#the mechanical sounds in the forest phenomenon

[letsgethaunted]

Episode 197: The Mechanical Sounds in the Forest Phenomenon feat. Cryptonaut Podcast

Welcome to Episode 197: The Mechanical Sounds in the Forest Phenomenon feat. Cryptonaut Podcast. Sometimes the scariest things in life are actually the most mundane, such as an everyday object (or even a sound) appearing in a location where it shouldn't. What would you do if while camping in the wilderness - miles away from civilization - you suddenly awoke in the middle of the night to the deafening roar of man-made mechanical noises all around you? You Let's Get Haunted with special guests Marc and Rob of Cryptonaut Podcast as we read and listen to firsthand accounts of hikers and campers who have met with this bizarre phenomenon that only seems to be growing more common in recent years. What could these noises be the product of? Bugs and birds? Ghosts and Fairies? Cryptids and Aliens? Or something else?

Be sure to head over to Cryptonaut Podcast and give them a listen!

[echoesofwisdomcountup]

85 Days since Tears of the Kingdom Released. I really love the music in Totk. Specifically the regional phenomenon music and the temple music. I loved how dynamic the temple music was, changing and adding instruments each time you unlocked a mechanism until the full music was present for the boss fight made the temple experiences so much more epic. And then there’s the regional music which was fantastic. I loved how the Rito, Gerudo, Goron, Zora, and Korok Forest music all sounded like perverted/twisted versions of what they were supposed to be. I remember how awed I was when the Rito Village music sounded so haunting and wind like, perfectly matching the harsh storm vibe. Oh and the Korok forest sounded so slow and stiff which fits their petrification perfectly. Yeah good music.

[poke-professor-in-training]

Regarding Shiny Pokémon

I find the phenomenon of 'Shiny' Pokémon fascinating. I've encountered 3 shinies throughout my travels...

((Graphic made with Pokecharms))

The first shiny I met was a Gulpin who we affectionately nicknamed Bluey! He was very sweet and loved flower crowns. He had been outcast from his home, so we brought him along to Hoenn expert in caring for outcast Pokémon. I love dropping by to visit whenever I can!

The second was a Jumpluff named Sakura. He was the parental figure to a whole little colony of Hoppip and Skiploom in a secret grove in Unova. A very feisty little fellow, but he had a heart of gold.

The third was Jadott the Noivern. Jadott is extremely anxious and wasn't doing well in the wild when we found him. My friend keeps me updated, and it sounds like he's doing really well in the little cave behind her house. From what I hear, he adores chin scritches.

So, about these shinies! I ended up brining both Bluey and Jadott to a safer environment (currently under the supervision of close friends). I'll pop my expanded thoughts about the issues surrounding being shiny under the cut if you'd like to have a read!

Shiny Pokémons atypical colour schemes skin are usually a result of rare mutations during (pre-hatching) development. A prevalent issue regarding shiny Pokémon is their place in their biome's life cycle. Most wild Pokémon have evolved to fit into their surroundings for the sake of survival, general safety and hunting.

I'll use the Gulpin species as an example here! The usual phenotypical appearance is mostly green, which allows it to blend into forest and swamp biomes. This mechanism lets Gulpin stay safe from any potential threats (a form of natural camouflage) while it's still young, before evolving into a Swalott, which is able to more easily defend itself if threatened. Shiny Gulpin like Bluey stand out against their usual forest-y habitats, which makes it substantially harder to find shelter from any threats.

I'll use Noiverns as an example as well. Usually, you can find Noivern in mountains and caves. Their darker colour scheme of black, greys, purples and dark greens lets them maneuver mountain and cave systems with low light with little threat to their own safety. However, with their shiny forms, the skin is a much lighter green. While they may be an apex predator in their environments, the change still promises significant risk (e.g. from other apex predators and from humans).

This same principle of applies to gathering food and/or hunting, as well! Especially for Shiny Noiverns, their brighter green complexion significantly hinders their ability to hunt for food. This is especially heartbreaking when you consider that most Noivern tend to look over younger Noibat as well.

Unfortunately, there are many documented cases of shiny Pokémon being outcast and rejected by their fellows. This occurs mostly in cases where the Pokémon species is a pack species, and mostly due to the shiny's inability to naturally blend in with their biome.

In Sakura the Jumpluff's case, he was incredibly lucky! The sheltered grove I encountered him in was filled with trees with pink flowers and berries and long, twisting pale branches. Smaller grass and bug Pokémon tend to band together, given their stature as easy targets when alone. There was an entire little colony of the Jumpluff evolution line established in that grove, happy as can be, so we left them be.

My last point I wanted to bring up is shiny breeders. I probably don't have to explain in depth why shiny breeding is a generally unethical practice. The sheer amount of displacement and abandonment of non-shiny freshly-hatched Pokémon is a massive issue! Additionally, these sudden influxes have major implications for the area’s ecosystem.

There are exceptions to the case of shiny breeders being unethical with their 'work', but those case are few and far between. If you are truly desperately in want of a shiny Pokémon (e.g. many Performers and Coordinators turn to shiny breeders because they are under the impression that will give them a leg-up in Showcases and Contests), please do your research: there are some breeders out there that do follow ethical practices, Pokémon Welfare Laws and Ecosystem Protection Legislations.

I could really go on, but I would probably just get more and more ramble-y... I'll have to work on that if I want to become a Professor.

[stormgardenscurse]

Hair Trouble (Riddle Rosehearts x Reader)

From @rainebowkitty‘s 7 Leaders, 7 Prompts challenge~ This post was long overdue, but I finally found the time to crank it out. Hope I did this boy justice! (><)/♡

Word count:  1.1k words

Summary: Soulmate AU where your hair changes into the colour of your S/O's, featuring Ace, Deuce, and Malleus.

With a tired sigh, Riddle shuts the door of his room and approaches the mirror propped atop his desk. He watches his reflection as the magic he’s casted wears off in a small ripple, revealing the presence of different-colored hair mixed in with his red locks.

Carefully, he picks up a strand of the foreign color and inspects it in the mirror. There’s more of them than before - was it spreading? In the beginning Riddle had suspected that this was a prank, but after many tests and evaluations it’s been obvious that there’d been no magical cause, which made the situation that much more annoying to deal with.

For Queen’s sake… He looked like an obnoxious teenager in their rebellious phase! There was no way he could show up to lessons like this. Not only as the dorm head of Heartslabyul but also in light of his own standards; the mix of colors gave off a muddled, unprofessional air. One that in Riddle’s opinion, did not suit him at all.

He’d intended to handle this himself, but just a few days ago Trey and Cater caught him off-guard by visiting his room in the morning. It was something about an incident with the flamingos, but whatever they'd intended to tell him had quickly left their minds as they noticed his appearance.

They’d promised to keep the issue under wraps (to avoid unnecessary attention and disruptions) but decided to help him look into the issue. Riddle would much prefer that they focus on their studies as third-years, but the two were insistent, saying that it wouldn’t be a bother to lend a hand.

Well, I suppose there’s no stopping them... Riddle is thankful for the help, seeing as if left to itself, his head of hair may soon be changed completely. While he isn’t one to fuss over aesthetics too much, he has to say he’d miss his red shade.

There’s a knock on the door, earning a small huff from the prefect as he retrieves his Magipen, waving it in a small circle as he casts the illusion spell once more. It didn’t take too much effort to maintain, but he’s been wary of building up blot since the incident this year. It’s also part of the reason why Trey and Cater were so willing to lend their aid to the matter.

“Come in.” He calls out.

“Dorm Leader!” A familiar voice replies. Deuce opens the door, a large stack of papers balanced in his arms. “Azul-senpai told me to bring these to you.”

Really, taking advantage of the first years… “Just leave them on my desk, I’ll sort them out later. Sorry for the trouble, Deuce.”

“It’s no problem!” The boy looks up from the desks as a thought occurred to him. “Oh, by the way, have you learned any content about hair-colour changing yet? There’s an issue with Y/N’s and we’re not sure as to why.”

Riddle almost drops the documents he was glancing over. “Wait- What happened with Y/N?”

-

“Soulmates?” Malleus repeats back to you. He’s clearly intrigued by the story you’ve just told him.

You nod, playing with your hands as you consider your thoughts. “It’s happened before in my world, the phenomenon with hair colors changing after meeting your soulmate - though not to everyone, maybe about a third of people?” You break your stare away from the ground, finally meeting the fae’s gaze. “What do you think?”

“It’s certainly possible,” he brings a hand to his chin, going over the information. “When the pair realises each other romantically, their hair will return to their original shade?”

“Yep. And if not, well…” You gesture to yourself. “It’ll spread all over. And you’ll look like a case of bad choices from a drunken night.”

Malleus chuckles at the comparison. “It doesn’t look too bad.”

“You say that, but your eyes are telling me differently.” You huff, crossing your arms. “Even Lillia found it funny, and he has dyed hair!”

“I’m actually not sure if it’s even altered.” He tells you, evidently amused. “It’s been like that for as long as I can remember.”

You pout a little. “I get it, I get it. You magic folk with your extraordinary genes and features…” There’s a cry in the distance, not panicked, but it sounds like Ace and Deuce? You narrow your eyes in an attempt to make out their figures. “Is that��?”

“Ace Trappola and Deuce Spade.” Malleus confirms, before turning to you to take his leave. “I wish you luck on resolving your soulmate issue.”

You pause at his goodbye. “Wait, I’m still not sure if it’s even-”

“Y/N!”

“Hey!! Couldn’t you hear us? It’s tiring running all this way!”

As the pair make their way to you, Malleus disappears in a flash, taking his fireflies with him. Ugh, was he teasing you just now? Bringing up the soulmate phenomenon was just a result of your brainstorming from the night before. There was still the possibility of this being a prank or a case of eating some charmed food.

“What was so important that you couldn’t just text me?” You questioned their winded states.

“Dormhead Rosehearts told us to retrieve you.” Deuce supplies. "We didn't think it'd be wise to keep him waiting."

Ace raised a brow. “Do we really need the title? Riddle’s all chummy with Y/N anyways, it’s fine if we drop it.”

You feel heat rising from your cheeks at the statement. “Chummy?” You can’t help but respond incredulously. “We’re friends!”

“He lets you have the last slice of the strawberry tart,” Ace returned, rolling his eyes. “That’s much better treatment than to most.”

Setting this aside, you clear your head to return to the topic. “Why did he need you to find me?”

“He has the same condition as you.” Deuce gestures to your hair. “Riddle thinks that we can resolve this quicker if you’re there to help.”

Wait, Riddle has the same condition as you?

Malleus’ parting line echoes in your head. Soulmates...?

You close your eyes, trying to remain calm. “Deuce.”

“Yes...?”

“What color are the strands of my hair? Whose do they remind you of?”

“Um… The new ones?” He sounds understandably confused with your sudden reaction. “Red, kind of like Riddle’s.”

Ah… It seems like the lightheadedness just won’t go away. You plead with yourself to not blush when arriving at Heartslabyul, and definitely not turn burning red while having to explain this to the others.

“Right, let’s go.” You finally smile at them, trying to keep your voice even.

“Uh, are you okay?” Ace studies you cautiously. “Can you walk? You look like you’re about to faint.”

“I’m fine!” Your strides feel mechanical as you lead the way back to the school, away from the forest. “Let’s hurry before we cut into dinnertime!”

You can hear your friends’ worried exchanges from behind you, but choose not to pay them mind.

For now… You had to survive this meeting first.

[madamlaydebug]

A cluster of Oriental Tent Caterpillars (Malacosoma americanum) reacting to the sound! 🔊🐛

Various species of social caterpillars can be quite sensitive to sounds, and although it sounds strange, this behavior is actually considered a type of defensive maneuver. When they hear loud sounds, the caterpillars go into a "war position", synchronizing their movements to look like a larger animal as a defense mechanism.

This phenomenon shows the awareness of unity and collective force that involves living beings and, in addition, the impressive capacity for synchronization built into the laws of nature.

❖ What are your thoughts on this?

▩ Tag your friends who would love to see this peculiar natural phenomenon!

📍 Location of the video: Amazon Forest in Alter do Chão, Pará, Brazil.

[ayamari-no-goshi]

Verboten 4 | (T)

ff.net | AO3

Fandom: Danny Phantom (DP)

Summary:   AU. When Danny was five years old, he went missing for 2 weeks. In the years that follow, his family tried to make sense of what happened, only for the truth to be discovered years later.

Warnings: rated T for violence, mentions of death, language. Be prepared for some very weird things

Parings: Danny/Sam

Notes: originally uploaded to Ff.net. Cross-posted to AO3 and tumblr. This fic is very heavily inspired by folklore surrounding mysterious wilderness disappearances

Chapter 4

Later that night, it was officially announced at dinner that the camper’s death was the result of an unfortunate accident. However, what shocked all the students was the decision to finish out the remaining time at the camp. According to Mr. Lancer, he had contacted the other teachers at the different sites, and that was the mutual decision.

Tucker had surprisingly spoken up and demanded how their teacher managed to get through since the cell phone service issue remained unresolved. After their meeting with the police officer, he had checked with other students, who all said the same thing. Their service was poor, and they hadn’t been able to contact anyone. For the technophile, it was extremely frustrating, and he had put a lot of effort in attempting to solve the problem on his own device. He told Danny and Sam that it almost seemed like there was a weird electrical phenomenon causing the problem.

Lancer stumbled for a moment, but he eventually said the Park Rangers had let him use their landline. He then changed the topic and began explaining what the activities for the next morning would be.

“Alright, now I’m really sure something’s fishy,” Tucker whispered to his friends. “Wanna bet he was never able to contact the other teachers?”

“I’ll pass, because I think you’re right,” Danny told him as he stole a glance at some of the nearby Rangers. They had been closely watching the students since the beginning of dinner. “I don’t think the Rangers agree with that decision.”

“Yeah, and did you notice? They’ve been stone faced during this whole thing.” Sam leaned forward as she continued. “I really think something more serious happened to that poor man.”

Danny nodded. “I don’t have the slightest idea what might have happened. You’d think they come right out and say if it was an animal attack. But, that’s fairly uncommon in our state. I mean, the most dangerous animal here is a black bear, but they aren’t very common.”

“It could have been a mountain lion attack. While they supposedly haven’t been in this state for decades, there are still regular reports of them. That’s something that might be kept quiet. I mean, that was an issue in Pennsylvania with their coyotes and the Game Commission.”

“That would make sense, but you’d think they’d still say something like it was an animal attack and chalk it up to him doing something stupid to upset a bear if that was the case,” Tucker mentioned as he fiddled with his PDA. “I still can’t get a good signal.”

“I guess we need to just remain on guard,” Danny mused as the other students began to stand. His friends agreed with him as stood and went to grab one of the paper schedules which held the next day’s events.

…

After Danny and Tucker headed back to their cabin after then had finished freshening up for the night at the communal showers, they were met with the jocks excitedly swapping information. Dash’s grin was almost cat-like as he caught sight of the pair. “So, I guess you dweebs didn’t hear about what actually happened to that camper.”

“Other than what we were told, no,” Danny told him as he went to grab something out of his bag. “And don’t you have anything better to do than spread nasty rumors about the dead?”

Dash’s grin immediately grew larger as he continued, “It’s not a rumor. One of the band geeks was up for an early piss and saw them bring the body into camp. That guy was in pieces.”

“Wha… what!? What did you say?” Tucker stammered as he dropped his PDA.

“Are you absolutely certain that’s what he saw?” Danny demanded as he stepped in between Tucker and Dash. “The camper could have been really messed up, but if he was covered in blood, dirt, and whatever else he encountered, maybe it looked worse than it really was.”

“As much as it annoys me to admit, Fenton makes a good point,” Dash’s other friend, Lucas, mentioned as he sat on his bed. “Without seeing it for ourselves, we don’t know how bad it was, and the kid was pretty scared when he repeated it. So, let me ask you this Fenton, what do you think happened?”

“I’m surprised you care about whatever I think. But,” Danny paused for a moment, “all I know for certain is that something bad happened, and the police and rangers aren’t happy about it. But, I’m not a cop, and I’m clearly not trained in stuff like this, so my hunches are probably wrong.”

“That’s not much of an answer.”

“Unlike some people, I’m not going to jump to conclusions before I know more.” Satisfied with the stunned looks of the jocks, Danny turned to finish preparing for bed. After a moment, he realized Tucker was staring at him. “What?”

“So, where’s this Danny Fenton been all these years?” his friend whispered at him.

Danny raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve never stood up your… you know… bullies before. What changed?”

“Nothing changed, not really,” Danny replied as he climbed into bed. “It’s just I can’t tolerate people spreading rumors like this. It brings bad luck, or at least I think so, and,” he paused for a moment before lowering his voice, “you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

“Did your parents drill that into you or something?”

“Not my parents, but I can’t remember who did.”

……

The next day, the students were kept close to camp. Most of the day was spent learning basic camping skills. Although there were plenty of grumbles from his classmates, Danny found it pretty interesting as his parents wanted to keep him as far away from the woods as possible. He spent most of the morning in a boyish wonder as was instructed on setting up tents, campfires, and basic traps.

Sam spent a good portion of the morning teasing him, but he largely ignored her. Like a lot of boys, he had an interest in camping when he was younger, so this was a chance to experience it, or at least a small portion of it. However, by the time lunch hit, his enthusiasm had been replaced by uneasiness.

In the shadows cast by the trees around the camp, he felt as if someone was watching him. It was possible it was just an animal, but as the hours passed and the feeling continued, he determined that couldn’t be the cause. Most animals didn’t spend that long watching people, unless they were hunting, but most predators wouldn’t dream of getting so close to so many people. Both Sam and Tucker seemed apprehensive as well.

“Hey, did either of you heard those weird bird calls earlier?” Sam asked while they were eating dinner.

“I don’t know how you had time to listen to birds with how much manual labor we did earlier. I’m exhausted,” Tucker whined in between bites of his food.

“We barely did anything too strenuous. You really need to get out more.” The amused smirk on Sam’s face was quickly replaced by a frown. “But, in all seriousness, something sounded wrong. I’m pretty familiar with the birds around here, but I’ve never heard something like that before.”

“Is it possible it was an exotic bird?” Danny questioned. “I mean, it is possible one escaped or someone let one go.”

Sam considered his words for a moment. “While it’s possible, I don’t think that’s the case.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s hard to explain.” She brought her hand to her chin as she tried to put her thoughts to words. “The sound didn’t sound natural. It was almost mechanical.”

“A mechanical bird? Come on, Sam! Even for you, that’s pretty out there. Am I right, dude?” Tucker playfully nudged Danny, only to realize he seemed deep in thought. “Hey, what’s wrong? Earth to Danny.”

“Gah!” The sudden motion of Tucker waving his hand in front of his face startled him. “Sorry about that. It’s just that… I… I think I know what she means”

“Huh?”

“I don’t remember much about what happened when I went missing, but before things go hazy, I definitely remember a strange bird call. After doing some research, my parents said that calls like that are sometimes heard before unusual missing persons cases.”

“Dude! Don’t say stuff like that! I’m already freaked out enough as it is by this whole mess. Ouch! Did you really have to kick me?”

“Keep your voice down,” Sam warned him as she motioned to the side with a head nod. Danny followed the motion and noticed some of the Rangers seemed to be watching them. “I really don’t want them to pay attention to us. They’re watching us, all of us, like we’re prisoners or something. Anyways, Danny do you know anything more about that weird call?”

“My parents said it might be a type of lure, but I have no idea if that’s true or not. But, I think it was to catch my attention than anything else.” Danny shook his head. “Sam, we wouldn’t be doing this. Whatever that call was, it could have just been some weird bird.”

“Don’t you want to know?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. Look, I’ve been uneasy since we first arrived in this forest. I already told Tucker this, but talking about weird stuff like this brings bad luck. Can we put it on hold until we get out of here?”

“But Danny!” Her argument was cut short as he glared at her. She straightened up as her eyes narrowed. “As weird as everything is, I think the bigger mystery is what exactly happened to you when you went missing when you were a kid.”

“Look, I don’t know what happened,” Danny snapped. What was her problem?

“Clearly something did. What’s every going on here might be digging up some of those memories. Maybe you have a memory that could help, but you’re getting so defensive.”

“Of course I am! Would you like it if someone kept trying to make you remember something that’s probably better left forgotten?”

“Alright, alright. Chill already.”

His only response was to huff and turn away. Her stubbornness was something he both admired and occasionally hated. Whether it was petitioning her teachers to get a menu changed, rallying a protest, or badgering her friends for information, she often wouldn’t stop until she got her way. It was a big reason why he didn’t think they’d ever be able to get together.

They had discussed it the previous year, after Tucker outed their mutual attraction. Neither of them thought it would work out. Sam was too headstrong, and Danny was too reserved for it to be a functioning relationship. There was always a spark of hope, but it was situations like this that reminded him that they hadn’t changed. For the sake of their friendship, it wasn’t something they could safely consider.

Maybe when they got a little older, a little more mature, they would be able to act on their feelings, but that would have to wait. For now, he was just going to sit in an annoyed silence as he finished his… what exact was this food supposed to be anyways?

…..

Sam actually apologized to him the next day. However, he was still too irritated to speak to her, but by the time lunch rolled around, he had forgiven her.

The morning had been spent working on more wilderness survival skills, but the Rangers surprised them by announcing that they would be leading them on a hike on the trail that surrounded the camp. It was only supposed to last a couple hours at most, but three armed Rangers would be walking with them.

Annoyed and uneasy murmurs circled through the students as they formed groups of three and four. Those groups were then lined up; one Ranger moved to the front, one went to the back, and the other moved to the center of the line. Before they began to move, the Rangers warned the entire group that, under no circumstance, was anyone to go off on their own.

Although Sam and Tucker wanted to stay away from Lancer and the jocks who were near the front of the line, Danny would not allow them to be in the very back. After everything else that happened, he would not allow himself to be in the back on the line. The warning to stay away from the very back or front still rang in his ears. Unfortunately, that didn’t last very long.

As they began their trek, several of the groups fell to the back of the line. It forced Danny and his friends to have somewhat of a distance between the few band and more nerdy students who were following close to the first Ranger and Mr. Lancer, and the popular kids and jocks who were near the back. The Ranger who was supposed to be in the middle had hung back to help keep an eye on the larger portion of students.

“I don’t like this,” Danny mentioned as Sam had them stop for a moment as she made a quick sketch of a plant off the path. “Is it just me, or is it really quiet?” He had noticed it for a while. Usually a person should be able to hear bugs, birds, leaves rustling, something, but he hadn’t noticed any noise for a while.

“These are older forests, Danny,” Sam explained as she finished her sketch. “Noises often get muffled since plants can absorb sound to some extent.”

“It doesn’t mean it’s not creepy.”

“Actually, Sam, I agree with him,” Tucker mentioned as he looked over his shoulder. “I feel like we’re being watched.”

Sam tucked her sketch book in her bag before pointing to something behind them. “I think you’re right on that, but I don’t think it’s anything out of the ordinary.”

Danny and Tucker turned to see Dash and his friends, as well as some of the popular girls approach them from down the trail. Apparently, they had been spotted as Dash wore an evil grin as he said something to Kwan as he gestured towards them. A round of laughter followed.

“Great, just our luck. Do you think we’d be able to outrun them?” Danny asked as he warily eyed the approaching group.

“Are you nuts, dude? We can’t even outrun Sam.”

“Thanks for that lovely vote of confidence, Tucker.” ==================

Notes:

The coyotes and the Game Commission was an actual thing that happened. Basically, there weren’t supposed to be any coyotes in Pennsylvania, but there were farmers saying their animals were being attacked by something. One of the farmers, who lived nearby where I grew up, got permission to take a shot at creatures and ended up killing a coyote with a Game Commission tag in its ear. Twenty years later, the Game Commission has finally admitted coyotes are back in Pennsylvania, and that they can be hunted. Coyotes can attack people. While there aren’t many documented attacks, they have happened, and Pennsylvanians aren’t very happy about them popping up in towns and parks.

Mountains Lions, also known as Nittany Lions, Pumas and Cougars, are supposedly extinct in the states east of the Mississippi River (ignore Florida – it’s an exception). However, that’s another thing under debate. There have been many sightings of them throughout the years in the east, especially in the Appalachian (app-ah-lay-shin) Mountains. There is actually a picture of one found in Ohio near its border with Kentucky that was taken in 2014. I know there are recent reports in Pennsylvania and New York as well - this includes family members.

[spoon-writes]

Ends of the Earth | Chapter 20

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Pairing: Mando x OC

Read on FFN or AO3

Summary: When Sinead's husband is ripped from her, she escapes the Hutt Empire and goes on a quest to find him. Since being a runaway slave in the Outer Rim isn't exactly easy, she makes the Mandalorian an offer he can't refuse, and soon they travel across the galaxy looking for her missing husband.

A/N: Hello guys! I literally just finished watching chapter 13 and hooooo boy. Hoo boy. No spoilers here but … boyWould love to hear your thoughts both on the chapter and well, the chapter.

Chapter index

Chapter 20 - Back on Track

When Din woke the next morning, it took a couple of seconds for his brain to reboot and a couple more for sensation to return to his body. It had always been like this when he slept in his armor, but he didn't remember it feeling like he had gone three rounds with a Mudhorn when he was younger.

Sunlight streamed through the windows, and a breeze blew in through the partially opened door that smelled of resin and clean earth. Somewhere, a bird was chirping.

His eyes landed on Sinead kneeling before the cold fireplace where the remaining wood had been arranged in a precarious pyramid. A thin wisp of smoke curled into the air as she tried to light it with his firestarter, her stare so intense that it looked like she was trying to light it with concentration alone. Her hair hung loosely down her back in the same soft waves as the night before, and she had rolled up the sleeves of her shirt, revealing toned forearms.

The flame caught for a second before winking out.

With a huff, she looked up at the ceiling before getting to her feet. "Who needs fire anyway," she said in a whisper.

For one staggering moment, Din thought she was talking to him. Did she know he was watching her?

Before he could respond, there came a cooing from the end of the bed, and Din finally noticed the child sitting in a beam of sunlight, watching Sinead just as intently as Din was.

"That's right." She turned and rifled through the pack, where she pulled out some bantha jerky and two ration bars. The kid held his hands out in a grabbing motion, and she gave him the jerky, which he wasted no time ripping through. "You're hungry, huh?" She smiled down at him.

The mattress barely dipped as the child crawled up toward Din's head, trilling what almost sounded like a melody.

"Oh no, you don't," Sinead said as she grabbed the kid and pulled him away. "Your old man needs all the rest he can get."

Old man?

His stomach clenched with guilt, doubt, regret, every emotion that came to him when he had a moment alone. The look Sinead had given him when she heard of his plan to leave the child had shaken him more than he wanted to admit.

Holding the kid with one arm, Sinead leaned over the bed and waved a hand in front of his helmeted face,  an unreadable look in her eyes. Din almost laughed out loud when suddenly she moved closer until she was all he could see, staring into his helmet with narrowed eyes. His mouth went dry, and his muscles flexed as if he was gearing up to run.

With a slight shake of the head she stood, and Din let himself relax. She placed one of the ration bars on the musty bed and left the cabin, leaving the door ajar behind her.

When he was sure she wouldn't come back, Din sat up in the bed and winced as his back cramped. Slipping off his helmet, he allowed himself a moment to feel the fresh air on his face.

The wood Sinead had left in the fireplace had been stacked in such a way that ensured it would never catch fire.

He quickly ate the ration bar and slipped the helmet back on, gearing up to stand. When he finally moved, his tendons twanged with discomfort. He couldn't wait until all this was over and they were back in the Crest.

Grabbing the pack, he went outside. Faint wisps of mist still clung to the shadow, but otherwise, there were no signs of the rain from the day before. The little clearing was awash with sunlight.

Sinead and the child were in sight of the hut, standing beside a scummy pond Din had missed in the darkness and rain the day before. The child moved through the tall grass that lined the pond while Sinead watched him with an amused look on her face. She turned her head when he neared. "Sleep well?"

Din shrugged and kept his eyes on the kid. "Fine." Even if he tried, he couldn’t look directly at her.

"The bed wasn't half bad. You should get one for the ship, you know, instead of a bunk that would be too short for an Ugnaught."

He ignored her. "You're ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," she said and stretched her arms above her head. "How long to the settlement?"

"About five hours. If it keeps dry."

"I'm really starting to regret this excursion. I should've just stayed in the ship with the kid."

"Told you." Din stopped the child just moments before he stumbled into the pond, gathering him into his arms.

Sinead rolled her eyes, the corners of her mouth quirking up in a smile. "You did."

The cabin had only just disappeared when they found a path leading in the direction of the settlement. It was narrow and barely noticeable between tufts of coarse grass and anthills, but it was too direct to be made by animals, and as they walked, Din noticed small signs of sentient life; a burnt-out torch tossed to the side, a cairn where the path divided.

“What do we do,” Sinead said, shifting the kid to her other arm, “if we get to the settlement and there’s no mechanic? Or if there is one who knows shit-all about starships?”

“Hm.” Din looked up at the blue sky visible between the leaves. “Go to the next place, I guess.”

“And how far is that?”

“About five days.”

Sinead sighed theatrically.

“Not a fan of hiking?”

“Let’s just say I get why my parents never took me camping.”

“With any luck we’ll be on our way soon.”

“Yeah.”

He glanced at her, unsure of what to say. An unreadable emotion flitted across her face before she cleared her throat. “What kind of freak weather phenomenon do you think is gonna happen today? I’m thinking giant waterspout.”

“There isn’t a big enough body of water near here.”

She flashed him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m sure it’ll find a way.”

… … … … …

Sinead was just about ready to give up and lie down flat on her face when the first house finally came into view. Her body ached after the walk through the wilderness, and the thought of a hot meal – not ration bars or flavorless jerky – was the only thing propelling her forward.

Now they just needed a mechanic who knew their way around a starship, and they were good to go.

Back on the trail of Kyen the Pirate.

There was no real defining boundary between the forest and the village; gradually, houses started popping up between the trees, getting closer and closer together until the path became a dirt road that led to the heart of the settlement. The houses themselves were squat and thatched with dark straw, making them look like overgrown mushrooms. The inhabitants, a mix of different species, stopped in their tracks and stared as Sinead and Mando walked by.

“You’d think they’d never seen an outsider before,” Sinead whispered to Mando.

“Stay on guard.”

She gave him a look. "Relax. I doubt these people know how to hold a blaster, much less shoot one."

Mando grunted a reply, keeping his eyes on a group of men standing around a workbench that was piled high with bits of wood.

As they walked, a flock of villagers gathered to trail behind at a safe distance, murmuring amongst themselves. Mando kept looking back at their impromptu tail, hand inching closer to his blaster every time.

Sinead smiled at a young Zabrak child sitting on the curb in front of a house. "Just remember I'll never forgive you if you get us thrown out before the ship's repaired."

"At least you'll be alive to hold a grudge."

"Look, I’m all for healthy paranoia, but this is weird, not dangerous.”

He made a noise and scanned the gathering crowd, but at least he didn’t draw his blaster.

The center of the settlement turned out to be a small square with a well in the center. It seemed like the entire village was there, pushing each other to get a better view of the strangers. Worry crept up Sinead's spine as it became clear just how outnumbered they were.

“What now?” Mando said tightly.

She took a deep breath and addressed the crowd. "Our ship crashed a day's travel from here. We're looking for a capable mechanic or someone willing to haul it to one. Pay's in New Republic credits."

An ancient Ithorian shuffled through the crowd, leaning heavily on a walking stick, and the onlookers moved out of the way for him. The Ithorian had a translator fixed over both mouths, and when he warbled in Ithorese, there was a slight delay before the translator garbled in a scratchy voice: "Welcome, strangers, to our village. It is not often we see new faces here."

That was obvious.

Sinead stepped forward. "We're honored by such a warm welcome." Strange welcome, anyway. "As I said, our ship is in need of repair. It's about a day's travel north of here."

"Do not tell me you were caught in the storm last night." The Ithorian stopped his slow shuffle and peered at them. Even bent low with age, he was a head taller than Sinead.

"We managed not to be swept away."

"Not everyone can say that. Fand-Dala storms are not to be trifled with." It was hard to gauge on such an alien face, but if she were to guess, he was being friendly.

"Well, yeah. Barely managed," said Sinead. "I don't suppose there's a mechanic 'round here who can fix the ship? It doesn't look like you have much need for starships."

The Ithorian made a noise that sounded like it came from deep in his chest, and it took a moment for Sinead to realize that he was laughing. "We have one of those, yes. She mostly works on hovercarts now, but I am sure she can repair your ship."

Sinead and Mando exchanged a glance; hovercarts and starships were very different when it came to the finer workings, and just because she could fix one didn’t mean she could fix the other.

"Follow me, please." The Ithorian led them through the parted crowd and down a winding street, his steps slow and careful. Sinead walked beside him while Mando took up the rear.

The Ithorian told them his name that sounded like a deep trilling moan spoken with both his mouths which the translator didn't even bother trying to parse. He laughed when he saw Sinead's frozen smile. "But you can call me Dibs."

"Pleased to meet you, Dibs. I'm Jesha, and this is ..." she looked back at Mando. "Uh, the Mandalorian."

"Yes, I can see that. What are you doing all the way out here? This system seldom sees a lot of travelers."

"We were on our way to Neth when the ship started to die. It was lucky we made it to the planet, or else we'd still be floating in space."

"Lucky indeed. Let us hope that Zlii can get you up and away before the next storm hits."

Dibs stopped outside a small house close to the edge of the settlement. Loud music came from the other side. "She must be in her workshop, then." He led them down a dirt path between two houses and into the backyard, where the music was much louder, bouncing between the walls until it was an unintelligible wail. A shack stood against the back of the house, not much more than some branches and a tarp to keep the rain out. One side was open, and Sinead saw a workbench overflowing with mechanical parts, tools, and schematics. Open crates spilled their content across the ground. If Peli Motto's workshop had been chaotic, this was an outright calamity.

A hovercart stood on supports in the middle of the courtyard, and two legs stuck out beneath it, clad in a dark jumpsuit. Dibs walked over and prodded them with his cane. There was no point in trying to talk over the music.

Green hands shot out from under the hovercart, and a small, angry-looking Rodian emerged, oil smeared across her hands and face. Her eyes narrowed when she saw Sinead and Mando.

Knocking the walking stick to the side, she got up and leaned into the hovercart to shut off the music. A deafening silence followed.

"All right," the mechanic said, her constellation eyes cold. "What'd you want?" She stared unblinkingly at Mando.

Dibs didn't seem perturbed in the least, but maybe Ithorians just showed it differently. "They are strangers-"

"You don't say. And here I thought we'd always had a Mandalorian."

Dibs laughed and looked at Sinead. "Do not be discouraged by her words, she means well. I am sure she can help you on your way."

She narrowed her eyes. "Help with what, exactly?"

Sinead stifled a sigh. This was going to be an ordeal. "Our ship crashed in the forest north of here."

"Too bad."

"Zlii ..." Dibs said. "I told them you can help. Let it not be known that we do not extend our assistance when needed. And they will pay." He shot a look at Sinead, who nodded.

Zlii sighed with her whole body. "What makes you think I can help?"

Dibs leaned on his walking stick. "Did you not work in a spaceport? I am sure you will enjoy the challenge."

"Starting to regret telling you that," she mumbled. 

Mando cleared his throat impatiently, and Sinead stepped in before Zlii had a chance to respond. “Will you give it a look? That’s all I’m asking.”

“How many credits d’you got?”

Mango pulled out a pouch. “600 to look at it, 200 more to fix it.”

Zlii took a moment to consider. “Exactly how crashed is it?”

“The energy cycler and cooling unit are fried,” Mando said.

“Okay.” Zlii pushed off the hovercraft. “Seems pretty straightforward.” She went into the shack where there was a loud bang as she shifted through the piles of junk.

“Guess that means she’ll help.” Sinead looked at Mando, who shrugged.

“Zlii has always been a prickly one,” Dibs said, his translator pronouncing every word slow and clear. “She came to us not many cycles ago. She is a capable mechanic, but I am afraid her skills are not being put to their full use.”

The young Rodian in question came out of the makeshift workshop carrying a large pack overflowing with tools and spare parts. “I can hear you, you know.” She glanced at the kid and made an unimpressed harumph. “Well, are we going then? You better find a speeder bike that can take us because I’m not walking a day lugging this.”

“I believe I can help you with that,” said Dibs.

… … … … …

The trip back to the ship only took a couple of hours thanks to an old human and his landspeeder that could move through the forest quickly, levitating above every hole or treacherous root. It would have been a pleasant ride if it hadn't been for Zlii's sullen silence and Mando's short and reluctant answers to even the most mundane questions. In the end, Sinead had sat back and stewed in silence while the shadows grew longer. If Zlii was as good as Dibs had implied, they wouldn't be stuck on the planet for much longer.

The kid sat beside Mando, and the settlement was barely out of sight before he crawled up onto the rim of the landspeeder, ears flapping in the wind. The only thing keeping him from flying out was the death grip Mando had on the back of the kid’s robe. He giggled whenever the landspeeder swerved between the trees.

Out of the corner of her eyes, Sinead saw Zlii watch the kid with something akin to interest; She could see the question forming on the Rodian’s lips before Zlii noticed Sinead watching and her face fell into the usual scowl.

At last, they made it to the ship, and everyone got out. The Razor Crest sat where they'd left it, dark and out of place in the middle of the forest. A bird had started building a nest in the crook of one of the turbines.

"This it?" Zlii jumped down, throwing the big pack over her shoulder. "You sure it's worth it? Could probably get more selling it for scrap."

"Just see what you can do." Mando pushed a button, and the ship came to life, the cargo door opening with a hiss.

Sinead stayed in the landspeeder while Zlii worked, and Mando watched her silently. Her legs were still sore from all the walking, and the kid had found his way into her lap, where he dozed on and off, sometimes awoken by Zlii's snippy questions or Mando's curt answers. Their driver had reclined in the front seat and pulled his hat down over his eyes, effectively shutting out the entire circus.

Zlii went back and forth between her pack where she pulled out more and more complicated tools that Sinead didn't know the names of. When she wasn't busy snarking at Mando, she was muttering to herself and banging on various parts of the ship, listening to the sound with concentration.

The sun had gone down when Zlii stepped back, wiping a hand across her forehead that left a streak of oil. "Done all I can for her. She just needed a bit of convincing, is all,"

"And we won’t fall out of the sky again?" Sinead struggled to her feet.

"Not right away. The energy cycler is back on, but the cooling unit needs replacing as soon as possible. For whatever shit you put her through, she runs pretty well.” That was the first positive thing Sinead had heard her say.

Mando handed over the rest of the credits, and Zlii carefully counted them, glaring at Mando now and then. "It’s all here." She sounded disappointed.

"You think we'd cheat you?" Sinead said.

"Wouldn't be the first to try. Hey, Onaas!"

The driver lurched into a sitting position and lifted his hat off with a finger. "Yeh?"

"We're leaving." The pack landed heavily on the speeder, and Zlii soon followed.

"What if it breaks down again?" Sinead leaned against the speeder. 

"Guess that means you’ll suffocate in space," Zlii spat.

"Is that really any way to talk to your customers?" She didn't know why she was needling her, just that it had been a long day, and Zlii seemed like someone easy to needle.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, princess. Next time feel free to choose any of the other mechanics."

Sinead opened her mouth, but Mando broke in before she had the chance to reply. “Thank you for coming all the way out here.”

“If it means getting you off the planet.” Zlii leaned back in her seat. “Ready to go?”

Onaas grunted and touched his hat in a brief goodbye before the landspeeder came to life and sped off into the darkness, leaving Mando and Sinead to board the ship.

Back on Kyen's trail.

<- Previous chapter - Next chapter ->

[pollylynn]

Title: Of the Commons WC: 900

He is not a jealous person. He is no longer a jealous person.

No longer is probably closer to the truth. He leafs through ancient journals from time to time and sees that his younger self was, by nature, no freer from it than anyone. He sees stupidity of that ilk inscribed on the page. Kyra spending too much time, paying to much attention to this person, to that person. And even before Kyra, days in a row of misery at the possibility—the near certainty—that the mysterious Allison was dancing in someone else’s arms.

But for better than a decade—for most of his daughter’s life—jealousy has been an absolutely academic issue for him. He crafts it on the page. He leafs through ancient journals and studies the phenomenon from every angle. He plucks the right phrases from them when the narrative requires it. He adapts the time elapsed to the pace of whatever story he’s working on, and there he has it—fictional jealousy made to order.

He’s removed from it, though. Even when he goes to the well of his distant past, he’s drawing things up by the numbers. He’s not really remembering in any meaningful sense. He honestly can’t remember what it was like in his mind—in his heart, he supposes, or maybe it’s both—before Meredith strayed and he just . . . threw a switch inside him.

He had a child to think of, because Meredith wouldn’t. He had that very fact staring him in the face. It was such a simple thing to throw that switch.

All of this is true. He is not a jealous person. It’s not something smug and self-satisfied that he repeats to himself as though it’s necessarily a virtue. It’s a simple truth right up until the moment he sees those fucking muffins.

It’s like being possessed. It’s like a fireball about to roar up and out of him. With shaking hands, drops the muffin he’s been unwise enough to pick up. He snatches the card from the plastic spear shoved haphazardly into the obscene forest of baked goods, and he can hardly speak. He can hardly get the oily, suggestive words out.

The rage burns itself out. It leaves behind a sick, leaden feeling. She’s teasing him. She’s slyly intimating that this might have been her first muffin-worthy get-together with Alex Conrad, but it’s unlikely to be the last. He sees the smug smile and the exaggerated stretch that tantalizingly ripples down the buttons of her blouse, but her voice sounds far off. The whole scene feels miserable and unreal and terribly distant.

He is jealous, and he’s long since forgotten any coping mechanisms he might have had for this.

His instinct, in so far as he has any instincts in this scenario, is to detach—to analyze and deflect. It’s ludicrous to be jealous of Alex Conrad, he tells himself, and it sounds entirely reasonable. She has a boyfriend, he reasons. A man friend. She has Josh the motorcycle-riding, world-saving, nine-foot-tall wonder. Alex Conrad and his trying-too-hard muffins can’t hold a candle to that.

He feels better. Perversely, idiotically, for a full three seconds, the fact of Josh makes him feel better. That’s how bad he is at this. That’s the price of throwing that switch.

It’s like a bandage ripped off too soon. It’s like a scar sliced open again, deeper this time. Infinitely deeper.  

It comes equipped with catharsis, at least. That’s something, he supposes. Standing there, sitting there, carrying on with the case like he is not shaking with rage one moment and riding waves of despair the next, he feels at last. He dwells briefly in the Meredith years. He burns with the humiliation of the months he was determined to look the other way, because of Alexis. Because he would have done anything to keep her family intact. He lives through—emerges from—the multifaceted pain of it, and the truth is, it’s not much. There are no ancient journal pages inscribed with his longing for Meredith, but it hurt. Of course it fucking hurt, but he threw the switch before he had a chance to actually feel that.  

He sees the pattern he fell into thereafter—wild, brief affairs on the road, away from home, safely on the surface of things when and where it wouldn’t touch his home life. He understands the twice-over allure of Gina and cold certainty. He understands the appeal of the absolute limits of what he could feel for her, she for him, when stability seemed the next logical step.

He dwells, he sees, he feels at long last. And he moves on. It’s belated, rapid fire catharsis, and he wishes that counted for something. He wishes that this sudden personal growth, brought to you by an enormous, enormously stupid basket of muffins counted for something.

It doesn’t though, because this is now. This is her, and he understands that he’s hardly begun to understand the full extent of his jealousy. He’s hardly begun to know the boundless want he has for every part, every side, every aspect of her.

He is greedy for it. He is jealous. And no catharsis—nothing in his past—could possibly have prepared him for this.

He has no coping mechanisms at all.

That’s the tragedy of the muffins.

A/N: Um. I really hate muffins? Hmmm.

images via homeofthenutty

[letsgethaunted]

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Episode 197: The Mechanical Sounds in the Forest Phenomenon feat. Cryptonaut Podcast Photodump

Welcome to the photo dump for Episode 197: Mechanical Sounds In The Forest Phenomenon Feat. Cryptonaut Podcast. Sometimes the scariest things in life are actually the most mundane, such as an everyday object (or even a sound) appearing in a location where it shouldn’t. What would you do if while camping in the wilderness - miles away from civilization - you suddenly awoke in the middle of the night to the deafening roar of manmade mechanical noises all around you? Join Let’s Get Haunted with special guests Marc and Rob of Cryptonaut Podcast as we read and listen to firsthand accounts of hikers and campers who have met with this bizarre phenomenon that only seems to be growing more common in recent years. What could these noises be the product of? Bugs and birds? Ghosts and Fairies? Cryptids and Aliens? Or something else entirely? Scroll through key images from this week’s episode now!

[chiseler]

The Last Light

There is a moment in David Lynch's Twin Peaks: The Return that on its incandescent surface could have been lifted, weightless, from the great post-war dream of materialist deliverance: The top on the convertible is down, the radio on; The Paris Sisters are singing I Love How You Love Me as a reincarnated Laura Palmer lifts her face to a cloudless sky. Within the tapestry of this early Phil Spector production — his trademark reverb eternally associated with Romance and Death (two conditions Spector knew all too well) — the voice of Priscilla Paris is a siren sound from the American Beyond. We could be hearing a dream goddess lullaby from the whispering gallery, or sweet nothings from the crypt. We don't know. We'll never know. Just as Quentin Tarantino’s Once Upon a Time... in Hollywood keeps us guessing with the elusive murmur that “Sharon Tate will never die,” granting her a gaudy, wondrous L.A. to cavort in where it's 1969 forever and movie stars still matter, so we find ourselves in Tarantino’s version of paradise (complete with flame throwers to the face). In this oneiric echo chamber, momentarily shared by Lynch and Tarantino, Surrealism smiles down upon a vision of American blondness; muscle cars soaked in sunlight; the terrible ecstasy of unending motion; candy for the eye and ear.

David Lynch’s favorite film, to this day, remains Otto e Mezzo, directed by Western Europe's sorcerer of confectionary delights, Federico Fellini; the man who put the “dolce” in La Dolce Vita. And here you have a fleeting taste of ideologies swirled together and spun like ribbon candy: a blur of four-wheeled luxury from the New World, zooming past regional splendor into that fraternity of man: the socio-economic nirvana imagined by Karl Marx.

Careening from one via to another at harrowing, white-knuckle speeds, Fellini was heard to lament that “Some of the neo-realists seem to think that they cannot make a film unless they have a man in old clothes in front of the camera.” George Bluestone, recording these words in 1957 for the pages of Film Culture, was sittings in the literal passenger seat of the ideal metaphor of post-war ebullience in action: that famous Black Chevy skirting the Italian Scylla (the Vatican) and its equally dogmatic Charybdis (the Party); expert, 20th century precision guiding them through Roman streets with graffiti-scrawled churches proudly bearing the hammer and sickle. At those velocities, anything could make sense.

“What for you is the greatest human quality?”, Bluestone asks. Fellini responds, “Love of one’s fellows,” a period-appropriate oath that rings true to his brand of ecumenical solidarity.

“The greatest fault?”

“Egoism.”

Try, if you will, to imagine our more locally sourced egoists nodding along with Fellini in soulful agreement on that one. As a kind of compatriot of Edgar Allan Poe, David Lynch (and, to some extent, Tarantino) spawns from his abiding axiom that “The death of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetic topic in the world.” In Lynch’s hands, American television has become a brightly lit seance for Poe’s ethereal dead. Immortal creatures afflicted with the dream of physical existence, then afflicting the dreamers. Twin Peaks: The Return modifies Poe's axiomatic truth with great help from Amanda Seyfried's Becky and her pair of visionary's eyes, melting Spector's dark edifice of sugar in deathless, Sternbergian close-up — iridescent search lights, ever more urgently scanning the sky above for a sun to swallow her whole. We can only witness and internalize this shimmering ingenue trading places with Old Sol, as if the drugs she's consumed have entered our system and not hers.

Filmmakers like Fellini and Lynch celebrate bodily extremes in intriguing, if differing ways that should naturally gallop right beyond the pale but nevertheless become wholly, weirdly digestible. It is perhaps the innocent glee, even wonderment, of these artists in the vast variety of shapes the human body can assume; innocence which acts as a giant eraser for every awareness on our part of how physical representation in the age of political correctness is meant to function. Lynch is able to present the disabled as by turns childlike, mysterious or magical beings without ever worrying about lending them agency (The Elephant Man's John Merrick is a passive whipping boy for seemingly the whole of Victorian London) or the lie of adult sophistication (the latest Twin Peaks iteration includes a pint-sized hitman who whines like a puppy when his icepick is broken).

Fellini's dwarfs and grotesques, on the other hand, emerge from the struggle of a one-time Marc'Aurelio cartoonist willing one-dimensional images into three-dimensional embodiment. His big women, of course, are fetish figures. They always were. Gargantuan beauties, evidence of a sexual ideal formed in infancy: the big Italian mammissima, seen from below. As Fellini grew into a rather large adult himself, this ideal was simply re-scaled accordingly (even the icy mountain of Anita Ekberg takes on new implication). Goddesses all, they are, however, not meant for conventional movie stardom.

And what of Tarantino? Once Upon a Time's Margot Robbie IS the no-longer-doomed Sharon Tate as she watches herself on the big screen; enjoying a thrill that few have ever known so guilelessly that any half-baked charges of narcissism shrivel to nullity before they can escape a single throat. Here before us is an essential glimpse into the vanishing phenomenon of movie stardom itself, reflexive handwringing from the woke balconies notwithstanding. Tarantino has at last achieved something transcendental: even his grotesques — slack-jawed, gap-toothed, gormless members of the Manson Family conflated with more contemporary Identitarian cultists on the lookout for 'Lookism', knives unsheathed — are downright mythic. Robbie's Tate is a visage both generically perfect and possessed by the angels, every one of them a blond resident of LA County, sincere and unknowable as desert light.  

The vampires, creatures of night slain by sunlight, infiltrated the movie theaters in the 1920s and never left. They sit next to us in the dark, having ceded the power to hypnotize us to the glowing screen itself. Photochemical vagaries invariably allow movie darkness to behave in impossible ways; as if the physical properties of film itself knew no rules, and thus invited us to accept its essential anarchy without question. Before us is a darkness that GLOWS.

A Black & White image flipped into negative can produce black fire, or the black sunlight which illuminated the Transylvanian forests of Nosferatu, through which a box-like carriage rattles at Mack Sennett speed. But with only the smallest underexposure, a little dupey degradation of the print, or even a little imagination (such collaboration is not discouraged), this liquid blackness will spread anywhere, everywhere; the most luminous pestilence known to creation. Be it in the laughing nightmare of Fleischer cartoons of old (Out of the Inkwell, indeed) or Jean Epstein's photogenie phantasmagoria, we're left to wonder. Is daylight burning out the corner of a building, or is it the blackness of the building which is eating into the sky? As with so many such questions, film permits us no answer. We are to simply watch as characters smudge, their shadows emanating out beyond themselves, pulsing and flickering with an obsidian internal flame.

By the time Jean Epstein adapted The Fall of the House of Usher in 1928, it could wisely be said that Poe had been already aggrandized through the mechanism of carbon-arc projection; which is but one way to say that the vision that once seemed unharnessable, had at last been industrialized. Dragooned. Pressed into an ever more modern service at a pace to be measured in frames-per-second. Artists like Epstein and Chomon were the first generation to wield an immense cultural and commercial instrument; at once abidingly real and totally incomprehensible. No medium of expression predating cinema could so thoroughly lift audiences from linear time, or could as convincingly, in the words of Jean Epstein, render death as a conscious state.

Transcendentalism barely scratches the surface here. A more apposite term — the one he nuances in his film theory, “photogenie” (a genesis out of light) — pulls transitory moments, otherwise escaping human perception, into focus. If Poe engrosses us in Romantic conceptions of death as a means to visionary truth, Epstein reveals that same supposedly “elusive” end in our earthly world of telephones, sports cars, Kodak cameras for the every-man and moderne manicures for up-to-the-minute dandies.

The Victorians were falling away. And with them a system of reality contained in narrow, overwrought performances. Withered technique as a means of reflecting Nature — or, to quote Balzac, the “conjugation of objects with light” — was displaced, uncrowned by Jean Delville’s Death (1890), which embodies an altogether different kind of virtuosity, one no Academy could ever comprehend. The charcoal drawing and ode to Edgar Allan Poe’s Masque of the Red Death yearns with a combination of verve and starkness toward a capital “G” Gloom destined to escape salons.

Coming of age in a series of shady elsewheres — the fairgrounds, nickelodeon parlors and movie palaces of an Edwardian America — nitrate and its twinkling mineral essence gave Poe's crepuscular light its time to shine and  thereby illuminate the world. No longer held in the solitary confinement of a page of reproduced text or an image, however still, rendered in paint or ink. Poe's singularly tormented vision was finally written alchemically, in cinematographic rays beamed through silver salts; into moving images of such aggressive vitality as to blast every rational thing from one's mind.

All hail magic mirrors! Celestial mandalas! Giant eggs and butterfly women! Segundo de Chomón's The Red Spectre (1907) ruthlessly invades our eyes with a wraith-magician dissolving through his coffin lid in a red, hand-tinted, flame-flickering hell. His caped, skull-masked presence was to herald the manic new thespic truth that, from this moment forward, the art of acting is in how you respond to light, and how light responds to you. The Specter of Chomon's dark bauble is in every element Poe's Red Death — japing and performing tricks for us, his adoring fans and welcome guests, before announcing our doom — literary metaphor slammed against a literal backdrop of amber stalactites, pellucid as an ossuary.

Doctor Pretorius might have been musing on the history of cinema in 1935’s The Bride of Frankenstein when he said: “Sometimes I have wondered whether life wouldn't be much more amusing if we were all devils, no nonsense about angels and being good.”

by Daniel Riccuito, Tom Sutpen and David Cairns

[tsarifr]

New lore!  Hana #3311515

When Hana first emerged from an egg, she was all alone.  Deep in the heart of what she later learnt was known as the Tangled Woods, her egg had rolled out from one of the many areas the Shadowbinder was rumoured to lurk and cracked open upon its landing.  She wasn’t supposed to hatch so early.

The first sign that something went wrong with her hatching was that she couldn’t make any noises.  Creatures made almost entirely of shadows still made deep noises in the back of whatever throat they had, and the few birds that braved the area would sing, but whenever she tried to mimic them as her instincts ordered, no sound came out.  Hatched too early, before the Shadowbinder had perfected her creations, Hana had one major flaw - her vocal chords were absent.

An inability to communicate, and a lack of understanding of the world left Hana vulnerable to the whims of others.  After being investigated thoroughly by several creatures she later learnt were dragons, almost like her, she ended up caged in a circus and showed off as an exotic creature.  None of the dragons considered that she might be a dragon, too.  With communication skills poorer than a coatl, it was easy for them to believe she was simply another mystery of the forest.

In her tight, cramped cage, Hana had nothing to do except listen and watch.  Despite their ignorance, the circus were not cruel, and a skydancer in charge of being her handler spent hours of his day, every day, cleaning out her cage and talking to her, using exaggerated gestures to try and get his point across.  Weeks passed like that, until Hana mustered the courage to repeat the gestures back at him, astonishing him and simultaneously proving her intellect to be far higher than they’d realised.

A strange friendship started up after that, the skydancer enamoured with his rare charge and more than happy to teach her more and more about the world.  Other members of the circus shook their heads disapprovingly; whilst finding it a neat quirk in the short term, as they discovered she was learning they began to fear losing one of their star attractions - what if she learnt enough to undo her cage?

In all truth, Hana had worked out the mechanism for her cage long ago, but knowing no other way to live and being provided for with no effort on her part meant that she never attempted to escape.  If nocturnes had not flooded into Sornieth several months after she hatched, it is likely she would have remained in that cage for her entire life.

When the phenomenon later known as ‘Night of the Nocturne’ began, the circus realised their mistake.  She was promptly released from the cage to tearful apologies, and encouraged to leave and find her own way in life.  Not wanting to leave the only life she’d ever known, Hana found herself driven out and abandoned regardless - the circus were too ashamed to face her, and the mistakes she represented.

From there began a life of wanderings.  Food was no longer readily provided for her, forcing her to learn to find her own and awaken instincts long-ignored in the process.  Performing became her trade; falling back on the roots she picked up from her stint in the circus, she used her exaggerated signing - miming, other dragons called it - to bring in enough earnings to get herself some food.

Years later, she was found by an Imperial, who had no issues with her lack of a voice and said that she was exactly what the dragon, who called herself Nephele, was looking for.  After all, who better to listen in on conversations than a silent performer?

[thesimtraveler]

Stars - An (Un)Pleasantview Short

A/N: I am currently visiting my family, so I cannot play Sims. But I wanted to write something and this idea struck me. So, here is an (Un)Pleasantview short with no pictures. It’s sort of an interlude I guess - something to tie you all over until I get back.

Enjoy the fluff!

Ever since that day, he saw what she saw. A world filled with bright colours, the speckles of dust that danced in the air no longer invisible to his very human eyes. Everything was brighter, bigger...prettier. And uglier too. But he tried not look at that which had already saddened him before he was so intricately bound to Lolita.

He does not know what happened. All he remembered was running, after Lolita had pushed back her father with a powerful surge of fire and yelled: “Run! Run! He is possessed! Run!” Then there was the pain, strong and overpowering, burning from his abdomen. He collapsed in the forest. There was blood. He was certain he was going to die. 

And then he woke up. The pain and blood was gone. And Lolita... unconscious. Curled up in a ball by his feet, her skin pale. He would never forget how cold she was when he had lifted her up into his arms. Lolita was never cold. She was a Gossamer - a fairy who controlled fire. Fire made flesh. Cold was not something ever associated with her. He carried her home with a struggle, his heart beating eratically in his chest. Could fairies die? That thought crossed his mind several times. He swallowed his tears. He was so focused on helping Lolita, he had not even realised that his senses were stronger, or that a presence lingered at the back of his mind - burning like an ember.

He would never forget the relief of learning that fae were immortal. Lolita was not dying, but simply asleep. A magically induced coma - a defense mechanism against trauma and expensive magic use. She had used nearly all of it to save him. Apparently what she had done was technically not possible. Her mother had tapped her fingers against her daughter’s forehead and then smiled. 

“The All-Mother must have taken pity on the two of you.”

It was only once Helena left, to deal with her husband who was no longer possessed and without any recollection of what he had done hours before, that Thanatos noticed.

He perceived the world differently. He could see every pore on Lolita’s skin. Could hear her shallow breaths and her heart beat. And somehow, strangely, he could feel her. There, at the back of his mind, she lingered. He knew it was her. Only she would feel elation at the knowledge that he was safe, have such a warm, rich love for him. Everyone else who cared was long dead.

Since that day they were irrevocably bound. Neither one of them understood how it happened, or why. All they knew was that when Lolita saved him, something changed.

“Hey,” a soft voice interrupted his walk amongst memories. Thanatos blinked, his mind returning to the present. The stars were above him, and green grass tickled his arms from below. He turned his head to face the redhead next to him. Lolita had turned onto her side while he had dozed off, her soft gaze focused on him. There was a smudge of dirt on her nose.

“Hey yourself,” he returned her greeting.

“Where were you?”

Thanatos sighed and returned his gaze to the stars above them. “3 years ago.”

He did not need to elborate further, he knew she would understand. Comfort surged through their bond from her side. He smiled and moved to grasp her hand and fold their fingers together. Warm. As she should be. No cold like that night.

They lay like that for awhile, quiet, with the only sounds coming from nature. A soft, gentle breeze moving the trees, the occasional cricket’s chirp, a howl in the distance, their breathing and beating hearts.

And then there was a sudden surge of mischief through the bond, but before he could react Lolita had already pounced, straddling him, her fingers dancing along his sides and under his arms. He laughed, and quickly started to squirm under her relentless attack. 

He had always been very ticklish. It was a weakness Lolita loved to exploit. Thanatos rolled slightly to the side, hoping to deter her, but she simply laughed and doubled her efforts. 

“S-starfish!” he gasped. “Stoooop.”

“No,” she singsonged, her grey eyes sparkling with mischief. Bloody fairies.

Their struggle continued, until Thanatos finally relented and slumped in defeat. Lolita giggled and stopped, her fingers moving from his sides to his ears. Gently she followed the curve, something her own ears lacked, and then with another spark of mischief leaned in and nibbled.

“Your obsession with my ears is strange,” he muttered.

Her response was to blow air behind his ear, causing him to jump. 

“Really?” he gasped. He was most ticklish behind his ears. Lolita moved back, putting her weight on her arms that rested next to his head. She looked like a cat that got the canary.

“That’s what you get, peeping tom,” she snickered. He rolled his eyes. 5 years and she still wouldn’t let him live down their first meeting.

They gazed at each other, a sense of peace washing over them. By some strange phenomenon, Lolita was even more beautiful under the moonlight. There was a shine to her skin, and her eyes glittered. But tonight she was smiling, unlike the first night he had seen her under the moon following their bonding. That night she had been crying - her father had decided to Depart. He would never forget how she begged him to stay, and how Macbeth simply looked at her with sadness.

“Hey,” Lolita whispered and leaned in. “Come back to the present.”

Thanatos shook his head and leaned in to brush his lips against hers. “Sorry.” His apology was an exhale on her soft skin, a gentle whisper that faded once she properly kissed him.

A spark shot up into the sky, and then a loud crash echoed throughout the forest as light exploded in various colours and bloomed against the night sky backdrop. Lolita pulled back and laughed as she looked up.

“Finally!” she exclaimed, and then looked back down at him with a warm smile. “Happy new year, my love.”

More fireworks sparked above them.

Thanatos returned her smile. “Happy new year.”

[toasttz]

Photon Breaker Zechs: Through the Window

The following is a side-novel to Photon Breaker Zechs, a fantastic little tale being told over at my bro's blog dietaku.tumblr.com - where a bunch of plucky misanthropes get thrown into an MMORPG. My story is to be considered side content and, in the event of anything coming off as contradictory, assume that PBZ proper is canon over Through the Window. Lastly, depending on response, this may get moved to its own independent space. Either way, please enjoy! Photon Breaker Zechs: Through the Window Chapter 1: Video games can teach you about yourself I was seriously in over my head. I had gotten cocky and now, it looked like that was going to cost me my life. I stood, back to a row of trees that may as well have been a damned wall, taking stock of the rapidly approaching wolves – each nearly the size of a horse – surrounding me. I lifted my nearly-broken hammer in both hands, having lost my shield some time before during the chase that left me winded and unable to focus. Even were I able to do enough damage to open a path to flee, and assuming my hammer wouldn't just break like a brittle twig, it would do me no good at this point as both my strength and my supplies were tapped. My body was tense, my heart pounding a million miles an hour. It was do-or-die time. Mustering the last ounce of Spirit, I summoned up a manly shout of defiance in the face of impending doom, “Lee-roy—!!!” A sudden, deafening barrage of explosions caused me to hesitate as bodies of the massive wolves were sent sailing aside like mere ragdolls under an intense burst of fire from a source not immediately obvious to me. After forcing my eyes open from reflexively flinching shut, I saw a tall, radiant woman rush into sight, revolvers akimbo, opening fire into the furry fiends. Our mutual foes were soon but a memory as she holstered her weapons and flashed a bucktoothed grin at me, “That was close, wasn't it?!” I let out a sigh and leaned back in my faux-leather office chair, allowing my hands to come off the mouse and keyboard as I felt my tension fade away. My avatar on-screen was left with a meager 43 HP left and nearly-destroyed equipment after a long, maze-like dungeon had seriously done a number on my ego and my supply of HP and Spirit potions. Catching my breath, I opened the in-game chat client and shot back, “Thanks. I owe you one, FluffyStar,” “No sweat, Windowz,” she replied through text, executing the 'excited waving' emote animation, instilling a chuckle from me, “Would you like some help?” “Sounds good. Let's get out of here, my gear is nearly scrap metal,” I explained as she motioned for me to follow. We formed a party so we could properly share experience points and gold coins and she kindly escorted me back to the main town, Strattburg. It all started some time before our lives changed forever at the hands of a mere game. Slidelands was the game to play back then, a massive multiplayer online role playing game, or MMORPG. The game was a genuine worldwide smash hit phenomenon, and received regular expansion packs nearly every year since its launch nearly 15 years ago. My friend, Seamus, a younger guy I met by chance, invited several of his friends, including me, into the fold. Citing a lack of anything better to do, due to a job that involved me getting home in the dead of night and a dash of insomnia, I began to play the game regularly. The first steps of playing a game of this sort is to create your character, as opposed to playing a pre-set hero character – hence 'role playing' game. Also as opposed to games where you don't play a role, I guess. Think those are called 'movies' or 'modern JRPGs' but I digress. The game had disgustingly comprehensive depths for both mechanical and aesthetic customization. My friend, Dieter, literally spent over two hours just on how his character – Deegal – would ultimately look (and about ten minutes on her abilities). After picking your gender and a screenname, I was prompted to pick my “Tron”, class, and race. Slidelands's major selling point, back in the day, was how your characters could pick any of the four Trons (Proton, Neutron, Electron, and Photon) and one from over 30 Class combinations for different stats and abilities. Then you picked a race from out of over 20 options which further changed your growths and native passive specialties. Guides that run longer than dictionaries exist online with intricate detailings of precise, specialized “optimal” builds. However, I opted to cut my own path and designed a character that would be both fun to play and help in team settings – which the game heavily revolved around courtesy of a series of mechanics that were both ill-explained and near-mandatory for making any real progress in the game's story. My character, Windowz, was a Proton-Bunker from the Loppo – or rabbit-man – tribe. I was pleased with his incredibly tall stature and stout, upside-down triangle of a body. I knew from the start I planned to do some heavy-duty damage and be able to take a lot in return, so I was playing the game within about fifteen minutes of concerted effort. The first few tutorials for the game were threadbare (as was the original iteration of the game) and hardly of any use to newcomers. Seamus, or Zechs as his character was dubbed, was the one who really taught me how to play the game in earnest. The two of us made our characters and dove into the introductory quests (of which they were many) and collected our first weapons and armors. Zechs designed a Photon-Breaker which was the middle-of-the-road standard damage/speed class with no major strengths nor weaknesses. The first line of quests are what one might expect – a greeting some some plot-moving NPC who gave us some idea of location – Strattburg as that is where all adventurers begin the game. “Welcome, brave heroes of a far-off land!” the village elder prompted us as we loaded in, “To Strattburg! Where big adventures start! We thank you for coming to us in our hour of need! We have reason to believe you're the chosen ones we've awaited all this time!” “Never mind the millions of 'chosen ones' running around the server already,” Seamus chuckled over the voice chat. “Yeah, running around spouting poorly-spelled memes and lagging the damned server down with not moving their characters out of the load zones,” I clicked my tongue dismissively. “Our first quest is to kill some random monsters just out of town,” Seamus explained, “Seems standard enough!” We formed a two-man party and went out into the grasslands, where random crow and mouse-like enemies passive nibbled at the scenery. The scenery was the idyllic hamlet one found in traditional fantasy, with pleasant breezes making the grass sway around and the monsters here largely ignored players until provoked. On the one hand, I felt a little sociopathic for just massacring these creatures with a colossal warhammer, but on the other, if some random, faceless, nameless NPC tells me it's for humanity's collective benefit and offers payment, who am I to argue with them? Time wore on into the early hours of the morning. “Ah, this has been fun, but I need to get to bed,” Seamus admitted, due in some part to him being in a different time zone than I. “I'm gonna stay and grind a few more levels,” I explained, “I think the town is tapped for quests for now, so where should I go to power-level?” “Well, there's a forest not far from here that most everyone does some fighting in. That should get you started,” he explained simply. “Sounds good. See ya later, dude,” “Yeah, see ya next time, Jake,” Seamus bid me farewell before signing off. As I already said: I worked weird shifts and didn't sleep well at night, so I typically would play well into the early morning and sleep until my shift in the afternoons. So I decided to take my friend up on his advice as I headed into the forest and found the meager squirrel-like Critters small fodder under my tremendous hammer blows. It wasn't particularly fun to pick on the weaklings and I soon set for deeper into the forest for greater challenge. Whereupon I was beaten to near-death by the crazed wolves that lived near the forest's center, necessitating my rescue from some random stranger playing a Loppo woman. Thankfully, I survived the encounter, however narrowly, and soon we were back in the safety of Strattburg, where monsters couldn't spawn in. “Okay, I just wanted to let you know something,” FluffyStar said to me. “What's that?” “Your build is awful. Like, seriously. Did you plan it at all or did you just throw random bits together and hope for the best?” she verbally unloaded, “You should've played a Taurigante or a Zorren,” “Whoa, hey, c'mon. I had a strategy!” I swiftly protested. It's not that I couldn't change classes – players can do that any time they want so long as they're okay with starting said new class at level 1 again – it's that I didn't want to. “Was the strategy dying and not making any real progress?” she jabbed again, “Have you even played this game before?” “Literally, not before today,” I confessed my ignorance, “I thought the dexterity and luck of the Loppo would help me with the heavy weapons Bunkers wield and not make my build so loppo-sided,” I quipped. “I...” she began again before pausing to consider it, “That's not a bad idea, I guess. It's not really meta material, though. Maybe it's an experiment worth conducting... not sure I've seen it done before,” “Okay, so yeah,” I desperately attempted to float my side of the conversation, “Let me run my experiment with a little less venom, yeah?” “I don't have any poison weapons, sorry,” FluffyStar offered. I was kind of at a loss on that one as I couldn't tell if she was serious or not, “Maybe you'd like some assistance in level grinding?” “Sure. Can't sneeze at someone as powerful as you helping!” I chuckled. As any gamer worth their salt would attest: the greatest rewards in an RPG are loot and experience points. Quests being the best through-line to this end, most players end up staying more or less on the railroad that is the early story missions. Fortunately, for nerds like me who find the storylines in MMORPGs interesting, it also included storyline quests that taught us about the world, which I enjoyed completing and reading about. Seamus actually blew well past where I was because I wanted to read their flavor text and learn more about the game world, and he just wanted to hit things with his sword. Before I knew it, FluffyStar and I had played well into the morning and sleep started to overcome me. “This has been fun,” I relented, feeling the weight of my eyelids as I typed into the game's text chat window, “But I need to crash,” “Will you be on tomorrow night?” FluffyStar pried. “Yeah, probably. After I get back from work, I will,” “Great,” she punctuated, “Let me add you to my friends list, so I can see when you arrive,” Ah, the dreaded social systems these games are known for. Elegant in their simplicity and yet sufficient enough to drive those like my good buddy Dieter berserk with fury. Slidelands has many to its name and pioneered many – shall we call them – intricate systems into the core mechanics of the game as a result. Put bluntly: you were not expected to play this game as a lone wolf against all odds. Because of the game's heavy social bent, enemies scale slightly faster than their in-game level suggests, forcing players to team up or be unable to keep up with the progression in difficulty and this infuriated some of my close friends, namely the aforementioned Dieter and another friend, Cog. Who is Cog? Well, he thankfully avoided the fate that we did but not for the best of reasons. He actually played the game a few years before us, whereupon he played the robot race – the Teknos – and discovered that their crowd-dispersal Chaingun Riptide ability could be used to attack fellow players, even if they were in safe zones. So he, having grown bored within his first few minutes of play, parked his character in a field just outside of Strattburg's safe zone and killed unsuspecting new players as they left for 30 minutes – before the server admin banned him for life with no chance at appeal or refund. Not a week later, a hotfix patch went live, removing the Teknos from the game entirely, accompanied by an apology from the game developers and a small cache of Platinum Gems – the premium currency the game uses. Far as I know, it was the only time content was actually removed from the game. But I digress. “Thanks,” I said, seeing Fluffy's name appear in the roster alongside of Zechs and Deegal's, “I appreciate the tutelage,” “I'm just saying: it's not too late to go back and make a better-optimized tank race character,” Fluffy cautioned. I chuckled, “And do the same thing everyone else is doing? Where would the fun in that be?” “You only play for fun?” “Sure do. Isn't that what everyone does?” I offered. “Never thought of it that way before,” she responded after a brief moment of dead air. I didn't really take it to heart, as I was already half-dead with fatigue. The next day went by like oh so many others, coping with my job and commute, before returning home again to my computer. My beautiful hardwood desk and custom-ordered PC tower each cost me a mint in their own respective days. Together, they made up the centerpiece of my tiny studio apartment, and where I spent almost all of my time not dedicated to my eight-hours-a-day grind. And I take this time aside to say that that's not strange or pathetic at all. Shut up. In days to come, FluffyStar taught me just how complex the game actually was in its wellspring of potential customization and timesinks of grinding levels and growth trees and individual talent skills and much more. Not to mention the minigames. In what seemed like no time at all, she even invited me into her guild – The Night Owls. Being part of a guild – particularly one as active as The Night Owls – is really quite the experience. You never look far for parties (teams of up to six players who share all dropped exp and loot) and you end up developing some really cool strategies with others – a tendency Dieter referred to as “slightly more preferable than a violent death by rusty guillotine”. And here I thought I didn't much care for the company of others, but the owls took me in as one of their own. Well, sort of at any rate. “Whoa,” said one nearly-naked avatar as he eyeballed my towering, heavily-armored hero, “This isn't meta-standard at all!” I was as intrigued by his design as he was by mine, but for different reasons. His character was a nearly nude Floof clan male (the first I'd seen in my playtime), clad in a questionable banana hammock, a flowing, pink silk scarf, and a plush doll of a blue whale sitting atop his mane of dark hair. While idling, the character, NeekuthePantsless, would fold his arms across his chest and grin smugly, his long, bushy tail switching from side to side proudly, as if aware how indecent he appeared to be and basking in it. “This game is primarily player versus environment,” I protested, “How is there even a metagame at all?” “How can you even ask something like that?!” Neeku was astonished and annoyed at my exceeding ignorance (or sheer reluctance) on the topic of turning a video game into algebra homework, “The tank meta is so yesterday. Get with it, Windows! Everyone knows the current meta to beat is ProDoZoa!” I was relieved that, being physically removed from this number-crunching scrub, they were unable to hear my deep sigh that carried with it my intense distaste for meta-gamers, e-sports, and speedrunners of all stripes. I returned with an emotionally neutral, “Oh?” “Proton-Dozer Zorren Dual-Wielder,” FluffyStar interjected, “It's the highest physical DPS class in the game so far!” “Right, because just having the 'best' stats makes a game fun, right?” I growled my reply with disdainful, but equally-unseen keystrokes, “Gimme a break,” “He doesn't even know the ProDoZoa meta, Fluffy, are we sure we want this guy in the guild?” Neeku observed, either unaware or unbothered by my seeing it in the public chat. “It's an interesting experiment. I'm curious to see how strong he can be with it,” FluffyStar shook her head coolly, her long rabbit ears waving side to side limply as she did so. Neeku shrugged at this, “Okay. So, what level are you at, Window-man?” “Currently, I'm level 32,” I explained. In a way I sort of felt as though I was boasting. Most games of this type maintained levels that capped out at 80-100, so being one-third of the way through as quickly as I was even with my casual play style made me a little smug. “Oh geez,” Neeku worried, “We got... quite a ways to go then,” Feeling my pride called into question I had to ask, “Wait, so, what level are you guys?” Looking above them, I saw their nametags and basic stats appear in turn. FluffyStar, Neutron Drifter, Level 11,847 NeekuthePantsless, Electron Despoiler, Level 498 “What the actual hell?” I grunted as I re-read the numbers to ensure I hadn't lost my mind. I hesitated as I considered what I was looking at. I had seen the oft-repeated memes concerning just how grind-heavy SlideLands was, but this seemed incomprehensible. You can level your character, your skills (of which there are an insane amount), your subclasses (which also tie into skills to some extent), late-game armor and weapons, pets, and more, but to have a five-digit level cap? And who's to say at this point that it isn't higher than that?! My pride sufficiently deflated at this, I resumed typing, “I see. You must really like this game,” “That I do,” FluffyStar affirmed. “You're not allowed to do raid boss battles until you're at least level 100,” Neeku informed me, “So, how about I take you out to the Glass Desert and get you up to snuff. If you're going to insist on that suboptimal build?” “I insist,” I grit my teeth. My actual teeth – the set he couldn't see, obviously. “Ugh. But... the meta!” Neeku whined at me. “Neeku, just do it,” FluffyStar insisted. “Fine, fine. Follow me and, whatever you do, do not aggro anything,” Neeku demanded of me. “Glass Desert? I thought I couldn't go into really high-level plates though?” I wondered aloud as we walked. “If you're in-party with someone of a high enough level, I can taxi you to some places you'd otherwise be unable to go on your own. Of course, there are some hard limits. You couldn't get to half the places Fluffy can go, even if she tried to take you there herself. But we'll get this little power-leveling session out of the way and maybe you won't hold us back too much,” Neeku explained. I struggled to discern if I was supposed to be offended by that or not. “Thank you,” I managed. So we went, a plate far to the west of Strattburg's, where I got tucked into a small corner of the map, hidden in the shadow of a rock outcropping amidst the sand dunes. My character stood by idly as, within seconds, I had suddenly jumped several levels all in one go as Neeku's character deftly wiped out monster after monster. All common-tier, of course, since we didn't want to go anywhere that would put me in real danger. In SlideLands, monsters appear in one of five basic tiers: Common, Named, Boss, Raid, and Mega Raid. Common enemies – as the name might suggest – were the ones you would encounter commonly, whereas Named enemies spawn randomly amidst their common brethren for sudden bursts of challenges. Boss monsters usually sat in preset locations on the map and awaited challengers and usually were taken on in full parties of five or six heroes. Raid monsters were super-bosses, residing only in the game's toughest challenges: the dungeons. Raid monsters are much stronger than any other type even if they share the same level – as the name implies several teams full of adventurers pour in their collective skills to defeat these sorts of dungeons and their respective Raid-Boss monsters for high-tier loot. Mega Raids, at this point, I had only seen video of online and they require hundreds of active, high-level players to coordinate fairly well to defeat. Meanwhile, the common practice Neeku had begun undertaking with me, power leveling, was often done to build up new characters to expedite the process so they can play with their friends. My exact feelings on this are a bit mixed, due to my actually appreciating the lore of the game, but at the same time – a leg up this mild couldn't possibly make that big a difference if the max level were something obscene like 99,999 or something even greater than that. In no time, I crested level 200 and Neeku had grown bored with making short work of the local wildlife – and I had grown equally so with this exercise. “Alright, now, take that extra gold and buy yourself better armor. With that, you should be... passable, at least,” Neeku relented his first unambiguous praise upon me and my rabbit-man. “I appreciate the boost,” I admitted. We began making movements towards the exit, but the world around us began to shake, “Wait, what's that?” “We need to run, rookie!” Neeku demanded. “What's happening?” I asked again. “You weren't pushing anything this whole time, right?” “Right, but why?” “It's an anti-idle boss! Damn, I forgot about those!” Neeku hurriedly explained. I'd later learn that, in order to stop excessive camping in certain spots, players who sat in inactive states for long spans of time without any actions taken would summon unusually powerful boss creatures to weed them out. This was apparently a conscious decision to help with server load balancing and to punish idlers and, presumably, people who were doing precisely what we were doing. My mind raced with possibilities: being in the desert biome meant that it was likely something tough, but stylized – perhaps a giant scorpion would be fitting? Or for more of a fantasy flare, it may be a dragon with cacti growing from its hides, I considered. Perhaps the dev staff were fans of British comedy and we'd soon be accosted by a giant, bloodthirsty desert hare. But to my surprise it was none of those things. “Is that a giant crab riding on the back of a giant turtle?” I managed to hastily type in, “Do you need help with this?” “Damn! The King Crustaseanoid and his Regal Terra-pinner!” Neeku declared, “I'll be honest with you. I'm not sure even I got this one, newb!” “Actually, that should be a Queen Crustaseanoid. Male crabs have a triangular shell on their underbelly, while this one is rounded,” I observed. “That's... really not helping!” he took the time out to turn his character to stare mine down coldly. “Sorry,” “Alright, dumbass, stand back and try not to piss anything else off in the meantime!” Neeku ordered, brandishing a strange set of orbs attached to a long staff that I figured must be his weapon of choice. Neeku's avatar whooped with delight as he began bashing the legs of the turtle monster as I backed a safe distance away and quickly took in what new abilities I had unlocked in my sudden leveling-marathon to see if anything I had could help. “Eat balls, turtle!” Neeku challenged, causing me to glance up from my submenu to eyeball this sad, strange man who was really holding his own quite well despite his initial hesitations. After watching this go a bit and seeing that he was easily winning the damage race, I began to relax – this was well in hand despite the strange taunts he issued the idle boss. However, my calm demeanor was shattered when, upon seeing the turtle's HP hit 0, which should have brought the fight to a close, the crab leaped down from its perch and began attacking Neeku – and doing a ton more damage than the turtle could have dreamed of doing. “This is precisely what I was afraid of!” Neeku declared, “I'm running low on Spirit. I'm using it faster than I'm regenerating it! Hope you're ready to see what dying looks like in this game, newb!” A sharp, jabbing feeling crept up within me. It was, technically, my fault we were in this mess. I had to do something. Then I noticed it – an ability in my submenu. Black Iron Castle – a defensive technique that renders the user both invincible and immobile for 8 seconds and draws all nearby enemies' hostility (commonly called aggro) to the user. My class, the Bunker, had just the tool for the job after all. “Hey, Neeku! On my mark, make a run for it!” I ordered, as I watched his health swiftly falling. “You got a plan?!” he shot back. “Something like that, yeah,” I typed as quickly as I could. The cooldown on the ability was a devastating 12 minutes. In terms of active-time combat, that was several eternities atop one another. We'd have one shot to do this just right and if Neeku hesitated at all, the body count would still be two. “No time like the present then!” I declared, “Run, Neeku!” I said, watching my character take on a dark hue and a metallic sheen. I lost the ability to move or use other abilities, but it worked like a dream: the crab lost all interest in the near-dead Neeku and turned to my hero, slashing with its massive pincers as a long string of zeroes appeared above his head, the damage failing to find a home. I admit I didn't have a plan past that. The Bunker only does two things particularly well, and that's anger enemies and take hits. With this handy new tool in my kit, I was at least able to repay Neeku his kindness and cut the casualties in half. As soon as it hit me, maybe even just the one time, I would die. I'd lose anything in my public pouch – a large bag where dungeon loot is placed prior to the player being able to hide it safely in a permanent storage or bank – and half the gold on my character, on top of a small cut to my gained experience points and lastly, be whisked away the nearest cathedral to respawn and begin again. Granted, that would be pretty much every item I had that wasn't currently equipped and quite a bit of time's worth of gold, but I resolved to think better of the situation. I helped someone, so the goal I set out to accomplish was complete. I folded my hands across my stomach and leaned back in my chair and awaited the inevitable. However, much to my surprise, the inevitable never came. I glanced up again after the time for the buff expired only to see a dead crab, upside-down and legs crumpled inward like a squashed spider. My adventurer was very much alive. I leaned towards my monitor to study what had changed, only to see FluffyStar coolly walk into the scene once again. “That was close. I wasn't sure my EarthRock Magnum would kill it completely in one hit, but it did!” she 'said' in the chat, “Are you two okay?” “We are now,” Neeku observed. Letting out a small sigh of relief, I typed back at last, “Yeah. Thanks again!” “Don't mention it. You're a Night Owl in your own right now!” Fluffy commented. The adventure for the evening more or less ended not long after that encounter. Neeku went around the guild building – a space players create and customize for their guildmates – telling everyone about how he toppled an idle boss with only a minor lift from Fluffy. Somehow in his retelling, my saving his nearly-naked butt was left out, but I didn't feel the need to correct him. Tanks and supports don't fill the roles they perform for glory, fame, or adoration – that's what bastard DPS players do. It wasn't long after that our once tight-knit crew began to come apart at the seams. It happened shortly after Fluffy up and disappeared after boasting about her conquest of some high-level quest. One by one, our players began to wander off. Unfortunately, so did I. I got a new job that paid better and had more consistent hours, but it forced me to work mornings, so I rarely got the chance to see anyone from back then. Before I knew it, I sort of fell off from playing the game entirely. There were other games to play, other social groups I interacted with, and other obligations for me to handle. I even had a date set for one particular weekend. I would tell you how it went, if only I had been in attendance myself. I didn't stand her up, though. I woke up one morning, lying at the far edge of a ramshackle town. I stood up slowly, encumbered by the presence of heavy-duty solid steel plate armor covering my every side. Which is strange as I shouldn't need to clarify that I have never in my life slept in such garb. I looked down at my hands, which were massive and covered in equally massive metal gauntlets. I placed one to the side of my head to check for injury but grabbed ahold of a colossal bucket-styled helmet shielding it. I took a step back, physically shocked as the realization fell on me. I looked around me at what was unmistakably Strattburg. The NPCs were there. The random adventurers from all the different clans were present and accounted for. Even the random chickens which used to be background objects clucked merrily along their way as they pecked at the ground in search of feed. “No, this isn't real,” I whispered to myself. I closed my eyes, attempting to will myself awake from this lucid dream I found myself in. Then opened them to see the fantasy land again. I was aware of my own breathing, and my avatar's gear, and the uncomfortable truth of the situation made itself known to me: I was trapped in an MMORPG.

[bamboovandiemen]

Bamboo products: Why they’re taking over the market

Many cultures around the world have used bamboo for eons. Today there is a boom in innovative bamboo products and applications as a sustainable alternative to wood. When we at Bamboo Van Diemen became aware of this phenomenon, we researched the heck out of this amazing plant. The mind boggling findings left us with little doubt that our future path would be bordered by Bamboo. The only mystery we determined, was why it took the western world so long to discover ‘the miracle plant’ . 

Read on and discover some of the most fantastic bamboo products you probably didn’t even know existed!

What products are made from bamboo? 

This is often one of the first questions one asks when learning about this incredible plant. Bamboo products are becoming more popular because of their environmental-friendly properties.

What products can be made from the tree? Anything that is made from wood can also be made from bamboo. However, the advantage of bamboo is that it grows quickly and can be harvested every year without damaging or having to replant the plantation or forest. Bamboo has better mechanical properties than traditional wood materials.

There are currently thousands of commercial bamboo products on the market, and new uses and innovative applications are being added daily. They range from building materials to food, medicine, musical instruments, textiles, wood pulp, fencing, basketry, tools, bicycles, etc.

So the better question would be: what products cannot be made from bamboo?

Or, as an ancient Asian saying goes: 

“Man is born in a bamboo cradle and leaves in a bamboo coffin. Everything in between is possible with bamboo!”

Bamboo musical instruments

For thousands of years, bamboo has been used to make musical instruments, initially probably percussion, but later also for wind and string instruments. Its natural hollow shape makes bamboo an obvious choice for many traditional instruments, such as a wide variety of flutes. However, the excellent sound qualities of solid bamboo sheets are also used today to build modern guitars.

It is well known that every bamboo forest hides the instruments for an orchestra. The list of bamboo musical instruments is very long indeed. It includes xylophones, dulcimers, marimbas, alone, castanets, drumsticks, zithers, cut drums, bells, maracas, guitars, and ukuleles, violins, Chapman sticks, panflutes, didgeridoos, fifes, saxophones, clarinets, kazoos, whistles, trumpets, and piccolo, etc.

Bamboo ukulele

Bamboo Pan Flute

Bamboo Xylophone

Bamboo Didgeridoo

Bamboo Lyre Harp

Bamboo Saxophone Reeds

Bamboo Thumb Piano

Bamboo Drum Sticks

Bamboo Flutes

Bamboo Guiro

Bamboo fabrics and textiles

In recent years, several technologies have been developed that allow bamboo fibers to be used for a wide range of fabrics, cloths, yarns, textiles, clothing, and fashion applications, such as T-shirts, pants, underwear, socks, towels, sheets, pillowcases, blankets, mattresses, and even weaves.

Currently, two production processes are used to produce bamboo fabrics: chemical and mechanical. The advantages of processed bamboo textiles are ramie-like feel, a natural antifungal and antimicrobial properties, rapid moisture absorption and drying ability, the ability to retain warmth in cold periods and coolness in hot periods, and protection from ultraviolet rays and antistatic properties. 

Unfortunately (due to the higher cost of mechanically extracted bamboo fibers), modern bamboo garments are usually made from chemically treated bamboo, called viscose rayon.

This region is produced by dissolving cellulose in bamboo and then extruding it to form fibers. This process removes the natural characteristics of the bamboo fiber, making it identical to the region of other cellulose sources. Unless the product is made directly from bamboo fiber (mechanically processed bamboo), it cannot be called “bamboo.” 

Bamboo textiles offer many solutions to the unsustainable nature of textile engineering, as bamboo is a renewable resource that produces 50 times more fiber per acre than cotton.

However, production costs, energy, water, and chemicals still need to be addressed.  

Reusable Bamboo Makeup Remover Pads

Bamboo Pillow

Bamboo Bath Towels

Bamboo bed Sheets

Bamboo pulp and paper

Bamboo fibers have been used for papermaking since ancient times, but in recent years bamboo has become the primary raw material for pulp and paper production due to the scarcity of wood resources. The bamboo paper has a high tear index, similar to hardwood paper, and its brightness and optical properties remain stable. In contrast, those of wood pulp paper can deteriorate over time. Bamboo can also be processed with less energy, and bamboo can be processed with less energy and chemicals than wood, making it more environmentally friendly.

According to research, the total production capacity of bamboo, pulp reached 2.4 million tons in 2017, of which 80% is used to produce raw bamboo pulp for household paper. Examples of bamboo products are coffee filters, cups, paper towels, toilet paper, cardboard, craft paper, and bond paper.

Bamboo Toilet Paper

Bamboo Coffee Filters

Disposable Bamboo Paper Cups

Reusable Bamboo Paper Towels

Bamboo Baby Diapers

Bamboo Copy Paper

Bamboo Bioenergy

Bamboo Chips

Bamboo Charcoal

Bamboo Briquettes

Bamboo Pellets

Bamboo Food and Beverage

Bamboo Shoots

Bamboo Tea

Bamboo Beer

Bamboo Salt

Bamboo Sports and Recreation

Bamboo Skateboard

Bamboo Golf Tees

Bamboo Paddleboard Paddle

Bamboo Cornhole Game

Bamboo Bicycle

Bamboo Bottle

Bamboo Luggage Carrier

Bamboo Baseball Bat

Bamboo Ski Poles

Bamboo Electronics

Bamboo Speakers

Bamboo Mouse

Bamboo Phone Case

Bamboo Digital Clock

Bamboo Stylus

Bamboo Wireless Charger

Bamboo Airpod Case

Bamboo Calculator

 Bamboo Jewelry and Fashion

Bamboo Watch

Bamboo Sunglasses

Bamboo Earrings

Bamboo Umbrella Handle

Bamboo Handbag

Bamboo Walking Stick

Bamboo Sandal Heels

Bamboo Folding Hand Fan

 Bamboo Furniture

Bamboo Arm Chair

Bamboo Pendant Lamp

Bamboo Side Table

Bamboo Table Legs

Bamboo Bookshelf

Bamboo Toilet Stool

Bamboo Rocking Chair

Bamboo Canopy Bed

Bamboo Nightstands

Bamboo Beauty and Personal Care

Bamboo Cotton Swabs

Bamboo Soap

Bamboo Toothbrushes

Bamboo Toilet Seat

Bamboo Bathroom Accessories

Bamboo Hairbrush & Comb

Bamboo Household Items

Bamboo Basket

Bamboo Salt & Pepper Grinder

Bamboo Drinking Straws

Reusable Bamboo Dinnerware

Bamboo Cutlery

Bamboo Steamer

Bamboo Cutting Board

Bamboo Pot Brush

Bamboo Clothes Hangers

Bamboo Mortar and Pestle

Bamboo Clothes Pins

Bamboo Charcoal Air Purifying Bags

 Bamboo Agriculture and Livestock

Bamboo Beehive

Bamboo Stakes

We are a small, family business. We love Bamboo – what it can do for the garden, the State of Tasmania, the Planet, and the soul. It’s entirely possible that you haven’t found the answers or products you were looking for on our website or you would like further information or make an appointment to visit our nursery to view or select some plants (we aren’t a retail shop). That’s great, we’d love to introduce you to this miracle plant. Please don’t hesitate to contact us in any way you choose – we’ll be back to you in a flash.

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[mintchipnicecream]

computer text and celery clear up the car wash in a stunning manner. framing the books that way enabled us to share the different varieties of pineapple and goji recollecting, or in the way of Taoist insertion, rode away for the revolution. these oil blocks show us a new way of thinking about color, or the form of occupying strategy, in bits and pieces. a caramel cassette tape player situated in between the Gemini turntable and a random mixer was noted to be wavy and long, not to mention forthright. the oddities of this phenomenon were transcribed in a passing book, to be shown at once to the sorcerer and the jedi. leaving the sound board to all of the young cats, i made the appearance of the loved one a thankful and danceological aspect of ribbonation. we did, however, have more ribbons than what we initially started with. the silent wolf suddenly cried as the crude candy came back around. the sheep in the garden was intrigued by the happy volume of the motion picture film, the cynical mechanic knew for once that space matters. there is a radical-looking cactus sitting on the porch; there is some kind of Chongqing humming machine ruminating about the nouns and adjectives, like a skateboard, like ferns. i had figured out that we had some witchhazel perfume, we had some junipers that needed to be profoundly rescued. my ego tells me that we can never create engines by having the phenomena be alone; we must use this digitally manipulated image to bake lemon meringue pies. like soft pretzels and Raw Revolution bars, we articulated the message well, we found a hummingbird nestled in the softest parts of this forest. and the Australian encouragement, combined with a queerness we hadn’t known, resisted the chocolate temptation in favor of vanilla. the great blondie question, the interminable conversations, funneling back to the present moment, surely topping off the hiziki-wakame salad. so the lettuce-ketchup continuum reached its peak when i fell in love with the sounds of this anarchic and nomadic bloc of madness. the Epiphone guitars meshed well with these squares of antiquity. during the posh time periods of the very first years of the 21st century, they discovered a nexus for powerful clarity, a gem of the decadent age. what was uncovered instead were bits of energy encouraged to reconvene in the lobbies of this non-binary saw palmetto, and the berries thereof. reaching back through time, we moved our ice cream ethic back to the circle of duplication and technical fidgeting; however, we knew of many other means of Solidarity and limerick potion. the refrigerator decals stood out, clearly because there was a whole note written on a piece of paper that was destined to come into our ownership. the trolley cars and pickup trucks and dracaenas, materially envisaged with a gumological flair.

[floreal79]

1851 to 2021: “Plus ça change..”

“The history of all hitherto existing societies is the history of class struggle” wrote Marx and Engels in 1848 (in “The Communist Manifesto”). This sentence provides the essence of what has become known as historical materialism, a theoretical framework that can still today be considered the most scientifically sound method yet described of analysing historical processes. Marx employed this method in his writings about the events in France at around the time of publication of the Manifesto, and these works are still widely regarded as having laid bare the mechanisms of the social forces at work.

But over the nearly 200 years that have elapsed since that time, society has not evolved at all in the way that Marx, with his understanding of historical materialism, predicted. In retrospect, it could be argued that where Marx was wrong was not in his underlying theory, but in his calculation of the power of the forces that he described, the interaction of which has thus taken a very different course from the one he foresaw.

The American economist Michael Hudson has described how, from the latter part of the last century to the present time, the economies of the major capitalist countries have become “financialised”. He describes a “FIRE Sector” (“FIRE” is an acronym for Finance, Insurance and Real Estate) whose interests have come to dominate all other economic activity, with devastating economic consequences for much of the populace. Hudson frequently alludes to the “One Percent” to whom the remaining 99% are economically subjugated. This group (also known as the “rentier” class) has its historical antecedents in the “finance aristocracy” described in Marx’s writings.

In mid-nineteenth century France, prior to 1848, industrial capitalism was still in its infancy, and the political power of its leaders was harshly curtailed by the reactionary grouping centred around the Orleanist king, Louis-Philippe. This group, according to Marx, was made up of “bankers, stock exchange kings, owners of coal-mines, ironworks and forests, landed proprietors”, and he used the generic term “finance aristocracy”. The overthrow of Louis-Philippe in February 1848 was by a popular revolt, when the working class of Paris came onto the streets to demand reforms of a “democratic” nature, but which promoted the aims of the “real industrial bourgeoisie” (Marx’s term). As the working class continued its demands for democracy, however, the two arms of the bourgeoisie (“finance aristocracy” and “real industrial bourgeoisie”) combined to suppress them, in the bloody event of July of that year. The events that unrolled over the period from then until Louis Bonaparte’s coup in 1851 were analysed in detail by Marx, and described in terms of a struggle between the “finance aristocracy” and the “real industrial bourgeoisie”. Marx held the view that the industrial bourgeoisie were bound to gain and retain the upper hand, and that the struggles that would determine the course of subsequent history would be between the industrial bourgeoisie and the working class. 

As industrial capitalism spread across the world in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Marx’s expectations were correct, in that the main social conflicts were indeed between capital and labour. But expansion of capital regularly required recourse to the funds of the finance sector, which thus continued to exert power, and the tension between this group and the industrialists has not disappeared, rather contrary to Marx’s expectations (see M Hudson).

The essence is that while manufacturing capitalism aims to increase the total of surplus value, financial capitalism aims to squeeze as much monetary profit as it can from current surplus value, and in doing so restricts the processes that enlarge the totality. While the manufacturing bourgeois will accept some diminution in his share of wealth created if the result is an increase in the total created (just as two-fifths of a large sum can be greater than three-fifths of a small one), the banker/rentier/financial bourgeois just wants the largest immediate payment out of any given enterprise, with no regard for future wealth creation, as “investments” are moved around the stock market. (A semi-mathematical representation of this conflict is attached as an Appendix).

The conflict between these short-term and long-term strategies, embodying the competing interests of manufacturing versus financial capital, can be seen as important in the political developments over the one and three quarter centuries since Marx’s writings on mid-nineteenth century France, and especially so since the rise to dominance, in the last quarter of the twentieth century, of what is called “neoliberalism”. It can be seen as a continuation of the conflict between industry and finance in nineteenth century France that Marx wrote so eloquently about, but which he expected to diminish in importance as the struggle between capital and labour came to dominate politics.

Marx anticipated that the demands of the finance aristocracy would become subservient to those of the industrial bourgeoisie, and that the struggles of the future would be two-sided contests between capital and labour. He expected the working class eventually to win in this two-sided struggle, and to bring the forces of production under public control and ownership. That history has not followed the path Marx anticipated can be related to his miscalculation of the class forces at play.

During the late nineteenth century and for approximately the first three-quarters of  the twentieth (up to about 1980), manufacturing capitalism in the West underwent fairly steady expansion (albeit in a the classical cyclical way described by Marx, but at the start of each cycle the capitalist economy was almost always larger than at the start of the preceding one). During this period, organised labour could usually reach an accommodation with the bourgeoisie as increasingly productive industry created wealth that could be used in part to improve workers’ conditions (both by paying better wages and by social  reform, as in welfare and health). The term “Fordism” is sometimes used for this (purist economists might differ on this use of the term), and this model was the one that achieved the “Golden Age  of Capitalism” during the third quarter of the twentieth century. During this period, as Marx had anticipated, financial capital took a secondary role to the successful industrialists. However, Marx had failed to fully foresee the way in which the unionised working class would be able to claw back some share of surplus value. 

An analogy for the relationship between manufacturing capital (“Marx’s “real industrial bourgeoisie”) and labour that held sway over that time can be found in the natural phenomenon of symbiosis between two different species of creature, for example a sea anemone perched on the shell of a hermit crab: the two creatures compete for the same source of food, but by working together (moving around on the crab’s legs, catching prey with the anemone’s tentacles), the supply of food is enhanced, and both get a better share than either would achieve alone. Of course, the analogy cannot be taken too far: the class struggle between the proletariat and the industrial bourgeoisie remained intense during these years, and the finance sector took a back seat, but were always aligned with the more those sections of manufacturing that were most aggressive in opposing the claims of the working class. Newspaper proprietors such as Murdoch gave rallying points to their views.

Yet, while it was constantly in struggle with the industrial bourgeoisie, the working class of the “West” almost never staged a serious threat to its control of the state: as long as it could continue to improve its material conditions within the capitalist system, it could be placated. By using part of ‘surplus value” to improve living standards and to support healthcare and welfare, the bourgeoisie could do this, and advancing technology meant that greater wealth could be created. In this way, Keynes thought he could foresee a time - in the not-too-distant future - when the fifteen-hour week would become normal. 

Keynes also recognised that, as well as funding welfare, the industrial capitalist state needed to steer a long-term strategy for capitalist accumulation with such areas of expenditure as education and research (including universities and research establishments). In this, Keynes’ thinking represented of the long-term interests of the industrial bourgeoisie.

On the other hand, the finance sector, always eager to achieve immediate maximum profit, always opposed increased workers’ pay, expenditure on health and welfare, indeed any expenditure that reduced the amount of profit that could be reaped. Nearly all government expenditure is seen by them as wasteful and “big government” is one of their most most notable bêtes noires. A consequence of this is that almost all infrastructure spending is curtailed, a glaring example being railways: development of high-speed rail in those countries, the US and UK, where the neoliberal values of the finance capitalists are most firmly entrenched, lag far behind that in most other advanced industrial economies.

The essence of the conflict between “industrial” and “finance” capitalists lies in the need of the former to increase the total wealth produced by society whereas the latter needs to maximise the share it takes of existing wealth. In this conflict, the industrialists can ally themselves with the working class, for reasons just outlined; a strong working class is not only a product of capitalism but, in certain conditions, a powerful support to one section of the capitalist class. But when the working class becomes less powerful, the financial capitalists increase their power, a process that can be seen to have been taking place since about 1980, to varying degrees, across the capitalist world (i.e. almost the whole world outside China).

Marx had obviously seen the “finance aristocracy” as a distinct class (in the strict historical materialist sense of the word) in the nineteenth century, one that he saw as a continuance of feudal power (based originally on land rent). His expectation was that this class would become subordinate to the industrial capitalists, to the point of almost ceasing to have independent existence, and that from then on, the dominant class conflict would be between capitalist and worker. But nearly 200 years later, this class (as the “FIRE Sector”) is stronger than ever, and the relationship between it and the industrial bourgeoisie again dominates the political scene, a scene in which the proletariat, demoralised and with its organisational powers having been all but eradicated, can exert only minimal influence.

Thus the dynamic of class struggle in the world of the twentieth century has a distinct resemblance to that of France in the mid-nineteenth century, one in which there are three, not two, mutually antagonistic classes with the industrial bourgeoisie occupying some middle ground between the workers and the “rentiers”. They have exploited this hitherto by adjusting their stance to accommodate the stronger of the others, but by 2021 it is the “rentier” class who have the upper hand and are threatening to reduce both the working class and the industrial bourgeoisie to impotence. What they fail to see is that their short-term emphasis on financial profit threatens the long-term creation of “real” (manufactured) value. 

Appendix: “Manufacturing” vs “Financial” Capitalist Accumulation

Let’s consider a “bourgeois” about to embark upon a new capitalist venture. It starts on “Day 0”, and we take a hypothetical first “cycle” up to an arbitrary “Day n”, after which the further cycles (slightly-different, as will be outlined) take place (athough in reality the process is more continuous than cyclical)

On “Day 0”: Bourgeois invests some capital, to value “C” for capitalist production up to “Day n” (the origins of this capital to be discussed later)

Days 0 to n

(first cycle): “C” is expended on:-

Fixed assets (machinery, etc): “F”

Recurrent expenses (fuel, rent, etc) to "Day n”: “Rn”

Wages of employees to "Day n”: “Wn”

Then:  C = F + Rn + Wn

By “Day n”:       - The labour of the employees has created commodity of value “Vn”

      - Fixed assets have depreciated by “∂Fn”

      - In a successful enterprise, Vn>>Wn, and Vn = Wn + Sn

where “S” corresponds to Marx’s “Surplus Value”, “Sn” being its quantity at day n

      - The bourgeois’ assets now have a value of (F-∂Fn) + Vn

      - Also, if Sn > (Rn + ∂Fn), then Vn - (Wn + Rn + ∂Fn)  is “profit” (Pn), so that for the    period from Day 0 to Day n:

Pn = Vn - (Wn + Rn + ∂Fn)  - Equation #1

     To put this in words, the profit is the value of the goods produced less the combined total of wages, recurrent expenses and depreciation of assets.

The cycle can then repeat with further increments of profit. The above equation for Day 0 to Day n can be rewritten in a general form as:

P = V - (W + R + ∂F) - Equation #2

 As profit accrues, it can be expended in various ways:

#1) Increasing “capacity” by investing in further fixed assets (with corresponding increases in the wage bill etc , but increased output and profit eventually). Renewal of old equipment can be included in this. If a major project is undertaken, additional capital may need to be brought in from outside. (The term “∂C” will be used for this, below).

#2) Investment in R&D (“D”)

#3) The bourgeois may hand some of the profit to the workers in increased wages. Organised, unionised labour makes this more likely, although capitalists such as Henry Ford, while a bitter enemy of trade unions, saw the wisdom of increasing wages. Such a “sharing” of profit was a feature of the “Golden Age of Capitalism” - the third quarter of the twentieth century - during which time working people saw real improvements in their material conditions, BUT it essentially came to an end in about 1980. (“∂W” will be used for increased wage rates).

#4) Tax - civilised society requires infrastructure and welfare (some overlap between this and #3) (“T”)

#5) Some capital may be used for speculative investment in further ventures (as this is a from of money lending, the term “U” as in “usury” is used).

#6) The original capital to create the business, plus any further tranches, as in #1 above, may have been raised from the rentier class in which case it needs to be repaid (“X”).

ISo, the total profit, “P” can be divided between these six possible options as the bourgeois

decides (under pressure from other directions, of course: see below) and another equation for “P” 

describes this:

P = ∂C + D + ∂W + T + U + X - Equation #3

(It might be noticed that no terms in the equation is used to cover such things as shareholders dividends, bonuses to senior managers, etc, but as these are generally dependent upon the value of “U” achieved, they can be considered as a potion of that, and not covered separately). 

The manufacturing bourgeois’ wishes to continue “capital accumulation” will often at some point mean using more than just the already-accumulated “∂C”” and “D”, and may necessitate obtaining outside funding for his investments, which will often entail conversion to a “joint stock company”, such as through a sale of shares in an “initial public offering” (IPO). But now our manufacturing bourgeois allows an important new voice to enter the discussion about how the distribution of “P” is made between its carious components.

From then on, usually posing their demands as “in the interests of the share-holders”, the “finance aristocracy” begins to exert its influence, and the word “investment” now undergoes a subtle change of meaning. Beforehand, “investment’ was what was understood as falling within #1 above: spending on research, new equipment, etc; under the “finance aristocracy”, most available money is “invested” in further speculative ventures -  the quickest way to maximise profit. For the finance aristocracy, its “investments” must turn the biggest profit most rapidly.

So there are now three groups competing for their share of the profits of capitalist industry:

#1) The workers: they have to be paid a certain sum (“W”) to survive and continue to generate surplus value (“S”). Beyond this, they also want to improve their material conditions by receiving a share of “P”; they also tend to favour social measures that improve their lives , favouring the use of part of “P”  (tax, “T” in the equations) by society the form of taxation to improve communal functions - health, education, social security, infrastructure etc.

#2) The manufacturing bourgeoisie: this group has an interest in long-term capital accumulation, so appreciates the need to accommodate some of the workers’ demands above, and also the need for long-term investment in modernisation; in the past this has included paying tax to support government-run research institutes (universities and other), as well as for expenditure on such infrastructure as transport and telecommunication (and so on..).

#3). The finance aristocracy, in the present day in their new guise as “FIRE”: for these people, “S” needs to be used to make further profit by speculative investment. They have no interest in long-term development of industry through R&D, and certainly no interest in maintaining living standards for the workers. For government to take part of “S” as tax and use it for such things as healthcare, education, welfare, infrastructure (etc) is abhorred. “Down with Big Government” is one of their mantras.

To return to the earlier equations, we have:

P = V - (W + R + ∂F) - Equation #2

and

P = ∂C + D + ∂W + T + U + X - Equation #3

Removing “P”, as the common factor, can combine these two equations to give:

∂C + D + ∂W + T + U + X = V - (W + R + ∂F) 

And rearranging this:

U = V - (W + R + ∂F + ∂C + D + ∂W + T + X)                    - Equation #4

For the financial sector, maximising “U” as quickly as possible  is the main aim, in order to have capital to “invest” in further speculative ventures (and also to fund their exorbitant lifestyles). Long-term growth of manufacturing is of no interest to them, whereas the manufacturing bourgeoisie, aiming to accumulate capital, will not necessarily wish to maximise “U” at the expense of long term investment in industry (another illustration of how “investment” means different things to the financial and manufacturing bourgeoisies).

So, from Equation #4, the finance sector aim to maximise “U” by minimising the other items on the right side of the equation, while the manufacturer sees a long-term gain for his particular capitalist venture by “investing” in expansion, in R&D, and in some measures to promote the material conditions of the workers.

The essence is that while manufacturing capitalism aims to increase the total of surplus value in the long term, financial capitalism aims to squeeze as much monetary profit as it can from current surplus value, and in doing so damages the mechanisms that enlarge the totality. While the manufacturing bourgeois will accept some diminution in his share of wealth created if the result is an increase in the total created (just as two-fifths of a large sum can be greater than three-fifths of a small one), the banker/rentier/financial bourgeois wants the largest immediate share out of any given enterprise, with no regard for future wealth creation, as “investments” are moved around the stock market.

The conflict between these short-term and long-term strategies, embodying the competing interests of manufacturing versus financial capital, can be seen as crucial to the political developments over the one and three quarter centuries since Marx’s writings on mid-nineteenth century France. The conflict between industry and finance, that Marx wrote so eloquently about, has, contrary to Marx’s expectations, remained a major feature of the ongoing struggle between classes.