin, sizzling at the touch. He had lost count of the chemical burns that scattered along his body, scars that told stories of the many attempts he endured in the pursuit of health. Life. A chance.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. No, never in the battery of tests he subjected himself to was it ever lost on him. He was destroying his body in the attempt to heal it.

It wasn’t ideal, and certainly not his first choice in the grand scheme of things. But they didn’t have time — he didn’t have time. There was no animal testing or research studies that could be done before reaching him.

Not if he wanted a chance.

So he closed his eyes, tight. Tight enough to feel the muscles in his face twitch and scream and beg for the release that he wouldn’t give until he heard the word ‘success’. He held his breath and bit his tongue through the searing pain that spread across his skin, rendering his fingers numb and his wrist rigid with immobility, all as he waited.

It always felt like an eternity. He would often think of Emily in these times. Deep, mahogany hair that countered her smile of pure sunshine, one he’d still picture every night before going to sleep, accompanied with the purest, brightest blue eyes he’d ever witnessed before. Even now, decades after becoming nothing more than a memory to him, she kept him calm. As long as he had her memory —

“Host organism Symbiote cytoplasm results produce...another failure for organisms protoplasmic material in binding with subject.” The voice, albeit calm, professional and tame, was nails on a chalkboard to his ears. “The changes formulated to the cell structure from clinical trials 9.E—G appear to be unsuccessful.”

His eyes stayed closed, though the pressure on his eyelids lessened greatly. He could feel the burning begin to fade on his hand, the tell-tale sign that the liquid had dropped off, running down and off his skin like water in the shower. It would fall down into a drain placed beneath his feet, where the earth shattering disappointment made it feel like his legs had wavered despite the ground staying still.

His heart beat heavily and he fought to control the emotion, taking in three deep breaths to remain composed. Each lifted his chest high, pulled his shoulders back taunt. He kept those blue eyes in his mind, fighting to remember exactly what shade they were. Always close to sky blue, but never quiet so pale. Vivid, like ice.

“How would you like to proceed, Mr. Osborn?”

And with that, he opened his eyes to the world around him, no longer able to stay in the memory of a better time and place, a memory of warmth and content. His environment was sterile and cold, a lot like the expression he wore on his face. Because if twenty-eight years of owning and running his own business had taught him anything, it was to never show weakness.

“You are...highly credentialed, Doctor Frye.” Norman grabbed the towel offered to him by one of the many scientists standing nearby, slowly but confidently wiping his hands with it. “I have the upmost faith that you will figure it out.”

The towel was damp, saturated with a cooling gel to ease the burns that blistered on his skin. He smeared it generously across the back of his hand, stepping down cautiously from the platform where he stood. The other techs began to scatter, leaving all but one white-coated doctor standing amidst the departing crowd.

“Sir, with all due respect,” Doctor Frye started, “I have been surveying the progress on this project since day one. And since we’ve discovered that this Symbiote bio-structure won’t bond without the DNA markers of it’s original conception, you continue to try and change the cell nucleus of the genetic make-up with no success.”

Norman approached him with long strides, confident steps that spoke more than his words ever could. He cocked an eyebrow high in the air and discarded the towel to the side.

Doctor Frye held his tablet firmly in his grip as he continued, “This is the tenth failure, and the tenth time my team has played God to the membrane of an organism that cannot thrive without the mutation markers of its birth host.”

“And as we are both aware,” Norman was quick to respond, his tone smooth yet firm, “the birth host perished two years ago with an autopsy report that showed no remaining embryo fluid in the sack. Is that a fact you fail to recall or do you simply prefer that I remind you the cause behind our perennial struggles?”

There was something unique in Doctor Frye that Norman respected. For starters, the man was never afraid to stand up to him, talk science with him, throw equations back and forth. He had intense grit, a dedication to his craft, dare he say an unhealthy need to be present at the job at all times. It played greatly in his favor, the unfortunate passing of Frye’s wife, leading him to divulge all his time into his work. It kept the good doctor focusing on the cure Norman so desperately needed.

“That spider was our last chance at finding success with this project, Mr. Osborn,” he reminded, his voice going so far as to pitch with unnerve. “Without injecting the mutated cells directly into your bloodstream, there’s no way this Symbiote bio-suit will bind to your genetic DNA. It requires the mutated markers of that radioactive spider.”

As the doctor spoke, Norman began to roll down the sleeves to his white button-down, taking care in buttoning the cuffs back together on each arm. He never once looked down during the task, keeping his eyes focused intently on Frye, frowning a bit as he digested what was said.

“Your vacillation is disconcerting to hear, doctor. It seems you’ve forgotten that sitting beneath my entrepreneur credentials lays a scientific genius with doctoral degrees in chemistry and electrical engineering. So when I say this can be done, I say it with more than just words,” Norman’s words were even, clinical, nearly emotionless. “I say it with the knowledge and ingenuity to substantiate the matter.”

Aggravated, Doctor Frye shook his head with animated exaggeration, spinning around as Norman began to walk past him.

“You aren’t listening. You don’t — !”

Norman calmly turned to face him, so close that it physically startled the doctor, his muscles so tense it showed in his lips.

“This Symbiote is a living organism. And like all living organisms, you can work with its biology,” Norman insisted, his tensely knitted eyebrows the closest thing he had shown to frustration so far. “I would advise that you not allow any defeats to keep you from pushing forward onward to success.”

Deliberate to linger on a hard stare that created a sheen of sweat across Doctor Frye’s forehead, Norman gave a curt nod when the time felt right. Only then did he walk passed the man, careful to avoid bumping shoulders.

He made it to the door before a voice was heard again. It wasn’t unexpected. Norman would have paused there in anticipation regardless of what sound came his way; the doctor had grit, after all.  

“You have to give me clarification here, Mr. Osborn. Why can’t you lend my team the formula for the OZ Experiment Arachnid No. 00? We’ll create it from scratch, we’ll give the Symbiote the DNA markers it requires to bind and latch onto it’s subject matter,” he paused for a beat, his throat constricting as he stressed,  “You, sir.”

There was enough hesitation from Norman to make it seem like he had been pondering up a response. In reality, he had one ready to go long before the man had ever asked the question. It was a sore subject. It had become the bane of his existence. The loss of all his files, the OZ formula, the records of the arachnid experiment from years ago that could easily save his life — gone. And why?

“Because, Doctor Frye,” Norman said, swiping his badge to gain access out of the laboratory, “those records were recently loss in a very unfortunate...water-logging incident. Now carry on. I expect progress by the morning.”

The heavy weight of the door closed loudly behind him, an echo that shot through the air. Norman was walking down the halls before it had even slammed shut.

— — —

Can I just say...I’m really going to enjoy writing this character?

(¬‿¬)

[foxauxmirror]

A stream of consciousness thing with a fair share of personal stuff about why write smut featuring two elderly Soviet dudes - aka Valoris

“I get what makes you watch this show for the eighths time”, my husband said, as we sat down to catch up on the two last episodes of Chernobyl that he did not want to watch while I was away for a month. “I don't get what makes you sacrifice your sleep for two weeks in a row to write about two elderly Soviet dudes having sex”. My husband is the biggest supporter of my writing and my most enthusiastic reader – he's also the one to discuss all of my (sometimes unlikely) ships with. To top it all, he's exceptionally cool with me, or anyone else, for that matter, sliding up and down the Kinsey scale, and occasionally takes a trip of his own, like that one time we were watching “The Death of Stalin” and the incredibly doable Jason Isaacs appeared on the screen as Field Marshall Zhukov: “Holy shit”, my husband said for the whole movie theater to hear, “I'd let him have it right here and now”. He doesn't, however, see anything sexy about Chernobyl-the-series. Come on, fellow fandom members, had anyone told you that you'd be shipping two 'elderly Soviet dudes' (and, chances are, find 'elderly Soviet dudes' smut hot as hell – can anyone bring a fan in, please?) before Chernobyl, would you have believed it? There are quite a few reasons why this show speaks to me on a very personal level. Some of them have to do with me being a Russian immigrant, currently in my third step-motherland of choice, - the series was quite a cathartic experience in my long-lasting quest to rediscover my national identity (I hadn't thought much about it until moving to the US at the age of 16 and being bullied at school for being a Russian. Since then, I have constantly been rediscovering what does it mean to me, being a person who was born in the USSR, raised mostly in Russia and who fled this country due to an assortment of disagreements between us. I have grown myself an identity called 'not that kind of Russian', having to constantly stress that I do not necessarily rhyme with stereotypes about my homeland, or its questionable policy, or whatnot).

Others are of the same nature that sweet @elenatria was so open about in her Hashimoto post. I have a bunch of medical conditions, including thyroid issues, and altogether they make my life rather shitty on some days, also dependant on some limitations to be followed for the rest of my days. It's not something you easily come to terms with, being chronically ill with no prospect of getting rid of it all, just trying to tame the condition down. I know that at least part of it is Chernobyl-related – the region I'm from was on the way of the radioactive cloud's trajectory, and we were also getting deliveries of poisoned food. Since that, the region has been scoring very high in the national ranking of thyroid illnesses, including cancer. I was four months when Chernobyl happened. I have never given much thought to that until the series was out. When it was, it took me a gallon of chamomile tea, a hot shower and a couple of shots of local fruit brandy after each episode to come round. During the first viewing most of what I felt was anger and frustration, letting myself think, for the first time in my life, of how my life could've been different was it not for... oh, but what's the use listing the reasons and being angry at something that has been cooking literally for generations to result in the biggest nuclear meltdown in history, affecting who knows how many lives for how long a time, right? @elenatria is so right in quoting Shcherbina: in a way, we've gotten off easily. Now, none of these were enough to move me towards shipping a certain nearly 70 years old Soviet bureaucrat and a certain not-too-much-younger bespectacled dorky Soviet scientist. It has to do with other reasons.

I've been around people who write slash fanfiction since I was 16. So many stories to witness, so many reasons why people choose to write all those alternative narratives. Of course, there is the sheer fun of it, and the joy of putting words together, and the wonderful not-aloneness of being part of a fandom. And then, for some of us, there are very dark corners of our souls that are packed with unwanted experience. Writing turns into therapy. One reaches for a similarly dark and sinister story, one takes two characters and one makes them... I was going to write 'find love' but that has a somewhat soapy ring to it, also doesn't really express what I mean. One takes two characters and makes them feel fucking alive – and yes, more often than not, it is through finding love. Doesn't matter, whether it's bromance, or domestic fluff, or the smuttiest smut – come on, it's still about love, all shapes and sorts of it. Though, at the bottom of it, it's about being alive. About being able to stick to life in the darkest of times. Like, exploded nuclear reactor dark, you know? Some of us have been there. Some of us are like vinyl records with a slight stutter that comes from a place that was damaged and now bears a scratch. Some of us bear the memory of what's it like, getting that scratch mark, and hear a slight echo of that memory when you see a damn good shown that features something unseen and yet deadly, something cutting your life in half, something capable of poisoning you pretty quick and leave a long-lasting impact of that poison. So, what do you do? You make life out of it. Like, drawing art or writing your own version of events that includes a big fat chunk of life, be it wrapped into a gift paper of chaste kisses and handholding, or fucking each other's brains out in a miserable hotel room, or anything in between the two extremities. By letting two people who are overwhelmed by fear, frustration, anger and desperation, discover their own vitality in a place like the surroundings of an exploded nuclear reactor, it is very possible to dance oneself out of a dark place into – oh, well, somewhere else. So, yeah, that's what makes me sacrifice my sleep for two weeks in a row to write about two elderly Soviet dudes having sex – it's my way of saying “Don't you fucking give in on living”. (Also, if someone can't appreciate the silver fox that is Stellan's Shcherbina being sex on legs, I feel sorry for that someone:) ). Dixi.

[kriegzsucht]

Pet Zombies // Blastfromthepast

I’ve been going through old stuff for this while perusing the new outlines and remembered this one dribble I wrote for things that isn’t canon anymore, but I’m still fond of it. Sort of

----------------------------------------

It came to pass one morning, right at breakfast, that Orion asked an unusual request.

The unit had risen with the sun, all together as per the usual. Evelyn had been more on top of things than she normally was at that hour, being on her feet before the rest and brewing something akin to coffee. 

To be painfully honest, it wasn't coffee. Whatever it was, it woke the dead and put hair on the chest of the poor soul who ingested it. It was certainly not good for the health, but Fetil loved the stuff. Because Evelyn was the only one among the six who could actually cook (bad things happened when anyone else tried. Fetil had actually lit water on fire once, much to everyone's surprise and panic), the Russian was stuck making anything at least somewhat edible.

Including, but not limited to, Herr Kommandant's no doubt toxic coffee substitute.

"I'm surprised no one glows in the dark." Evelyn muttered, crinkling her nose at the smell of the tar-colored goop that spilled out into the carafe below the brewer. It had a tang to its scent that stuck to the back of the throat, something reminiscent of black licorice mixed with ear wax. In short, it was very unappetizing to smell. She didn't even want to imagine how it tasted.

While it was brewing, she had gone about cooking up what she could of the supplies they had left. The result was butane-fried toast and eggs. Though not the best flavor on the planet, Evelyn had discovered it was a bigger hit and produced less vomit than the standard food they had managed to procure thus far. After setting the rickety table for the presumed starving beasts she shared her life with, she turned around to fetch anything even remotely consumable in liquid form to go with the meal.

There was no surprise to find Fetil already in the kitchen, appearing as though someone had discarded a half-dressed marionette on the kitchen counter next to where the radioactive wa--coffee was brewing slowly. She was anything but active and nigh unapproachable in the morning before taking in at least one cup of her tar. Others might have been startled by the ciu sidhe's ability to appear in the room so suddenly and quietly at such an early hour. Evelyn, on the other hand, was different. Other than noticing the entrance of her commander, the Russian avoided and ignored her. It wasn't long after that the rest of the unit trudged in and took their places at the table.

At evening meal, if they were in the little structure they called home for it, there was much more order about the table with silently designated seats being taken properly. Breakfast was another matter entirely. No one seemed to care at all where they were planted, so long as there was food involved. Even killing machines were still some form of human at some point of the day. Even the sidhe, human though they weren't, were mortal in some fashion.

Oberon was trying to keep awake. The hulking geomancer kept trying to faceplant his plate, yet managed to catch himself just before impact. Abigail watched him intently as though waiting for him to finally make contact. Morning suspense was always the best way to wake up and Oberon inevitably would land in his plate and cause a roll of waking laughter across the table. Today, some fateful force decided the daily routine just would not do.

Cabren, the aviator and all around driver, took a bite of one of the pieces of toast on his plate and made a half-strangled noise of what was translated as disgust. "Butane again? This stuff can't be good for the brain cells."

Evelyn, who had taken her seat with them by this point, stared back at him with with an apathetic silver glare. "If you don't like it...," she started, giving a pause to catch his attention. Once he looked at her, she continued. "...You can throw it to the wastes for the zombies to eat."

"Maybe we'll cure the plagues." Abigail stated rather flatly. "And save what few brains Cabren has left. All with toast..."

"Maybe we'll eat our breakfast, kill a few brain cells, and go out to find out what is needed of us today." Evelyn was deadpan as she said it. There was an uneasy silence that hung over the table, broken only by the ding! of the coffee brewer and the pouring of the end result into a waiting cup.

"I want a pet zombie."

There was more silence, though all eyes at the table (that were open, at any rate) turned toward Orion. Without his facepaints and with his white hair left unbound, the necromancer could easily pass as normal. The shock of the statement didn't last long, Cabren breaking it with an almost incredulous voice.

"You ... why in the hell do you need a zombie?"

Orion looked utterly hurt that no one understood why he had stated such. "Minerva died about four hundred years ago! From what I understand, ball pythons don't exist anymore."

Cabren continued the exchange, offering his hands in a 'go on' gesture. "And...?"

"Do you have any idea what a necromancer is without a spirit guide?" The question came out almost hysterical. It took almost everyone by surprise. Almost. Oberon made a noise, but it was a melodic hum mixed with unintelligible mumbling that was more out of sleeping at the table again than it was anything conscious.

"You know they're not actually zombies, right?" Evelyn had taken the floor again, causing the discussion to once more turn to her. "Neither of your abilities can help you with these ... things. These mutants."

Orion scoffed at this, obviously much more awake. "So I kill one, bring it back to life, have my own zombie! A real zombie, befitting a real necromancer."

"That is the most ludicrous thing I have ever heard you say." The Russian held the bridge of her nose between her fingers in exasperation. "You are a real necromancer, do not start with me on that. Can't you just ... wait until someone not horribly mutated dies a natural death and do it that way?"

"Nein."

The interruption caused everyone to jump, the voice rather unexpected. For a moment, there was a shocked silence save for Cabren's plaintive cry of, "I dropped my toast!" The outburst even woke the snoozing geomancer with a start, who (as per routine) slammed facefirst into his eggs. It was not often the ciu sidhe graced morning conversations, if at all.

All eyes (and one egg in Oberon's case) turned to their commander, who was half-leaning on the countertop next to the coffee brewer. If one didn't know better, she would have looked perfectly normal. To the rest of her unit, those who knew her best, her eyes were half-glazed and she couldn't stand up straight. Fetil was about awake as Oberon was. Given the geomancer's sudden call to consciousness, chances are he was now more awake than she.

The cup in the sidhe's left hand was brought up, the liquid goo within the cracked porcelain sipped at. There seemed to be a rather sudden change in the way Fetil held herself after that. Her disheveled waves and coils of inky hair visibly puffed and frizzed some, a small amount of clarity returning to her eyes. With a subtle twitch that only those trained to see could catch (her companions were among that number), her posture straightened up some. She soon lowered her eyes to the necromancer across both room and table from her.

"No zombies."

Orion looked stunned for a second before he registered what was said to him. "Why?" he whined. Not having a zombie (or any sort of spirit guide, for that matter) obviously upset him.

"Zombies are unpredictable, tamed or not. What if it bites someone in this room?" Her voice had gained that piercing tone it usually had, although there was still a slight crackling of sleep and disuse on it. "What if it bites me? What then?"

Orion thought a moment. "We can all do the 'Thriller' dance, at least?" His answer was tentative, more a question than a statement.

It caused Evelyn to smack her face into her hand and shake her head as though in disbelief of the exchange. "I take it back. That is the most ludicrous thing I have ever heard you say..." she muttered in the Haitian's direction. He gave her a scoff, stopping what he was doing when his commander spoke again.

"I said no zombies. Final."

Orion puffed himself up in indignation. "Your boyfriend has a pet zombie!" he spat, standing up and smacking the table with the flat of his hands. 

The motion caused flatware to jump on the warped surface, Abigail smacking her twin's forearm for the act. Cabren, on the other hand, picked up his plate to avoid losing any more of his breakfast, glaring reproachfully up at Orion for his disturbance.

The lack of response from Fetil was oppressive. While the rest of the table was quick about making sure no one else had lost breakfast somewhere, she stood straight and stared at Orion.

"Aleksei is not my boyfriend." The expulsion was almost spit out, as though the phrase tasted disgusting on her tongue. There was enough venom locked in every syllable that Evelyn seemed to wilt in her seat, slinking practically under the table to avoid the malice. "They are not pets. There is more than one. And no, you will not bring a zombie into this house! That! Is! Final!"

"What if one followed me home?" Orion was pushing his luck at this point, his tone back to whining. Not unlike a child wanting a new toy. 

This was accentuated with Evelyn's muffled, "If you keep talking, I will eat your face."

"I will blow its ffffucking head off." was hissed out. By now, Fetil was audibly grinding her teeth together in an attempt to not leap over the table and strangle the Haitian.

"What do you have against zom--"

Orion had been stopped dead by Evelyn shoving a piece of toast in his mouth. She might not have eaten his face as she had promised, but it did get his mind on something else. The necromancer bit down on the toast, chewing with an energetic vigor.

"I don't know why you hate this stuff so much, Cabe. It tastes great."

As soon as the subject changed, the blood-curdling sensation of Fetil's malevolence seemed to ebb away. For a short moment, looks of relief were shared between Evelyn, Abigail, and Cabren. Oberon was too busy wiping what remained of one egg off his face with a piece of his toast to really pay any mind elsewhere. Then again, it seemed nothing really phased the geomancer.

The rest of the breakfast passed without much incident, Oberon finally cleaning himself up from the mess of egg across his face. Cabren had decided that there was a ten-minute rule on his dropped toast, especially since it didn't have any topping on it. It wouldn't have been so bad except he kept bragging about it, inciting Evelyn to call him out on making up rules for dropped food (the only time she actually made a blatant joke that entire morning) and Abigail threatening to put nitroglycerin in his second piece if he didn't shut up. Orion cracked a small joke about nitroglycerin's inability to make the aviator shut his mouth for more than two seconds then proceeded to shove the toast in Cabren's hand into his mouth.

Evelyn had finished first, as usual, citing Orion on plagiarism for her own tactic against him. Of course, this launched the table into a discussion on the definition of plagiarism.

"Plagiarism probably doesn't exist in this time-frame anymore. That or The Order claims the term as theirs too." Abigail snorted, causing everyone a part of the debate to accept that as a final word.

Oberon helped to clear the table once meals had been finished, offering Evelyn assistance in the kitchen in his typical stoic format. Evelyn's attention temporarily redirected off to where Fetil was still standing next to the brewer. It didn't take long to guess the ciu sidhe had centered her dog's eyes to bore into Orion, though she had not said a word since shooting down the Haitian's request.

Fetil was on her second cup of sludge when the dining room emptied out, finally diverting her gaze from the current target of her hatred to make sure she was pouring the goopy liquid into the cup and not down her front. Normally, she would be much more accurate but she was certainly not a morning person. Before the cup could reach her lips, Orion poked his head into the room again. There was a devious twinkle in his green gaze.

"...I'm getting a zombie anyway."

There was a deep-seated growl from Herr Kommandant, her hair visibly frizzing and the coils drawing tighter. Lips pulled back to show the peculiar dog's teeth in threat and apparent distaste, the mug of hot tar-coffee sent flying in her antagonist's direction. Orion made sure he was scarce, leaving behind a cackle of laughter, a shattered mug, and a large unnaturally dark stain where his head would have been. It was growing of its own volition.

[endorstoiii]

todas as asks que não foram feitas

1:Full name.I don’t like to share my full name online so I just go with Marina Sakai (that’s enough).

2:Zodiac sign.Taurus

3:3 fears.cockroaches, drowning and burning to death.

4:3 things I love.Music, drawing, movies.

5:4 turn on’s.Music, people who are similar to me, trips and playing The Sims (how random is this?).

6:4 turn off’s.Stupid people, soccer, math and being obliged to do something I don’t want to.

7:My best friend?I don’t think I have one best friend only, I have a few close friends… you are one

8:Sexual orientation?Straight.

9:My best first date?hahaha lol

10:How tall am I?1,62cm I guess.

11:What do I miss?A very good friend I made on tumblr. For some reason she is gone :(

12:What time was I born?At 6:40 am or something.

13:Favorite color?Well I have a holy trinity of colors, but I’d say purple.

14:Do I have a crush?As long as band members exist, I will have a crush LMAO.15:Favorite quote?“My world is turning pages while I am just sitting here” - Kevin Parker, Apocalypse Dreams.

16:Favorite place?Paraty (beach).

18:Do I use sarcasm?Me? No, never.

20:First thing I notice in new person?

21:Shoe size?35 in Brazil too lazy to search it for other locations :p

23:Hair color?Black.

24: Favorite style of clothing?I don’t know, I like to mixture things.

25:Ever done a prank call?Not that I remember.

26:What color of underwear I’m wearing now?Yellow with lilac stripes

27:Meaning behind my URL?It’s a song by Tame Impala. Me + the lyrics = accuracy.

28:Favorite movie?Too hard… but let’s say it’s The Babadook.

29:Favorite song?TOO HARD, but hum… at the moment it is Stella Was A Diver And She Was Always Down by Interpol (which I’m listening to right now!!!) ((but also Leif Erikson and Tidal Wave and ughhhhh)).

30:Favorite band?Sorry, I cannot choose only one so here it goes my Holy Trinity: Tame Impala, Arctic Monkeys and Arcade Fire. But I am extremely obsessed with Interpol, so yeah.

31:How I feel right now?Shitty for having a week off and doing nothing.

33:My current relationship status.The same as always: single.

34:My relationship with my parents.It’s good with my mother, and ok with my father.

35:Favorite holiday.Festa junina because food.

36:Tattoos and piercing I have.None, yet.

39:Do I and my last ex hate each other?who?

40:Do I ever get “good morning” or “good night” texts?Sometimes good night from my mother and my ex sister-in-law.

41:Have I ever kissed the last person I texted?No.

42:When did I last hold hands?God… when I was a child, maybe, with my parents, to cross the streets lmao seriously I have no idea.

43:How long does it take me to get ready in the morning?The whole morning lol an hour at least.

44:Have I shaved my legs in the past three days?No. Call me disgusting.

45: Where am I right now?Dining room.

46:If I were drunk & can’t stand, who’s taking care of me?This could only happen if I go out with my friends, none of them would go out to get drunk though hah but they would help me, I’m sure.47:Do I like my music loud or at a reasonable level?Mostly reasonable level, but you know sometimes you gotta turn it louder for that one part… other times, the whole song lol48:Do I live with my Mom and Dad?Yes.

49:Am I excited for anything?Some of my fave bands will release new stuff this year, so yeah. Also, MGMT are coming to play here and I hope to go!!!50:Do I have someone of the opposite sex I can tell everything to?No.51:How often do I wear a fake smile?70% of the time maybe.52:When was the last time I hugged someone?I hugged someone? I think it was 14 days ago because it was my friend’s birthday and I went to her house for a surprise party.

53:What if the last person I kissed was kissing someone else right in front of me?I would feel nothing.

54:Is there anyone I trust even though I should not?I don’t think so.

55:What is something I disliked about today?The whole day, I spent it doing chores and I am dead now.

56:If I could meet anyone on this earth, who would it be?Kevin Parker, love of my life. And many other band members.

57:What do I think about most?Music lol hum, I try to focus on my life, my future… but I can’t seem to succeed.

58:What’s my strangest talent?If I had one I can make 3 waves with my tongue, just like Daniel Radcliffe.

59:Do I have any strange phobias?I don’t know if they are strange, but I am afraid of dolls (automatonophobia) and trypophobia.

71:Do I spend money or save it?Save it… to spend it HAH (taurine with ascendant in Taurus).

72:Can I touch my nose with a tongue?Nope.

73: Is there anything pink in 10 feet from me?Yes, there is a rose quartz, a pink tsuru (origami), a bed sheet, a sculpture of Our Lady of Aparecida, a small fake flower that my ex sister-in-law gifted my mom for Women’s Day.

74:Favorite animal?I also have a holy trinity for this lol: cats, elephants and deers (any kind).

75:What was I doing last night at 12 AM?Massaging my mom’s feet cause I’m a good daughter.

76:What do I think Satan’s last name is?Devicari LMAO ok this is an internal joke with my friends

77:What’s a song that always makes me happy when I hear it?Signs of Life by Arcade Fire78:How can you win my heart? Buy me concert tickets and food.

79: What would I want to be written on my tombstone?Embrace disgrace. I have just decided this haha I like the word embrace and I always say disgrace, in English, to my sister. And these two words rhyme lol80:What is my favorite word?In Portuguese, it probably is saudade because of the feeling, but there are some others that I like the pronounce, not necessarily the meaning (like resiliência, recíproco, melancolia), and I chose it by the meaning. There’s also eita, which is a perfect word, omg, I don’t know what I would do without this word. In English, one of them is embrace as I said above. But by the pronounce, it is vortex in British accent. Good af. 81:My top 5 blogs on tumblr?OH MAN, I don’t have fav blogs, I have fav people! So this is the criterion to choose. This is not in order. I AM SO SORRY1. @warpaint-impala2. @14thandeuclid3. @sastrugie4. @roger-sultrey5. @streetofthoughtinallyourbones (this one is inactive, unfortunately, but there’s so much gold in there!!!) ((she is @ourblogtoadmire))

82:If the whole world were listening to me right now, what would I say?hahah… hum… I would say @ all the band members who destroyed my life how much I love them.  As everybody in the world is listening to me ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

83:Do I have any relatives in jail?Not that I know.

84:I accidentally eat some radioactive vegetables. They were good, and what’s even cooler is that they endow me with the super-power of my choice! What is that power?Mental power, just like Professor Xavier, but with telekinesis too. Oh, and being able to fly.

85:What would be a question I’d be afraid to tell the truth on?Hum, I can only think of “y/n” type of question, which would be very obvious… so I guess the question would be “what would be a question I’d be afraid to tell the truth on?” LOL

86:What is my current desktop picture?The best gig of my life, aka Tame Impala. For some reason I can’t add the picture here :/ so I’ll post it later separately.

87:Had sex?what is it?

88:Bought condoms?lol

89:Gotten pregnant?When seeing some certain pictures? Oh hell yes!

90:Failed a class?Yep, Chemistry classes mostly. I may have missed some classes, but my shitty teacher could never be patient and a good professional so I could never really learn a thing.

91:Kissed a boy?Unfortunately yes (not because he’s a boy, but because it was bad as fuck).

92:Kissed a girl?Nope.

93:Have I ever kissed somebody in the rain?No. 

94:Had job?Yes, I’ve already been an English teacher for kids (imagine how dumb these kids became when they had classes with me lmao I’m sorry girls)

95:Left the house without my wallet?No, never.

96:Bullied someone on the Internet?No.

97:Had sex in public?lmao what does sex mean?

98:Played on a sports team?Yes, I used to play handball at school.

99:Smoked weed?No.

100:Did drugs?No.

102:Drank alcohol?Yes, today. But I never went out to drink, neither had a single alcoholic drink only for me.

103:Am I a vegetarian/vegan?Nope. 

104:Been overweight?No. I mean, never been in an unhealthy way.

105:Been underweight?Possibly when I was a child and had anemia.

106:Been to a wedding?Yes, the last one was on April 2017. It was my friend’s sister wedding.

107:Been on the computer for 5 hours straight?I think so, playing The Sims lol I love this game.

108:Watched TV for 5 hours straight?Probably… I’m not sure.

109:Been outside my home country?No :( (not yet!)

110:Gotten my heart broken?Yes because my fave band members havE GIRLFRIENDS!!! Ok, hum, I have had my heart broken by a “real person” once (and only time). But this person is one of the best people I have ever met and my heart was broken because we could never fit; he is not a bad person at all, we just are from different realities.

111:Been to a professional sports game?No.

112:Broken a bone?No.

113:Cut myself?Yes, once.

114:Been to prom?No.

115:Been in airplane?Yes, a long time ago, and I don’t remember how many times. Maybe 2 or 3. 

116: Fly by helicopter?No, but I want to!

117:What concerts have I been to?I have a list of it here! I have seen some native bands too, which were pretty cool.118:Had a crush on someone of the same sex?Not a crush properly, but a little attraction. 

119:Learned another language?Yes, English. But I want to learn others, like Japanese and Russian! 

120:Wore make up?For weddings, graduation and this kind of event. And sometimes to go out, but very, very simple.

121:Lost my virginity before I was 18?LMAO

122:Had oral sex?why so many questions about sex? I still don’t know what this mean!!!

123:Dyed my hair?Never, but I’d like to.

124:Voted in a presidential election?My first time will be this year, in October. And I have no idea in who to vote!!! :)

125:Rode in an ambulance?No.

126:Had a surgery?No.

127:Met someone famous?I didn’t meet him, but I once went to an event and Beakman (from Beakman’s World) was there… but this is just like seeing a band live: you only see them, you don’t meet them.128:Stalked someone on a social network?Hahahahah hell yes

129:Peed outside?Outside what? In public, like, in the street? In a bush? No, never!

130:Been fishing?Yes, twice.

131:Helped with charity?Yes. 

132:Been rejected by a crush?I had only one crush and he didn’t reject me, neither accepted.

133:Broken a mirror?Yes.

134:What do I want for birthday?My birthday was exactly 14 days ago I wanted a new pair of sneakers, and also money for gigs.

135:How many kids do I want and what will be their names?If I have a good financial condition, I want two. If not, only one. I don’t think too much about names, but can you believe I thought of it earlier today? Yes! Male names I like are Julian and Edwin. And female, Elizabeth/Elise, Amélia/Amelie (just like I said here) and also Helena. 

136:Was I named after anyone?No, my grandfather suggested this name for me and my mom liked it.

 137:Do I like my handwriting?Not anymore. It is really ugly now, it used to be better.

138:What was my favorite toy as a child?Barbie dolls, always.

139:Favorite TV Show?Decora. It’s a Brazilian tv show about renovating and decorating rooms.

140:Where do I want to live when older?Perth, Australia (thanks Tame Impala for destroying my life).

141:Play any musical instrument?Unfortunately not, and I hate this!!! I really, reaaaally want to play some! Hopefully I will in the future.

142:One of my scars, how did I get it?I have two scars on my right arm. My sister really wanted the tv control I was holding… yeah, she tried to get it from my hands and scratched my arm.

143:Favorite pizza topping?K E T C H U P! LMAO SO PAULISTAN

144:Am I afraid of the dark?No.

145:Am I afraid of heights?Yes.

146:Have I ever got caught sneaking out or doing anything bad?Yeah, I remember once when I left the laundry room (I was alone there) and I didn’t hold the door, so it shut and it was loud, and I said it was my brother’s fault, though he wasn’t even there. My mom was getting in the laundry room and she saw it all. LOL.147:Have I ever tried my hardest and then gotten disappointed in the end?Always? lol hum, yes, it happens a lot.

148:What I’m really bad at.Everything. Ok, hum, I would say that I am really bad at being positive.

149:What my greatest achievements are.Seeing my Holy Trinity live; saving the life of some pets (my last dog and the three current cats I have) and I don’t know what else.

150:The meanest thing somebody has ever said to me.basically everything my father says to me hum my father used to call me useless a lot of times.

151:What I’d do if I won in a lottery.Help my family, move to Perth and try my life in there.

152:What do I like about myself?Nothing…………….-my music taste, and the fact that I am an open minded person.

153:My closest Tumblr friend.you (@warpaint-impala).

154:Something I fantasies about.LMAOOOOOOOOOO sorry but nope hah

155:Any question you’d like - would you read my text?Yes, I will read it.

Glenda, muito obrigada, mas nunca mais faça eu responder todas as perguntas. Por favor. Te amo

[cybermoonmoon]

“...a screed”

After the Plague is really over. I may give lectures at the New School. ...or online. Guy Lessons. That in how to live in a house a cabin or apartment of any size. These are all the same to guys. Just somewhere to eat crap sleep, and never maintain.

Being of various orientations over the centuries. I've been able to observe guys closely. Shock, and horror does not begin. As Quentin Crisp, a noted guy, once said, "...Apartments in New York are wonderful. After three years they don't get any dirtier.”

And they don't. Or so it seems. 

Once a topsoil of dust bug parts shed skin radioactive isotopes, and roaming Buffalo settles in. You're good for years of cozy living. I've known cases of decades. So why disturb such peace, and order?

Because we're supposed to be fucking civilized that's why!

This last year of being stuck in my digs showed that even a tidy soul as myself was in reality a bleeping slob. You recall photos of my Zen empty digs. So proud I was,...till I was stuck there, and had a good bleeping look!

Holy crap!

There was a reason why I kept hacking at my digs over the months of Lockdown. Painting banging plastering repairing constantly cleaning. Where the bleep does all that dust come from? Specifically dust. That stuff of future apartment topsoil. Every day I shovel a kilo of dat stuff out'a here. No wonder regular guys can plant crops in their hallways. 

Don't start about city windows.

Those I let go as utterly impossible to tame. The rest can be dealt with. However it's a pain in da butt. Which is why dear Quentin just said fuck it, and wrote books, and plays instead. In our next chapter how to quickly, and with ease. Keep not only your kitchen, but the toilet the floors all surfaces including ya self squeaky clean! This, and very presentable to random City Building Inspectors.  

Them, and plumbers were my only guests this past year, and more. I now look forward to their visits. I recall one saying:"...I could walk around your place blind folded, and not bump into anything." 

I took that a complete validation of my efforts.

[ratherhavetheblues]

CLAIRE DENIS’ ‘BEAU TRAVAIL’ “This is the rhythm of my life…”

© 2019 by James Clark

     We live at a time when athletic prowess abounds. Remarkable physical health races all about us, to our amazement. Such a state of affairs has been remarkably investigated by filmmaker, Claire Denis, in her film, Beau Travail[Good Work; Nice Going] (1999).

Here, however, we find neither specimens of professional athletes, nor amateur devotees of the limber and the inexhaustible. Instead, we find—in the very small-market presence of Djibouti, once known as French Somali land, during the decade (the 90’s) when tempers were unsporting—a unit of the French Foreign Legion busting their butts in training for quelling hostilities. Whereas the contemporary athletes and devotees, mentioned above, stood a chance to live, at some level, that topspin of frisson at the heart of human swiftness, the folks we get to know here seem frozen in such an interminable training routine which they present as nearly cloistral agents of squelching mundane squabbling, heavily, thereby, invested in a form of pedantry. They go so far as to, once in a while, a sort of th’i chi slow dance, fighting strategy with hands converging in the style of prayer to a fussy (pedantic) divinity. Way too much brain, and not nearly enough bravery.

How does athleticism—acrobatics—sour like that? Look no farther than Ingmar Bergman’s, Fanny and Alexander (1982), the compass, as it happens, of Denis’ odd war story which does so much more than enforce the status quo, while, paradoxically being (as with, Fanny and Alexander) a revelation of massive devotion to crushing, not merely the Horn of Africa, but everything in sight that might have real depth, which is to say, a purchase upon “the big world.”

Just as the Bergman film has its fanatical, murderous bishop, along with one, Gustav, a wealthy polemicist for the sake of “the little world,” there is in our film today a medley touching upon both wings of the distemper, namely, fanatical, murderous Sergeant Galoup, the sheep-dog of the soldiers’ sheep being tasked to put everything right, and the polemical agency of the French Foreign Legion itself, ensuring that the hegemony of “the little world” will always be the winner, regardless of the conflict and regardless of derring-do. Therefore, these paragons of action do not introduce themselves going flat-out, but rather, fluttering in the midst of young Arabic women at a dark and intermittently light-flooding dance club. The women clearly take pleasure in their audacity about abrogating their family mores of modesty. The troopers establish a contrasting propriety, allowing themselves to maintain a hushed decorum, neither joyous nor morose. The participants are mainly shown in extreme close-up of their faces, or parts of faces, looming in and out in the darkness punctuated by lightning flashes in the generally slow swirl. Their signature of the moment, initiated by one of the self-impressed natives, is blowing a kiss on the ridge of the up-beats. Especially getting into that grove is a young acolyte about to be central to our study of what more there is to be said than what Bergman said, in Fanny and Alexander, about a nearly bloodless massacre.

Introducing Sergeant Galoup as a malignant fanatic, however, on the order of Bishop Vergerus, does not quite reach the sensibility at the core of this masterful film. (Nor, in fact, does that idea fully cover Vergerus.) In addition to Denis’ own motives bearing fruit, there will be our protagonist peppered by other Bergman films during this trek, for the sake of bringing to bear considerations which transcend that supernal prototype’s significant measure of fatalism in face of a planetary outrage, far more formidable than simple natives getting restless. There is, about Bergman’s incisiveness, a sheen and eloquence being secret and exulting in face of a perceived hopelessness. Denis’ more muscular touch upon war—her taking seriously that world religion, world humanitarianism (part and parcel of the former force) and world science, being rotting from within, triumphs notwithstanding—has discovered a critical mass of skepticism (however confused). The villainous fanatic, Galoup, therefore, whose story we hear, functions—as with “the little world” breaking hearts in Fanny and Alexander—as a disclosure of vectors possibly leading to a “truth” (a problematic key word, in the aforementioned film), requiring courage and wit to find ways to counter mob coercion.

The prelude, to that line dance by the rebel-women and the tamed soldiers, installs another instance of the series of Denis’ thematically radioactive, naive tableaus, in this case, “heroic” troopers on a ridge (reminding us of silhouettes stemming from the Dance of Death, in The Seventh Seal [1957]) beneath a scarlet sky. And they, coming to life, sort of, piously, operatically, melodramatically, stupidly, pule “Under the burning, African sun, a mighty phalanx hoisted up our banners! Cochin-China, Madagascar… Its motto, ‘Honor and Valor,’ makes for brave soldiers. Its flag, that of France, is a sign of glory!’” With subsequent aspects better held back than adding to confusion here, the second step of that prayer proceeds with a male chorus remarkably both old and obsolete, and yet uncanny, accompanied by long, black shadows (cast by humbugs) on the sandy terrain. Panning from there, the song without words accompanies flecks of light playing upon the sea near the military post. (Here the aural does some harm to the visual.) There is, after that, the imagery of an ink-well based pen, recording a saga of the “burning African sun” which elicits even more volume from a remembered chorus. On a balcony in Marseilles (following quick cuts showing our protagonist and the puff kiss night owl), Galoup tells us, “I have time to kill now… I screwed up from a certain point of view… Angels of attack…My story is simple. That of a man who left France too long… a soldier who left the army as a sergeant. Galoup… that’s me. Unfit for life. Unfit for civil life.”

Though the parallel of the bishop and the sergeant is far from close, we should pause here to secure the concomitants which Denis finds to be compelling. First and foremost is their grim delight in belonging to a venerable and powerful institution, confirming some kind of sagacity in having enlisted into an outlook being “absolute truth” in a punishing jurisdiction. The best, it seems which life affords. Moreover, both of them find nothing amiss about borrowing the fundamental findings of others—many of those others having been terrorized by bloodthirsty and cowardly idiots—and never attempting to measure alone what their specific sensibility has in store. So convinced that a very large sample of the world cannot be in error about the limits of couth, their (desperately manufactured) zeal could be such that murdering an infidel would  seem perfectly valid. Vergerus barely avoids murdering Alexander and would have killed Isak, if not for his sister’s being marginally balanced. That brings us to “a man who left France [and its treasures of audacity and creative beauty] too long,” and would have killed “the young acolyte,” Sentain, an infidel, or a witch (in the sergeant’s eyes)—like the witch in The Seventh Seal—without a mock-Spielberg rescue by a herd of camel-powered nomads. (You’ll recall the smell of Spielberg in Isak’s nonsensical rescue mission, in Fanny and Alexander.) Galoup, in fact, assuming he has killed his enemy, and becoming driven out of his dream job. The run-up to his wild revenge is the stuff Denis relishes. “We all have a trashcan deep within. That’s my theory.” Some of us, anyway, have “deep within,” something else, which is the gist of this brave and brilliant film.

Whereas Bergman stages wonders of dramatic literature, our helms-woman here trusts a somewhat different register of emotion, if not alone, then nearly alone. The outcome is double trouble; but the uncanny rush opens tinctures of grand fascination. (As if the Djibouti domain were not bemusing enough [its wasteland being corded by the bishop’s lunar, coal-dust, ascetic interiors], we have Ridley Scott’s Black Hawk Down [2001], an adjacent smashup, to add to a dead-end, a frenzy of athleticism; not entirely in vain.) The moment of Sentain’s arrival at the vigorous spa—shown quite a while after he blew those kisses—affords a study of Galoup’s disastrous migration from melodrama to improve. “I noticed one of those who stuck out. He was thin. Distant. He had no reason to be with us in the Legion. That’s what I thought… I felt something vague and menacing take hold of me. Gilles Sentain was his name. The name he gave to the Legion.” (Our protagonist’s finding a new wrinkle to his piety, shows him needing more firepower. Compare that to Vergerus’ being confronted by an overtly insulting Alexander, who goes so far as to spreading the lie that he was informed, by the ghost of the bishop’s first wife, that the holy man had locked up the wife and two daughters, which resulted in their death in trying to leap to freedom from a high window.) Here we cut back to the recent civilian in Marseilles pruning a plane tree in his yard. He reflects, “Maybe freedom begins with remorse… I heard that somewhere… [That both freedom and remorse occur to him place the largely disappointing warrior into a region of notability. Vergerus’ facile bromides concerning unholy error fail to be more than ceremonial.] My muscles are rusty, eaten away by acid.” Cut to a training program whereby the non-rusty recruits negotiate under a field of low-lying ropes. One of them crawls under the obstacles with remarkable panache, a veritable crocodile. Does he feel elated in his fluidity? No kudos from the taskmaster who seems in some kind of need  of a heaven due to his lacking any joy on Earth. Here, too, the “mighty phalanx” chant returns (angelic choristers trumping earthy moves), along with the Sergeant’s glaring at the supposed rebel in the form of Sentain. “What counts above all,” he advises us, “is discipline in the Legion. Loving one’s superior, obeying him. That’s the essence of our tradition.” (This in voice-over, while the “tradition” hurls itself over harsh procedures, to mixed outcomes.) Onwards, then, to a structure of cement forms with no content. The overseer leads the lads in some maneuvers straight out of Hollywood—“I heard [and saw] that somewhere”—but only Galoup’s actions show any commitment. His construct invasion, electric in its stealth and alacrity, seems to derive from a sense of enemy committing slovenly, and therefore, terrorist, deeds. (The youngsters, perhaps worn out by the Olympian demands a short while before, go along, of course, but the difference is palpable in this filmic passage where everything comes down to a “foreignness” of the palpable. The cool, semi-automatic weaponry—“a sign of glory” beyond the French tricolor—becomes both operative and inoperative.) The camera draws back to reveal bemused native women taking in the show, and showing how unstable a phenomenon glory can be.

So characteristic, and both thrilling and amusing, then, the camera finds a repair man in the wilderness at the top of a high ladder, attending to electrical needs. Smarts, and perhaps more. And perhaps less, as the scene changes to the warriors ironing their shirts. The instance of pedantry being at the heart ofWild Strawberries, and rebranded as “the little world,” in, Fanny and Alexander. (For the sake of somewhat bolstering Galoup’s long-shot endeavor here, we should note that the little world of Bergman’s nightmare has been reconsidered by filmmaker, Leos Carax, in his film, Holy Motors [2012]. Not only that, however, but the protagonist there is played by none-other than Denis Lavant, who portrays Galoup and his better moments. Carax’s format comes to us as the domain of an ancestor haunting the precinct of a theater, the range of which includes Lavant’s actions in the name of “Mr. Oscar,” a banker, instead of the artistic director of a concern to touch “the big world.” However, it is Oscar’s moonlighting which rattles off a spate of dramatics which intriguingly involves sensual initiatives somewhat closing the door on our helms-woman’s much earlier concentration upon undemonstrative resilience. Oscar’s unfortunate final word concerning his surreal reality is, “For the beauty of the gesture.”) In the midst of such divided initiatives, we should recognize as another beacon, to accompany the lineman and his ladder, a wrecked tank on the base. In Bergman’s film, The Silence [1961], an impressionable young boy watches from his train a series of flatcars sending tanks, like the one in the desert, to the front. He, and the adults with him, are at a loss to comprehend the language of their situation. Could Galoup, packing all those negatives, bring this matter to light in order to distinguish our guide’s own hard-won fluency. On the heels of this instance of murderous wobble, the power of cheapness and the power of care stage a little dance. The town near the base has a market where women of the hinterland sell their vividly colored rugs. As if a curtain of a stage emerges and opens within the noisy transactions, one of the craftswomen enters a doorway framed by posters of two popular products: Coke and Sprite. The grotty and the pristine. Or: out of overreaching, and balancing. Couched in this challenge, the concerns of advantage take over. “13 stripes, it’s a tradition [of the weaving in view]… Prices went up during the celebration…”/ “I made mine myself.” [the prospective client disappoints]/ Quick, “Oh!”

Also aware of the commerce is Galoup, more involved in tradition than money. His thoughts have taken on a more urgent coloration in the face of his pedantry aiming for the good old days. His reverie centers upon his superior officer, the Commandant. “Bruno Forestier… I feel so alone when I think of my superior. [This reflection occurs while our protagonist hangs up his socks on a clothesline, pointedly different from the electrical wiring not long ago.] I respect him… My Commandant…[Here we see a photo of the great man when a young soldier] … after the Algerian War… [Now he’s on camera as a flabby, slightly suspicious, sedentary blob] He never confided in me. He said he was a man without ideals, a soldier without ambition. [One with a protracted commitment to the little world.]  I adored him without knowing why. He said he was the perfect Legionnaire and didn’t give a damn…” [Here we can’t help hearing influential and significant and superficial Gustav, in Fanny and Alexander. Body language letting the good times roll and being a charming rogue. Where, however, did anal Galoup win his undying respect? We’ll have to wait until the very end of our story to understand such a mystery.] After this credo, he fishes into a drawer and brings to life a bracelet with the word, “Bruno,” on it. This profile of the piece of work in the far boonies concludes with the Sergeant’s voice-over indicating the woman who supplies the drugs to the chief who can’t do without staying pretty-much brain-dead. “Ali brought him his qat. Night after night, Forestier chewed on it, alone.” (Here we could imagine Helena, the cynical matriarch of the family on that hot seat for fucking around with littleness, in, Fanny and Alexander. Her domain is chock-a-block with plants and she always has a strong drink close by. She’s beloved by many; but she’s appallingly overrated. One of the many juggernauts goring those who take life seriously in loving its perilous beauties. Does Galoup (an athlete of impressive strength and equilibrium in leading those drills) constitute both willing victim and willing perpetrator? “I never touched those leaves. I liked to stay on edge…”

I hope, by now, you’ll be on to this film as a war with oneself, and only in a minor way a story of a war in Africa in the 1990’s. Before we accompany any more close encounters of Galoup’s tribulation, why don’t we specifically appreciate the wit of Claire Denis’ visual and aural panache, as so richly accompanying this odd and powerfully lucid endeavor? As Galoup succumbs to his catalyst (in Sentain), there occurs a spate of troopers, including himself, wearing pill-box semi-top-hat head gear. There we recall, in the Bergman film, The Seventh Seal, the knight, named Block, on a mad, uncontrollable mission to live forever, the resort to farce. The little world, making, unfortunately, the world go round. Something else, way off in the  mix, is the operatic infusion here. Composer, Benjamin Britten’s, Billy Budd, chronicles a ship’s officer and psychopath intent on murdering a young man having attended to an impressive level of disinterestedness. But the lack of disinterestedness in the howling of its melodrama, and the posing of its dance in the training, spells something off the rails, which turns the troopers in their exertions to be stuffed-shirts, notwithstanding their being bare from the waist up. Thereby, much has been made of the film as involving a high-water level of queer observances. And thereby Denis, with much more than Britten on her mind—Bergman, for instance—takes a little shot at another essentially closed menace. (It is, I am convinced, when Time Magazine feels obliged to anoint a video game wiz as one of the most notable people on earth, to become a tad less obscure than our honey of a woman giant.) Playing with the Coke/ Sprite doorway, the film, with the “little world” coagulating by the minute, we find a doorway named, “Bar  des Alps.” Galoup ventures up and, in a short while, comes back down. Gustov, in our twinned movie, bringing off a “quickie” with his wife on Christmas Eve, after having spent a long time with Maj, a servant of the house. Ever the naïf, the Sergeant declares, “There was something so strange that night, a sort of harbinger of things to come, of the circumstances that sent me far from the Red Sea and Djibouti.”

The cynical drug addict (sort-of) running the show comes to us as Galoup’s war-footing begins to reach a state of affairs where he’ll have lots of time to reflect on his truly urgent malaise. Bruno, in a taxi at night, chats up the driver, “My bastards are good company. They are my family…” The cabbie chips in with, “You are a father looking out for his sons…”/ “Could be,” the self-indulgent one agrees. Then the driver—giving us a moment of Jim Jarmusch’s Night on Earth (1991), with its bad news for bright motion—tries for cogency by way of the leaden axiom, “If it weren’t for fornication and blood, we wouldn’t be here.” They pass Galoup walking toward the club. They also share the road with many of those pill-boxes, performing a series of lifting a warrior, as if in some kind of triumph-to-come, a state-of-affairs jumping to the sense of heroism (sort of). Next morning, they’re busy with producing the sharpest’s of ironing jobs, perhaps vaguely attentive to a kinetic payoff. Cut, then, to an antithesis of training on high wires—that  measure of acrobatics always breathing down their neck, even when totally ignoring it; and being the bane of technology. Here the heavy and graceful lifting of synthesis fails to come about. A group of women hanging up their laundry underlines a “little world” digging in for the duration. Bruno, onscreen, and on some other planet, remarks, “We’re taught elegance, in and under our uniforms… Perfect creases are part of this elegance…. Here I am, Commandant. Like a watch dog… looking after our flock…” (Pause a moment to the mix of sensibility behind this madness.) Bruno, perhaps intuiting that Sentain has more range  and poise than the others, asks him why he became a Legionnaire. The youngster (when asked, telling him he’s 22) refers to a homeland—Russia—not being functional. “No money. No work. I fought for Russia. But it’s impossible to fight just for an ideal. An ideal that always changes.” Now, not surprisingly, the supposed leader, asks, “What ideal?” We knew he’d say something to that effect. But how about Sentain and his canvass of “ideals” to join? He remarks about a need to find a means of survival (a “little world”) and somehow cohering with an elusive vision to share with many others. As such, the young notable may not be the dangerous, resonant wunderkind the officers imagine him to be. He has helped along another recruit to learn a smattering of French. But how conversant is he with the thorny matter of “ideals,” which, when coming in the form of a plurality, tends to be a pain in the ass. (In the same stream, we have a program of knife-ready, underwater warfare, continuous with the sharks being on the move.)

We’ll cover the Sergeant’s sharp pathology rather quickly, because the Spielberg aspects (as in, Fanny and Alexander) are not what we need to tarry with. Where we’ve reached in this military narrative is a little romantic sidebar of Galoup’s acquiring at a bazaar a bottle of perfume and bringing it to a local woman as she sleeps. (Even Gary Cooper had his camp follower; and the contrast is there to enjoy.) The Sergeant’s stroking her hair constitutes going AWOL. But seriously AWOL takes far more guts than our dopey playboy could ever muster. (Or, maybe not?) Borrowing a bit of Bergman’s dramatic soliloquy, Denis shows the bishop-like sanitation maniac about to defend his god. “Sentain seduced everyone. People were drawn to his charm. [This while he puts the finishing touches—involving pink-red tablecloths—for a birthday party for one of the “elegant” soldiers.] Deep down, I felt a sort of rancor, a rage brimming. I was jealous…” With shock-effect change of pace (though put in place so tenuously as to cut Spielberg exotica), there is a pink-red bloody sea during a helicopter accident by another Legion unit, with one death, multiple injuries and Sentain overcoming an otherwise second death. During the party, Bruno had been morose and sneering; but he does manage to hand over a medal to the elegant hero. Our far from pleased protagonist tells himself, and us, “That day, something overpowering took hold of my heart. I thought about the end. The end of me… The end of Forestier.” Soon after the medal ceremony, Galoup has a tantrum in his quarters. Continuous with that storm, we have a menacing sergeant circling a medalist looking for a lift by a bona fide “ideal,” perhaps disinterested, but more likely pedantic. Then was the time to watch Bruno and the Sergeant playing a game of chess, and reprising, for the alert that is pedantry, The Seventh Seal, and its blockhead. Galoup can’t avoid telling his thrilling adversary in chess, “He [Sentain] has something up his sleeve. Don’t say I didn’t warn you…” Bruno trots out the lazy litany, “Careful what you’re saying. Backstabbing isn’t in the Legion’s honor code.” Here a cut back to Marseilles has the court-martialed soldier of fortune hearing, in his favorite bar “You’re a rock of the nation. You are the epidemy of the Legion…” Another cut back to the exile, being at his home, has a version of Gustov’s (in Fanny and Alexander) too-little-too-late opening to something big, rather than the beloved little. “I’m sorry I was that man, that narrow-minded Legionnaire.” The unit has decamped to be closer to the “unrest.” It’s Ramadan, and Sentain is on all-night duty with a Muslim recruit who slips out to get some prayer-time. Galoup pounces on this, sentencing the pious runaway to dig by shovel a deep hole in the impacted wasteland where his hands bleed profusely. Sentain’s sentence, for countenancing the abandonment, is a truck ride to the heart of the deadly Danakil Desert, from which he could return, if he were a comic book hero. The hated one comes to a salt flat and a salt lake. Salt all over his face, he lies on the burning sand. He’s rescued by a herd of camel, owned by a singing group as they happily overcome the elements. Before the matinee hero returns (he had told the Sergeant, “See you soon, sir”), to searching for those ideals, Bruno, formulaically, has the officer, who dangerously found fault with low-key, Millennial action (along with his hunger for crude power), sent on his way. “Good riddance,” he pedantically tells Galoup.

But, on the day before he gets his one-way ticket to Marseilles, there is a recovery—not muted but not very pointed either (like the recovery of Emilie [in Fanny and Alexander], screwing up badly and now [after the disaster of religion] giving a shot to art in the form of taking over her first husband’s theatre company.) The figure of the rather dopey matriarch, Helena, always in range of a glass comes into the sightlines of dopey Bruno and his qat. Galoup commences with a display of pedantry in making his bed as fussily—and also impressively—as the greens at the Master’s Golf Tournament. And, then, he’s off to a club where his theme is, “This is the Rhythm of my Life,” running on the same track of Emilie’s first show, Strindberg’s, “A Dream Play,” saying, “Everything is possible and probable. Time and space do not exist [not the way they’ve been cemented by tradition]. On a flimsy framework of reality the imagination spins, weaving new patterns…” Spins, weaving new patterns are his swan song. Or are they? The soundtrack is by “Cascada” and the cascading by Galoup is far from shabby. (The cheap and hostile assault on the band’s video version is as egregiously stupid as the ways of Louis’ neighbor, in Denis’ The Intruder.) But it’s only a baby step, and time is running out. At least for him. The three volcanos in the nearby ocean at the second venue try to speak to the dialectic as a lifetime lover. “Like sentinels,” someone suggests. Standing there won’t help. Keeping watch might.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=grGiq0yTaj4

[directorscutandsomeotherstuff]

Scarlett Spider #1

(Hey, kids. It’s Director’s Cut time again, the time when I find really old fanfics and make them better and/or worse through the power of second drafts. One of these days, I’m gonna run out of subjects that I personally was involved in, but today’s not that day. Let’s talk Spider-Man, bitches!)

(Spider-Man was one of my favorite super heroes growing up. Part of that could have been the whole “every day nerd turning out to be a super cool guy” thing that became standard procedure for YA fiction in the nineties and 2000′s, or it could have been the fact that Spider Man was a super hero who dealt with terrible, life-threatening scenarios by snarking at them, making him my spandex clad spirit animal. It sure as hell couldn’t have been the spider part, because I’m pretty sure even now, I would not want to be even in the same room as a radioactive spider, even if its bites made you a super hero and didn’t, say, just give you spider-cancer.)

(Of course, one of the best things about the comic book universe, in my opinion, is the fanfiction side of things. Rather than indulge in complex sexual fantasies involving mass murderers being made tame in the presence of horny women or turning potentially years worth of established canon on its head to justify two men being reduced to a rudimentary desire to touch each others dinguses, the world of comic book fanfics gives us a greater chance of running into power fantasy of a very typically male bent. Such is the case with our buddy, the appropriately named Max Mercury, and his story about a totally not like the author teenage boy who’s best friends with a super hero and then becomes one because he’s also best friends with mad science. This is gonna be a fun one.)

Dark Alley

Ethan is in a dark alley when he comes against three thugs.

Thug 1: Hey kid gimme your money!

Ethan: I don't have any.

Thug 2: What did we say!

(Thug 1: Fool, you didn’t say nothing.

Thug 2: Bro, I know that, all right? We been over this. I’m just tryna establish a “united front.” Like, your words are all our words, and shit. Businessmen in, like, Japan and shit do it all the time.

Thug 1: We ain’t in Japan, neither. Quit fucking around.

Thug 2: Bro... Bro... holy shit. I know we ain’t in Japan, alright? I ain’t a moron, or nothing.

Ethan: Should I just leave you guys alone, or something?)

Thug 3: I think this kid needs to be taught a lesson.

Scarlet Spider: Get away from my friend!

Thug 1: The Scarlet Spider.

(Scarlet Spider: People’re usually a bit more surprised when I sneak up on them.

Thug 1: We’re nameless thugs in a fanfiction. This was pretty much a guarantee.

Thug 2: Hey, Spider-bro. It’s all good. Maybe we could exchange business cards’re something. You know, businessmen in Japan...)

The Scarlet Spider beats up the bad guys.

They get up and run away. Scarlet Spider: Stay here Ethan I'm gonna take out the trash!

Ethan: Go take them punks out!

Classroom – Daytime

Ethan Masters, a 15 year old African American Male is sitting in class asleep (dreaming) when his teacher calls him. (Well, it’s good that we have the barest description of the character in the scene after he’s been introduced. Also, what’s he dreaming about? I choose to believe he’s having the “I have to go to the bathroom, but there don’t seem to be any in this building” dream.)

Teacher: MR MASTERS!

Ethan (Groggy): What, huh?

Teacher: WAKE UP!

Ethan (Groggy): I'm not sleep.

(Teacher: WELL GOOD! I’D HATE FOR THIS CLASS TO BE BORING FOR YOU!

Ethan: Man, do you have to yell like that all the time?

Teacher: WHAT? OH, SORRY! I JUST TEND TO GET REALLY EXCITED ABOUT TEACHING! *clears throat* Now, then...)

Teacher: What's the answer to number 3.

Ethan: Um 17!

Teacher: That might be right but we're in history class.

(Ethan: No, that’s what I mean. UM ‘17. The Utrechtmarkt of 1717. You know, Dutch East India Company and all that.

Teacher: Oh... well... Good job, Mr. Masters. You managed to remember a thing.)

The class laughs at him. The bell rings. And they leave. _______________________________________________________

Hallway – Daytime

Ethan is walking thorough the hallway as his girlfriend Lenina a 16 year old African American Female comes thorough the hallway and sneaks up on him.

Lenina: Hey baby.

Ethan kisses Lenina and begins to grab her butt.

Lenina: Not here baby.

Ethan gets off.

(Lenina: *recoils* Ugh, Ethan! I said not here! You and your stupid hair-trigger...)

Ethan: Sorry. What's up baby?

Lenina: We goin to the movies tonight.

Ethan: I can't.

Lenina: Why not?

Ethan: I gotta go over to Doc Samson's lab tonight.

Lenina: Again. You've been goin over there all week.

Ethan: But today the Doc's ready to test the Neogenic Recombinator. I gotta be there to see it. We've workedreally hard on this.

(Lenina: Oh, right. Pardon me. I was just offering boring old action flicks and some hot over-the-pants rubdown action when we made out in the car. I should have known that I couldn’t compete with a teenage boy and the siren call of cutting edge genetic engineering. 

Ethan: Don’t feel bad, baby. I still like over the pants rubdowns. It’s just, we can do that any old day, and we often do. How many opportunities does a guy get to stand on the threshold of God’s domain and drop a flaming bag of dog crap on the porch?)

Ethan goes over to his locker and opens it up showing pictures of Spiderman and even more of the Scarlet Spider.

Lenina: I could see idolizing Spiderman but that other guy. (Actually, now that I think about it, isn’t it a bit weird you only have pictures of muscly men in skintight spandex bodysuits in your locker, that you fawn over constantly?)

Ethan: The Scarlet Spider was bangin girl! You don't know what you're talkin about. He busted up bad guys better in the short time he was a round than Spidey ever did. And if Philly had a hero I wish it had been him.

Lenina: Whatever. I got to get to the bus on time so I'll see you later.

They kiss and they go their separate ways.

_______________________________________________________

Doc Samson's Lab – Daytime

Ethan walks in Doc Samson's lab and puts his equipment on.

Samson: Ethan I've got the recombinator up and online.

Ethan: Great. (Glad to know you’re able to run the machine that allows you to do your job, Doc. I was worried we were just gonna be staring at the thing all day, without plugging it in.)

Ethan goes over to Freddie, Doc Samson's pet, genetically engineered Spider.

Ethan: Hey Freddie.

He puts his hand in the cage and the spider bites him.

Ethan: OUCH! Your tarantula bit me.

(Samson: Well, why did you put your hand in the cage? It’s a spider, not a puppy.)

Samson: It's not just a tarantula, it's been spliced between a water spider, a tarantula, and a black widow. I devenomized him he won't poison you. (I also gave him racing stripes and the ability to whistle. I’ve created a mockery of natural design, and God save me, I don’t ever want to stop!)

Ethan: Good let's fire this baby up!

Samson: Okay we're gonna do some genetic crossing like I did with Freddie there. (I’m thinking today, we’re gonna combine a dog with a fish. I’mma call it a dosh!) Once we activate it.

Ethan: Cool.

Samson: Let's prepare for a test run!

Doc. Samson turns it on and the beam fires up.

Ethan (Raising his voice over the noise of the beam): Got a good flow.

Samson (Raising his voice over the noise of the beam): Yeah nice and smooth!

The Recomnbinator begins to overload.

Ethan (Fearful): It's overloading!

(Samson (over the noise of the beam): What? I can’t hear you! Did you say it’s overloa-)

The blasts come toward them.

Samson: GET DOWN! I'm gonna get the reflector.

Ethan is down while Doc. Samson gets the reflector. (The reflector was actually an umbrella, made of aluminum foil, but the Doc really seemed to get a kick out of using it.)

A beam goes toward Doc. Samson but he reflects it and hits Freddie then the same beam hits Ethan. Ethan springs to his feet. He tries to turn the Recombinator off. But it continues to overload.

Samson: It's to late get out while you still can!

Ethan: But Doc. (We can still save it. I mean, you wouldn’t be so stupid as to design a machine that deals with this much energy and not give it an emergency shutoff or some other safety feature, right?

A heavy, awkward silence fills the room, punctuated only by the chaotic rumbling of the Recombinator.)

Samson: GET OUT!

The room begins to explode and Ethan jumps out of the nearby window and lands on the ground running as fast as he can from the scene.

(Doc Samson stares at his machine, watching the arc of electrical shorts as they run along its surface, and opens up his reflector umbrella.

Samson: This is gonna suck, Freddie. You know what to do.

Freddie: *whistles the ending credits theme to the Incredible Hulk 1970s TV show*

Samson: *tears up* Good boy... good boy.)

Streets – Daytime

Ethan is running down the street as Police and Paramedics and firemen pull up and assess the situation putting the fires out etc. Police questions him as he returns to the front of the building. After a tough session he goes home.

Ethan's House – Daytime

Ethan's parents are watching the report of the science building exploding worrying about Ethan as he comes in. They hug him.

Mom: We thought you were dead.

Dad: We were so worried about you (I mean, not worried enough to go check it out, but...)

Mom: Are you okay?

Ethan: Yeah I'm fine I just want to go and rest. Mom: Okay honey take all the time you need.

(Ethan: Really? So, I could, like, get out of going to school tomorrow?

Mom: Yeah, not even a good try, kid.

Ethan: Crud)

Ethan: Thanks.

Ethan's Room - Nighttime

Ethan is in his room talking to himself.

Ethan: Man I almost didn't get outta there today good thing I jumped from the window. But it was on the top floor, how did I survive. I don't care I'm just glad I did. (Yeah, it doesn’t matter that my mentor’s probably dead and that I got out of an exploding building unscathed. I wonder if there’s still time to take Lenina up on that date...)

Ethan hears pots landing on the floor startled he jumps to the ceiling and sticks to it. He looks down.

(Ethan: Wait a minute... pots? In my bedroom? Pots don’t belong in my bedroom. And neither does this stove. Or this refrigerator. Also, I appear to be hanging from the ceiling.)

Ethan: What the hell's happening to me.

[kristablogs]

Scientists say the sun is lazy and boring

We're lucky the sun isn't causing more of a ruckus. (NASA/SDO/)

Boring. Humdrum. Monotonous. Those aren’t words most of us would usually associate with the miasma of incandescent plasma that makes life as we know it possible, but a recent study suggests that, as far as sun-like stars go, our own sun is a bit of a layabout.

In a study published this week in the journal Science, researchers compared our sun to 369 stars deemed similar to the one at the center of our own solar system—ones that take between 20 and 30 days to rotate on their axes, along with having comparable chemical compositions, masses, ages, and surface temperatures. Each of the studied stellar bodies had been observed by NASA’s Kepler Space Telescope from 2009 to 2013, allowing the researchers to compare fluctuations in brightness during that period.

"We were very surprised that most of the sun-like stars are so much more active than the sun," study author Alexander Shapiro of the Max Planck Institute for Solar System Research said in a statement. The other stars showed around five times the brightness variability displayed by the sun during the same period. That could mean our host star is unusually tame for its type—which could be quite a good thing for us.

A star appears to dim when it has more sunspots, which are areas of temporary coolness in surface temperature. A sunspot happens when a star’s magnetic field is so strong that it keeps heat trapped deep below. While sunspots themselves are relatively cold and dark, their presence indicates that a star is making quite a ruckus. They mean the magnetic fields caused by the star’s electrically charged gases are particularly strong, and so are more likely to cross and interact in ways that cause solar flares. When our sun lets out these intense bursts of radiation, they can collide with Earth’s own magnetic field—forming aurorae (the Northern and Southern lights) if we’re lucky, and interfering with our electrical grids and GPS systems if we’re not.

Big bursts of cosmic radiation don’t make life easier for anyone, so it’s possible Earth has benefited greatly from the sun’s relative laziness.

“A ‘too active’ star would definitively change the conditions for life on the planet, so living with a quite boring star is not the worst option,” lead author and Max Planck astronomer Timo Reinhold told Reuters.

But was our sun born this dull, or is it just going through a phase of malaise? In addition to good records of sunspot activity going back several hundred years, scientists have used traces of radioactive elements in tree rings and ice cores to estimate the sun’s activity going about 9,000 years back—and we know its doldrums have lasted at least that long.

“However, compared to the [4.6 billion-year] lifespan of the sun, 9,000 years is like the blink of an eye,” Reinhold said in a statement. That means it’s technically possible that the star will perk back up at some later date, but the study authors suspect a different explanation: The sun is getting on in years, and life on Earth has benefited greatly from its dotage.

[scootoaster]

Scientists say the sun is lazy and boring

We're lucky the sun isn't causing more of a ruckus. (NASA/SDO/)

Boring. Humdrum. Monotonous. Those aren’t words most of us would usually associate with the miasma of incandescent plasma that makes life as we know it possible, but a recent study suggests that, as far as sun-like stars go, our own sun is a bit of a layabout.

In a study published this week in the journal Science, researchers compared our sun to 369 stars deemed similar to the one at the center of our own solar system—ones that take between 20 and 30 days to rotate on their axes, along with having comparable chemical compositions, masses, ages, and surface temperatures. Each of the studied stellar bodies had been observed by NASA’s Kepler Space Telescope from 2009 to 2013, allowing the researchers to compare fluctuations in brightness during that period.

"We were very surprised that most of the sun-like stars are so much more active than the sun," study author Alexander Shapiro of the Max Planck Institute for Solar System Research said in a statement. The other stars showed around five times the brightness variability displayed by the sun during the same period. That could mean our host star is unusually tame for its type—which could be quite a good thing for us.

A star appears to dim when it has more sunspots, which are areas of temporary coolness in surface temperature. A sunspot happens when a star’s magnetic field is so strong that it keeps heat trapped deep below. While sunspots themselves are relatively cold and dark, their presence indicates that a star is making quite a ruckus. They mean the magnetic fields caused by the star’s electrically charged gases are particularly strong, and so are more likely to cross and interact in ways that cause solar flares. When our sun lets out these intense bursts of radiation, they can collide with Earth’s own magnetic field—forming aurorae (the Northern and Southern lights) if we’re lucky, and interfering with our electrical grids and GPS systems if we’re not.

Big bursts of cosmic radiation don’t make life easier for anyone, so it’s possible Earth has benefited greatly from the sun’s relative laziness.

“A ‘too active’ star would definitively change the conditions for life on the planet, so living with a quite boring star is not the worst option,” lead author and Max Planck astronomer Timo Reinhold told Reuters.

But was our sun born this dull, or is it just going through a phase of malaise? In addition to good records of sunspot activity going back several hundred years, scientists have used traces of radioactive elements in tree rings and ice cores to estimate the sun’s activity going about 9,000 years back—and we know its doldrums have lasted at least that long.

“However, compared to the [4.6 billion-year] lifespan of the sun, 9,000 years is like the blink of an eye,” Reinhold said in a statement. That means it’s technically possible that the star will perk back up at some later date, but the study authors suspect a different explanation: The sun is getting on in years, and life on Earth has benefited greatly from its dotage.

[cybermoonmoon]

“...topsoil”

After the Plague is really over. In a year or so...maybe. I may give lessons at the New School. ...or online. Guy Lessons. That in how to live in a home. Be it an actual house a cabin or apartment of any size. These are all the same to guys. Just somewhere to eat crap, and sleep. That, and never maintain.

Being of various other orientations I've been able to observe normal guys closely over the centuries. Shock, and horror does not begin. As Quentin Crisp noted guy once said, "...Apartments in New York are wonderful. After three years they don't get any dirtier."

'And they don't.

Or so it seems. Once a topsoil of dust bug parts shed skin, and radioactive isotopes settles in. You're good for years of cozy living. I've known cases of decades. So why disturb such peace, and order,...of a kind?

Because we're supposed to be fucking civilized that's why!

This last year of being stuck in my digs showed that even a tidy soul as myself was in reality a bleeping slob like everyone else...imagine. You recall photos of my Zen empty digs. So proud I was...till I was stuck there, and had a good bleeping look!

Holy crap!

There was a reason why I kept hacking at my digs over the months. Painting banging plastering repairing. Constantly cleaning. Where the fuck does all that dust come from?

Specifically dust. That stuff of future apartment topsoil. Every day I shovel a bleeping kilo of dat stuff out'a here. No wonder regular guys can plant crops in their hallways.

Don't start about the windows.

Those I let go as utterly impossible to tame. Not that I didn't try. The rest can be dealt with. However it's not something that can let go. Which is why dear Quentin just said fuck it, and wrote books, and plays instead.

In our next chapter how to quickly, and with ease. Keep not only your kitchen tidy, but the toilet the floors all surfaces, and yourself squeaky clean!

This, and very presentable to random City Building Inspectors. Them, and plumbers were my only guests this year. I now look forward to their visits.

I recall one saying:

"...I could around your place blind folded, and not bump into anything. I took that a complete validation of my efforts.

Stay tuned.