#the impact of these three panels is brutal and beautiful

[the-blue-eyed-firebender]

In Ishval, Riza stopped counting birthdays. 

Instead she counted bullets, bodies. Scribbled the numbers on her field reports and turned them in, crisply folded. She became familiar with the space between heartbeats, the squeeze of the trigger, the wet sound of a bullet finding its mark. She grew accustomed to the tang of spent gunpowder and the bruising kick of a rifle butt against her shoulder. Through the grime of her scope, she watched orange tongues of flame roar against city streets and cloudless sky, her level crosshairs hovering over the broad-shouldered silhouette that commanded them. Her father’s ink sank deep into her blood, a poison, slow and fatal. Still, the Hawk’s Eye carried out her duties with mechanical precision. 

- Hourglass

[buyofficialpainting]

Exploring the Abyss: The Unsettling Genius of Francis Bacon's Paintings

Francis Bacon, one of the most celebrated British painters of the 20th century, is renowned for his compelling, often disturbing, depictions of the human condition. His work, brimming with raw emotion, psychological depth, and brutal honesty, pushes the boundaries of traditional portraiture, forcing viewers into a confrontation with humanity's darker aspects. This blog post aims to delve into the fascinating world of Francis Bacon's paintings and their profound impact on contemporary art.

Distortion and Despair

Bacon's art stands as a stark counterpoint to the idea of art as a pursuit of beauty. His paintings often feature grotesque, distorted figures that evoke feelings of terror, anguish, and alienation. His subjects, frequently isolated in nondescript, claustrophobic spaces, appear trapped in their emotional turmoil, amplifying the sense of existential dread that pervades Bacon's work.

Iconic Imagery

One of Bacon's most famous works, "Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion" (1944), showcases his characteristic style and themes. The painting features three panels, each with a grotesquely distorted figure set against an empty, orange background. The figures, inspired by the Eumenides—vengeful deities from ancient Greek mythology—invoke a sense of fear and repulsion. Yet, their torment elicits empathy, a poignant reflection of the post-war disillusionment that marked the era.

In "Study after Velázquez's Portrait of Pope Innocent X" (1953), Bacon reinterprets Diego Velázquez's famous portrait, transforming the Pope into a nightmarish figure. The screaming Pope, enclosed in a glass cage, becomes a symbol of psychological distress and existential anxiety, a stark contrast to the calm authority of Velázquez's original.

Bacon's Impact and Legacy

Francis Bacon's influence on contemporary art is undeniable. His unflinching exploration of the human psyche, his groundbreaking approach to figuration and space, and his bold, expressive style have inspired countless artists, from Damien Hirst to Jenny Saville. His influence extends beyond the art world, with elements of his aesthetic appearing in the realms of fashion, film, and literature.

Despite the often unsettling nature of his work, Bacon's paintings command immense admiration and demand at auctions. His triptych "Three Studies of Lucian Freud" (1969) set a record for the most expensive artwork ever sold at auction in 2013, reflecting the enduring allure of his work.

Conclusion: A Mirror to the Abyss

Francis Bacon's paintings, with their raw emotional intensity and uncompromising honesty, offer a deeply affecting exploration of the human condition. His work invites us to confront our fears, to gaze into the abyss of the human psyche, and to question the very nature of our existence.

In an era marked by profound uncertainty and change, Bacon's work continues to resonate, providing a potent reminder of art's power to provoke, disturb, and ultimately, to illuminate the darker corners of our existence. Through his extraordinary vision, Francis Bacon compels us to confront the discomforting aspects of our humanity, and in doing so, he broadens our understanding of what it means to be human.

[writingbakery]

“cold moonlight”

i asked the discord server what they wanted to see, & they overwhelmingly voted angst - all i can do is deliver ✨ [taglist; @sparkncharge @redbeanteax @secondhand-trash @keigos-dove @katsukisprincess @jojosmilktea @antigenius @kingtamakimurder @heroheads @yuueimagines ]

[pairing: astronaut!hawks x gn astronaut!reader]

[warnings; space travel gone wrong, debris shower, final moments, character death, heavy angst/unhappy ending]

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

space is unforgiving.

twenty three days of isolated space travel has shown you that in waves; freezing, desolate darkness surrounds you at all sides. you found beauty in its cruelty, yes, but more importantly, you found suffering. the only thing keeping you sane was keigo, and even he was reaching his limits.

the pair of you were locked inside a half battered shuttle, floating aimlessly in deep space. Command had stopped answering hails days ago; rations had dried up this morning. a snapped tether was all it took for space to show you just how brutal it could be, if desired; you were certain rescue was a fantasy. the rest of your crew were probably safely entering earths atmosphere now, halfway home and far from the tendrils of the stars. you envied them.

keigo’s kept positive where you’ve gone negative, constantly countering your words - “don’t talk like that now, lil dove. we’ll be soaring through he atmosphere before you know it,” he promises every time, kissing your forehead. at first, it brought you comfort, but now, every word seems hollow, his lips cold against your skin.

he’s been clattering around the shuttle all morning, attempting to find ways to kickstart the thrusters while you drowned in the silence. it’s haunting, how desperation presents itself - an overwhelming need to move, and an inability to do anything but wallow.

there’s never been a silence you could taste before, loud and violent in all its quiet. you’re boneless, weighed down by your guilt and fears; keigo shouldn’t have even been on the shuttle. he’d accompanied you to make the repairs easier, his academy nickname - hawks, red wings inked against his spine to match - following him all the way out to space. you’d never have expected Command to assign you both to the same mission, liability in a married couple in space, and yet.

your bond hadn’t caused the debris shower to snap your tether, or batter your body against the side of the shuttle. you could barely walk, bruised all up and down your body, and keigo had torn insulation to patch your bleeding leg. your bond hadn’t isolated you from the group, or trapped you inside a barely functioning shuttle. space has done that, without care for your desperate pleas of a safe return home.

keigo knocks twice on a support beam to get your attention, pulling you from your drowning misery. he’s half suited up, hair falling in his bloodshot eyes as he holds up a few tools and tattered wire. “i figured out how to get the engines moving. it’s a long shot, and we don’t have a lot of time before the next debris storm hits, but it’s a shot,” he says earnestly, blind optimism flooding his exhausted features.

for a moment, you can’t move, too certain that you’ll die right where you sit regardless of keigo’s hopes and dreams. but his eyes plead with you in a way you’ve always been weak for, and you shakily stand.

“show me.” and he does.

the thrusters are dead, but not damaged, fuel cells not completely burnt out & by keigo’s estimations, hotwiring two sections of the cables beneath the paneling would reroute some of the power just enough to kickstart the engines and propel you close enough to earth to get the ship back into the atmosphere. he was always the expert in that, fiddling & taking apart machinery until it worked again. you’d alwags joked he was your birdbrained mguyver, ready to invent something out of a toaster & spare engine coils at a moment’s notice.

now, his knack for wiring only means one thing; he’s going out there alone.

you put up a good fight, listing all the ways you could help him, how your leg wouldn’t be a burden out there - weightlessness would make the pain of dragging the injury around nonexistent, & you knew this was at minimum a three person job. he’d be out there for two hours at least, & you had no way of knowing when the next debris storm would hit. he’d be all alone, defenseless against the horror that put you in this position in the first place, & you could barely stomach the thought.

all keigo offers you in return is a smile, soft and small and sad in a way you haven’t ever seen from him before. resignation is written all over his face, & you know he’s long accepted the fact that you’re staying in the shuttle, regardless of your protests.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

it’s been over two hours since then, & keigo’s still not back inside the shuttle.

you’re strapped into the pilots chair, frustratedly slamming the controls; no matter what wires he splits and layers out there, the connections aren’t traveling deep enough into the conduits to affect the fuel cells, & you’re starting to worry.

“maybe we should stop here, regroup. we can try again once the storm passes,” you argue into the comm for the fifth time, straining to meet keigo’s eyes through the port window. your words fall on deaf ears again, a wave of his hand confirming; he’s staying right where he is until the job is done.

the sensors start humming, so low and gentle at first that you don’t even register their warnings until its a battle cry, blaring alarms and flashing warnings that would sit behind your eyelids for years, haunting your nightmares until sleep no longer came knocking.

the debris storm was here.

slamming on the comm, you & keigo began yelling at the same time, words spilling over each other like waves; “you have to come—“ “—finally reached the conduit—“ “the storm is coming, keigo fuck the conduit—“ “start the goddamn engines!”!

you fumble with the controls, lining up the engines & restabilizing the conduits; they splutter to life slowly, kickstarted by keigo’s own genius & you laugh — both panicked and relieved. “it works, it fucking works, keigo baby you did it, now please come inside,” you plead over the comm, but your husband isn’t moving with the shuttle, & if you strain your eyes you can see him waving.

“now isn’t the time for jokes, you ass, just come inside—“ he cuts off your frightened rambling, coice just a little sad, a little wishful. “i cut my tether.”

the words ice you down to your core, and if you hadn’t been strapped down in the pilot’s chair you would have thrown yourself out the hatch on instinct.

“you cut—“

“i cut my tether. it was the only way, two of us wouldn’t make it to reentry. too heavy, & the conduits needed fresh cabling. we only had the one tether left. i always told you i’d send you home, didn’t i? that you’d get to see the sunrise again, over the ocean. you love the ocean.” his voice is a little unsteady now, & the farther the shuttle lurches away from him the more static impedes his words.

“you love the ocean too, birdbrain. that’s why we got married on the beach,” you whisper, & he laughs a little forlornly in response. “i love you more than that, though. i love you so much it hurts, & that’s why i’m keeping my promise. i’m sending you home.”

you’re running out of time; the static is all but washing out his voice, & the debris storm is rushing towards him full force. what do you say to the love of your life when you know he’s got minutes left, and you’re safe?

“i love you so much, you idiot. i love you, i love you and your stupid wing tattoos that you cried getting, and the stupid smile you get when you win at uno, and the way you always kiss me good morning, even if you want to sleep in longer. i love you, keigo takami, and im always gonna love you,” you promise, wincing as the static reaches fever pitch. you can barely hear him now, but the few words that filter through strike you hard in the heart.

“love .... pretty eyes..... don’t forget.... ocean waves... i love...” the static cuts out with the rest of his words, & you don’t realize you’re crying until your sobs echo back on the comm link, the signal lost.

he loved you, and you love him still, and even as the shuttle burns through the atmosphere, rocking you violently in the pilot’s seat, all you can think about is his smile, the way his eyes crinkled up like stars just before he left the hatch.

you barely register your impact with the ocean, moving on autopilot, just like the shuttle had; keigo must have programmed it before leaving, must’ve known you wouldn’t have the focus. you always did grieve numbly, and he knew that — looking out for you even after he was gone.

you slowly, carefully pull yourself out of the shuttle and onto the beach you’ve washed up on, sighing in guilty relief as you settle against the sand. above you, the stars twinkle and shine, just like keigo, and you smile through the fresh waves of tears. the ocean kisses your feet, and for a moment you imagine he’s there, his spirit, above and beside you in the waves and the stars.

he’d always be with you there, you think, eyes wet. you’d always have the stars and the ocean, and you’d always have keigo.

the ocean hums to your broken heart, and cradles you as you cry, the water sympthathetic.

for all the pain, however, you know. you know that somewhere up there, amongst the stars, a pair of red wings would circle the earth, & keep you safe, just like he promised.

alone, you watch the sun rise over the ocean, and smile.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[infinitefandomimagines]

Tell Her - Poe Dameron x reader

...

WARNINGS: BLOOD, JEALOUSY, LANGUAGE 

REQUEST: @poedamneron01 HELLOO! I was wondering if I could have a poe x reader imagine where reader has a huge crush on poe and they’ve been friends since they both joined the resistance, the reader gets jealous of poe and zurii’s interactions. THEN, fast forward to the final order battle, and reader gets injured and poe is worried and like confesses to her. I’m sorry if none of this makes sense but i’m looking forward to the imagine !!!

...

You'd always had a sliver of hope that he liked you as much as you liked him.

The years of back and forth flirty banter and jokes. The number of times the two of you shared a bed when one of you had trouble sleeping due to nightmares. Or how he made you feel safe through every step of the ongoing war. The way he trusted you when he finally opened up about his past and insecurities. The way the two of you just clicked the first time you met after joining the resistance, and only grew closer time went on. That couldn't all just mean nothing.

But that sliver of hope was quickly crushed the second you arrived on Kijimi. You knew from the way he looked at her the chance of him liking you back when from slim to none. It was obvious they had a past, and even more obvious both of them still held onto it.

You had to hide the pain and jealousy as Poe eagerly followed Zorii to the roof to keep lookout. You hated the pitiful looks Finn and Rey gave you because they knew. They knew about your silly little crush without you even having to tell them. Hell, they knew you were in love with him before you ever admitted it to yourself, and for the longest time, they always pressed the fact that Poe shared the same feelings. But now they were silent, not sure how to comfort your broken heart.

After a while, you became suspicious of how long Zorii and Poe had been gone, and why they hadn't reported anything to the rest of you. "I'm gonna go check on them," you announced aloud.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Finn asked, concerned about what you might walk in on.

"Yeah, they've been up there a while, just wanna make sure no one's coming to kill us," you tried to joke, but Finn saw straight through the poor attempt. You didn't say it with an attitude or a wink, instead, you just sounded sad and tired. Not at all like your self.

"Okay," he said softly, knowing he really couldn't stop you.

You climbed the stairs to the roof quietly, not wanting to alert anyone of your presence. You knew it was wrong to eavesdrop in their conversation, but jealousy and curiosity got the better of you.

You listened for a couple of minutes, but eventually, guilt began to set in. You shouldn't be doing this, if you really did love Poe, then you should want the best for him. It was just hard to accept that the best for him wasn't going to be you.

It was when Zorii offered Poe the chance to escape with her that you left, in all honesty, you didn't want to hear his answer. Scared he might actually take her up on the offer.

But maybe you shouldn't have left so early, maybe had you stayed just a moment longer you would've heard him decline the offer.

"I can't leave the resistance, I can't. . . I can't leave her," he confessed.

"The girl downstairs? What was her name again, Y/N?"

Poe nodded, "It's just. . .when I'm with her, it's like time slows down, ya know? Like for a second, there isn't any bad in the world, no war, no First Order, no Kylo Ren, none of it. Like it's just me and her, safe and happy. I can't lose that."

There was a sad look in Zorii's eyes, but at the same time, it seemed like she understood. Somehow she still looked happy for him.

"Well have you told her yet?" Zorii asked.

"Told her what?"

Zorii rolled her eyes at Poe's obliviousness, "Everything you just told me, dumbass." Poe shook his head, "Nah, it'd just fuck everything up, I can't mess up years of friendship over a stupid crush."

"Well I think you should tell her, life is too short and unpredictable these days to not. It sounds to me like you really love this girl, she deserves to know that."

Poe let out an anxious laugh, "What? Love? No, no I'm not in love with her, it- it's just a crush." Zorii gave him a look, one he knew meant that she didn't believe him.

"J- Just because I think she's the most beautiful girl doesn't mean I love her," Poe rambled. "I mean. . . okay, yeah- I'll admit that when she's around it does make my day better and that her laugh is one of the best sounds in the world. Oh, and that she always makes me feel safe when I'm terrified about what's gonna happen to the resistance, and that- oh fuck. . . I'm in love with her."

"So tell her you idiot," Zorii said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You may not see it, but I only just met the chick and even I can tell you mean something to her."

"Thank you, Zorii, I really mean it."

"No problem, I'm happy to call you out on being an idiot any time."

Poe let out a soft chuckle, sending a small smile to Zorii, which she returned with a breathy laugh.

Poe had completely planned on telling you how he felt after his conversation with Zorii. However, he never got to. Everything started going downhill, and fast. Breaking into Kylo Ren's ship, Rey running off, Leia's death, the hurriedly planned mission to Exogol. Not to mention you'd barely even look at him since you left Kijimi.

Before he knew it, the entire resistance base was in chaos as everyone prepared for what they hoped would be the last battle. He wished he had more time. Time to tell you how he felt, time to cherish another moment with you, and time to create a better plan.

Poe wasn't too happy about the plan at all, well he would've been, had it not been for one small detail. You were on the ground team. You couldn't fly, but you were one hell of a combat fighter and highly skilled in weaponry. It seemed like a no brainer to have you on the ground team, but it was dangerous, and he didn't like that you'd be somewhere he couldn't keep an eye on you.

But there was nothing he could do about it now. Because now he was in an X-wing, dodging blasts and talking his team through their procedures. The ground team had been deployed onto the command ship to take out its navigation system, you and Finn leading.

The battle was brutal, there were about four times as many stormtroopers as there were resistance ground fighters. It was starting to become nearly impossible to gain any ground with the amount of shots from blasters flying through the air.

You, Finn, and Jannah crouched behind a metal structure, trying to take cover. "We need to get to that tower! Finn yelled over the commotion surrounding the three of you. You glanced at the explosives strapped to Finn's chest, an idea popping into your head.

"Give me all the explosives you have!" Finn and Jannah didn't even question you, handing over their chest straps without hesitation.

"If we blow their main control panel we can shut down their navigation tower. Can you cover me?" You explained.

"You can't go alone!" Finn argued, not liking the idea.

"I'm fast, I can make it to the tower as long as you cover me!"

"I say we do it," Jannah spoke up. You gave Jannah a small smile, happy she was on your side. Finn let out an exasperated sigh, "Fine," he grumbled, "Just please be careful."

You nodded to Finn as he hesitantly handed over his explosives belt. "Cover me on three. One. Two. Three!"

You jumped up from behind your hiding spot, swiftly maneuvering your way around the ship's deck, dodging blasters and stormtroopers left and right. Finn and Jannah managed to land a few shots, fending off more stormtroopers from you.

You were nearly to the port which housed the main control panel when a crackling in your ear drew your attention. "Finn! You gotta get that ship's navigation offline!" Poe's voice broadcast over the ear-comms.

"I know! Y/N's about to blow their main control panel!" He responded, before shooting down another trooper that was sneaking behind you. You refused to stop moving, weaving your way around the troopers and shooting the few you couldn't avoid.

"I'm sorry, she's what? Alone?" Poe didn't sound too happy. "Y/N that's too dangerous!"

You rolled eyes, "I can handle myself, I'm nearly there!"

You hated that the entire resistance was hearing your little dispute, but the comms were all connected, and Poe hadn't bothered to switch to a private channel. "Go back now! I'm not losing over this half-assed plan, there's a better way!"

"This isn't your decision Poe!" You snapped, tired of him telling you what to do. You heard him mutter a few frustrated choice words into the comms. Despite his protests, you ended up reaching the port that held the controls. Jannah and Finn surrounded you as you opened the latch and dropped all but one of the explosives into the hole.

"I'm about to detonate, go!" You yelled over the commotion to Finn and Jannah. They both looked back at you before hesitantly taking cover, they knew better than to argue.

"I'm about the blow the tower offline, now's our chance," you spoke over the comms to the resistance. You switched on the last explosive, its blinking red light letting you know it was active. You dropped it into the hole along with the other explosives and shut the port.

You scrambled to your feet and started moving as quickly as you could to get away from the explosion that was sure to come. You only made it a couple of meters before a sharp impact to the side of your head sent you to the ground. A stormtrooper towered over you, his blaster trained on you.

"Rebel scum," he scoffed, his voice modulator making him sound cold and robotic. However, before he had a chance to pull the trigger, a loud noise rattled the ground, and a blaze of orange and red erupted from the control port.

You quickly curled into a ball with your back to the explosion, trying your best to protect yourself. You felt a few sharp stings on your arms and back, and then one sharp stab in your side. A large thud next to you alerted your attention. The stormtrooper from before was now on the ground, a crimson liquid pouring out from his unprotected neck.

You quickly crawled behind another ledge to get out of the main chaos of the battle. You clutched your side, feeling a warm and sticky liquid accumulate.

"You did it! The tower is down!" Poe's voice rang out over the comms, he was ecstatic. Your plan had worked, and now there was no way for the Final Order to escape Exogol.

You'd suffered a few scratches caused by shrapnel flying past, but the piece that was lodged into your side posed quite the threat. Blood wouldn't seem to stop flowing from the wound, and your mind was getting cloudier by the second.

"I'm hit," you spoke weakly into your comm, using all your strength as you tried to pull yourself up, failing miserably. Each attempt sending a wave of pain through your torso. "Finn, I need help, I'm losing blood fast." You knew he had to be close, your best bet was Finn getting you somewhere safe. However, it wasn't Finn who responded first.

"Y/N!?" Poe's voice was frazzled and panicked. "What do you mean you're hit, what happened?"

"Shrapnel from the explosion," you explained quickly, "Finn, I can't move I need you or Jannah!" You were becoming more desperate, the light airy feeling in your head growing.

"I see you, but there's troopers everywhere! I can't get to you!" Finn also sounded panicked. He searched desperately for any possible way to get to you, but each proved more difficult than the last. "Just hang on, I'm gonna find a way!"

"Finn get her out of there!" Poe barked, not exactly helping the situation. "I'm trying!" Finn yelled back.

A numb feeling washed over you, and suddenly the unbearable pain in your side started slowly dissipating. Shock fully took over as your body tried everything it could to make this as painless as possible, almost as if it knew you weren't gonna make it out of this. And oddly enough, your fear of death began to subside.

Up above you could see ships appearing throughout the sky. It looks like the Resistance's call for help hadn't gone unheard. A small smile graced your lips as you watched more and more ships arrive. Lando's voice came over the comms, as well as a few others, but one stuck out to you. Zorii. She was alive. There was an odd sense of relief as you realized Poe would be okay, he wouldn't be alone.

You shivered as you grew colder and colder, slowly accepting you might not make it out of this battle. "I-it's okay. . . It's okay." You muttered, slightly slurring your words together.

"Why does it sound like you're giving up?" Poe said worriedly. "J-Just hold on, you'll be fine-- Finn you need to hurry!"

"I know, I'm working on it!"

"I'm sorry, Poe," you said softly, not sure of the comms would pick of your voice or not. "I'm sorry I've been so weird lately I just-"

"Stop apologizing like you're going to die, you're fine!"

For a second, you thought about telling Poe how you felt, but that second passed just as quickly as it came to mind. You couldn't do that to him, you couldn't put that kind of guilt on him. He deserved to be happy, live the rest of his days out with Zorii and his friends.

"You'll be okay," you whispered out. It was intended for Poe, yet deep down you knew it was just your way of reassuring yourself.

You let your eyes flutter shut, taking in your last few seconds of consciousness. The words you heard next were barely audible, and truth be told you weren't positive it was even real. But the second they were spoken, darkness finally consumed you.

"Please don't leave me, Y/N.”

...

Your breath hitched and caught in your throat, causing your eyes to snap open as you gasped for air. Your head came in contact with a clear barrier, a loud thud echoing in the chamber you were encapsulated in. You immediately recognized the structure, it was the same one Finn rested in as he recovered from his fight against Kylo Ren.

Your fingers found the release lever inside of the contraption, pulling it. There was a soft hiss as the transparent, glass top hinged open. The second you sat up your head began to spin, and a horrible pain radiated from your side, along with a matching headache. You hunched over, curling into yourself as you let the pain subside. 'No more sudden movements,' you thought to yourself.

You cautiously stood up, your movements as slow as molasses. You eventually found some extra clothes in a nearby cabinet and changed into a pair of white sweatpants, a thin thermal t-shirt, and white slippers. As you changed you got a glance at the large white bandage covering your side. 

You felt disoriented, completely unaware of what day it was or what had even happened. In your confused state, you instinctively headed for the door. Opening the door, you stepped into an empty white hallway.

You'd been here before.

It suddenly clicked in your brain where you were, the resistance base. Though you were still confused as to how you ended up in the medical wing. Deciding the best way to get some answer was to find people, you made your way to the cantina. 

It seemed as though you’d picked the perfect destination, the cantina was bustling with humans and aliens alike. Many of them had bandaged legs, broken arms, and cuts and bruised all over their bodies, yet all of them were smiling and laughing. Your eyes scanned the room, looking for someone you knew could give you answers.

Your eyes landed on a table in the center of the room. Rey, Finn, Rose, and Poe all sat together, and while most of them were smiling and talking enthusiastically, it was Poe who held a certain sadness in his features. His lips were set in a thin line, the corners of them drooping down ever so slightly, and he looked tired, exhausted even. He had a small cut on his forehead, but other than that he was generally unharmed.

Your feet started moving on your own, carrying you over to the table where your friends sat, yet none of them had noticed you in the crowded room. However, as you got closer Rey perked up from her slouched position, fully alert. Finn, Poe, and Rose all gave her weird looks. She whipped her head around to face you, causing the others to draw their attention your way as well. You watched as each of their facial expressions melted into one’s of pure shock and confusion. However, it was Poe who reacted first; standing up abruptly, his metal chair making an awful scraping noise as he did so. 

His pace was slow at first, but soon enough it turned to a light jog as he closed the distance between the two of you. Your lips parted to ask him what the hell you’d missed, but before you had the chance, you were completely engulfed in his arms. One of his arms crossed you back, his hand resting just below your shoulder, and held the back of your head with his other hand. You didn’t react at first, completely caught off guard, but eventually, you snaked your arms around his waist, burying your face in his chest.

“You’re awake?” He whispered in disbelief, “How long ago did you wake up?” 

You gently pulled away from the hug to talk to him properly. You shrugged, “Five-ish minutes?”

By now Finn, Rey, and Rose had made their way from their table over to you and Poe. “Do you remember what happened? The war?” Finn pressed, yet his voice was soft and comforting. You were about to ask what he was talking about but the second you opened your mouth it was like a switch flipped in your brain.

Zorii. The war. Blowing the tower. Getting hit. The pain.

You nodded your head hesitantly, “I-I think so? How long has it been since. . ?” 

“Two days,” Poe said, his voice slightly pitchy with emotion.

“Y/N. . .We won!” Rey’s voice was breathy and full of hope, “Because you blew up that tower!”

“And almost died.” Poe spat out matter of factly. His tone wasn’t aggressive, but you could tell there was a hint of anger in his words. Angry at the First Order. Angry at himself for not doing more. Angry at you for being so reckless.

“I did what had to be done, they were picking us off like flies,” You explained as the memories resurfaced. 

“Do you have any idea what I would’ve done had you died? Do you have any idea what that would have done to me?” Poe’s raised voice began to draw the attention of more than a few others. The added looks and attention made you feel a bit self-conscious.

“The Resistance is bigger the individual, we both agreed that its cause comes before ourselves-”

“Yeah well, not when it comes to you!”

You and Poe locked eyes in silence as his chest heaved with heavy and emotion-filled breaths. His eyes were red and had a glossy sheen over them. You searched Poe’s face for any hint as to what exactly he meant, but all you could see was anguish. “I don’t understand . . .” you whispered.

Poe took in a deep breath, “I love you,” he hesitantly mumbled out. “I don’t care if telling you makes things weird or if you don’t feel the same I just- you almost died. And all I could think about is how you’d never know how I really felt and I saw how empty my life would be if I didn’t have you in it. So yeah, when it comes to you, fuck everything else, fuck all of it. Cause it all means nothing if I don’t have you.”

You weren’t quite sure how to react. Part of you wanted to jump into his arms and never let go, but the other part of thought about Zorii and what you heard on the roof. Poe’s face started to fall as you just stared at him, completely unreadable. You noticed his shift in demeanor, and you knew you had to do something, you couldn’t let him think you didn’t feel the same. 

Before you knew it, you were moving. Your hands found their way to Poe’s face, pulling him down as you stood on your toes. Your lips met his gently, which was surprising considering how long you’d been wanting to kiss the man. Poe reacted immediately, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you in closer to him. 

“Maker’s sake, finally,” you heard Finn mutter under his breath, causing both you and Poe to laugh, breaking the kiss. 

“I hope that means you feel the same,” Poe grinned, back to his charming and confident self. You rolled your eyes, “What, you want more proof?”

Poe shrugged, “I definitely wouldn’t mind a little more.”

“I love you, Poe Dameron,” You whispered, smiling up at him. His grin grew, “I love you too, I always have.”

[chiseler]

Ophelia By the Yard

Cobwebbed passages and wax-encrusted candelabra, dungeons festooned with wrist manacles, an iron maiden in every niche, carpets of dry ice fog, dead twig forests, painted hilltop castles, secret doorways through fireplaces or behind beds (both portals of hot passion), crypts, gloomy servants, cracking thunder and flashes of lightning, inexplicably tinted light sources, candles impossibly casting their own shadows, rubber bats on wires, grand staircases, long dining tables, huge doors with prodigiously pendulous knockers to rival anything in Hollywood.

Here was the precise moment — and it was nothing if not inevitable — when the darkness of horror film, both visible and inherent, leapt from the gothic toy box now joined by a no less disconcerting array of color. The best, brightest, sweetest, and most dazzling red-blooded palette that journeyman Italian cinematographers could coax from those tired cameras. Color, both its commercial necessity as well as all it promised the eye, would hereafter re-imagine the genre’s possibilities, in Italy and, gradually, everywhere else. 

When color hit the Italian Gothic cycle, a truly new vision was born. In Hammer films and other UK horror productions, the cheapness of Eastmancolor made it possible for blood to be red. Indeed, very red. And, while we shouldn't underestimate the startling impact this had, it was a fairly literal use of the medium. In the Italian movies, and to a large extent in Roger Corman's Poe cycle, color was an unlikely vehicle to further dismantle realism rather than to assert it. Overrun with tinted lights and filters, none of which added to the film’s realistic qualities, the movies became delirious. In Corman's Masque of the Red Death, we learn of an experiment that uses color to drive a man insane; it seems that filmmakers like Corman and Mario Bava were attempting the very same trick on their audiences.

The application of candy-wrapper hues to a haunted castle flick like The Whip and the Body adds a pop art vibe at odds with the genre, and when you get to something like Kill, Baby...Kill! the Gothic trappings are barely able to mask a distinctly modern sensibility, so much so that Fellini could plunder its phantasmal elements for Toby Dammit, fitting them perfectly into his sixties Roman nightmare.

Blood and Black Lace brings the saturated lighting and Gothic fillips into the twentieth century -- a sign creaking in a gale is the first image, translated from Frankensteinland to the exterior of a contemporary fashion house. A literal faceless killer disposes of six women in diabolical ways. The sour-faced detective remains several deaths back on the killer’s trail because the movie knows its audience, knows that it has zero interest in detection, character, motivation — though it’s all inertly there as a pretext for sadism, set-pieces of partially-clad women being hacked up, dot the film like musical numbers or action sequences might appear in a different genre. 

Since the 19th-century audience for literary Gothic Horror was comprised of far fewer men than women, would it be fair to ask whether Giallo’s advent might be an instrument of brutal violence, even revenge against “feminine” preoccupations? Consider 1964’s Danza Macabra, the film’s amorous vibes finding their ultimate source in that deathless screen goddess named Barbara Steele, whose marble white flesh photographs like some monument to classicism startled into unwanted Keatsian fever. Her presence practically demands that we ask ourselves: “Who is this wraith howling at a paper moon?” In other words, is it a coincidence that Steele’s “Elizabeth Blackwood” — a revenant temptress and undead sex symbol — hits screens the very same year as Giallo, which would transform Italian cinema into a decades-long death mill for women? 

The name “giallo”, meaning yellow, derives from the crime paperbacks issued by Italian publisher Mondadori. The eye-catching covers, featuring a circular illustration of some act of infamy embedded in a yellow panel, became utterly associated with the genre of literature. These books were likely to be by Edgar Wallace, the most popular author in the western world, or Agatha Christie: cardboard characters sliding through the most mechanical of plots; or classier local equivalents, like Francesco Mastriani or Carolina Invernizio. The founding principles laid down concerned the elaborate deceptions concealed by their authors, traps for the unwary reader, and the use of a distinctive design motif. The tendency of the characterisation to lapse into sub-comic-book cliché, the figures incapable of expressing or inspiring real sympathy, was, perhaps, an unintended side-effect of the focus on narrative sleight-of-hand.

When Italian filmmakers sought to translate sensational literature to the screen, they looked to other filmic influences: American film noir, influenced by German expressionism and often made by German emigrés (Lang, Siodmak, Dieterle, Ulmer); and the popular krimi cycle being produced in West Germany, mostly based on Edgar Wallace's leaden "shockers." These deployed stock characters, bizarre methods of murder, deceptive plotting, and exuberant use of chiaroscuro, the stylistic palette of noir intensified by more fog, more shafts of light, more inky shadows. A certain amount of fun, but different from the coming bloodbath because Wallace, despite somewhat fascistic tendencies, is anodyne and anaemic by comparison. No open misogyny, a sadism sublimated in story, a touching faith in Scotland Yard and the class system. In the Giallo, Wallace's more sensational aspects are adopted but made to serve a sensibility quite alien to the stodgy Englander: people are generally rotten, the system stinks, and crime becomes a lurid spectator sport served up to a viewer both thrilled and appalled. 

The Giallo fetishizes murder. But then, it fetishizes everything in sight. Every object, every half-filled wine glass and pastel-colored telephone, is photographed with obsessive, product-shot enthusiasm. Here, it must be emphasized that design implicates the viewer as the Italian camera-eye gawps like some unabashed tourist. Knife, wallpaper, onyx pinky ring — each detail transforms into an object made eerily subject: a sentient and glowering fragment of our own conscience, staring back at us in the darkened theater and pronouncing ineluctable guilt. And yet, for the directors who rode most dexterously the Giallo wave, homicide was something one did to women. Indulging in equal-opportunity lechery was merely an excuse to find other, more violent outlets for their misogyny. Please enter into evidence the demented enthusiasm for woman-killing evinced by Dario Argento, Mario Bava, Lucio Fulci, et al. — whatever trifling token massacres of men one might exhume from their respective oeuvres are inconsequential. Argento’s defense, “I love women, so I would rather see a beautiful woman killed than an ugly man,” should not satisfy us, and hardly seems designed to (also bear in mind Poe’s assertion that the death of a beautiful young woman was the most poetic of all subjects).

Filmmakers like Argento have no interest in sex per se. Suffering seems inessential, but terror and death are key, photographed with the same clinical absorption and aesthetic gloss as Giallo-maestros habitually apply to their interior design. Here, it must be emphasized that design implicates the viewer as the Italian camera-eye gawps like some unabashed tourist. Knife, wallpaper, onyx pinky ring – each detail transforms into an object made eerily subject: a sentient and glowering fragment of our own conscience, staring back at us in the darkened theater and pronouncing ineluctable guilt. That’s one important subtlety often lost amid Giallo’s vast antisocial hemorrhage.

Like a river of blood, homophobia, in the literal meaning of fear rather than hatred, runs through the genre. Lesbians are sinister and gay men barely exist. As we try to work out what in hell the Giallo is really up to, little dabs of dime-store Freudianism seem sufficient.

The filmmakers’ misogyny could be suspect, a sign of compromised masculinity, so they need fictional avatars to cloak their own feverish woman-hating. The subterfuge is clumsy at best, the desultory deceit embarrassingly macho. Giallo’s visual force, powerful enough to divorce eye from mind, is another matter, leaving us demoralized and ethically destitute; our hearts beating with all the righteous indignation of three dead shrubs (and maybe a half-eaten sandwich).

The Giallo is founded on an unstated assumption: the modern world brings forth monsters. Jack the Ripper was an aberration in his day, but now there's a Jack around every corner, behind every piece of modular furniture, every diving helmet lamp. Previously, disturbing events arose from what Ambrose Bierce called The Suitable Surroundings, or what the mad architect in Fritz Lang's The Secret Beyond the Door termed, with sly and sinister euphemism, "propitious rooms." There's the glorious line in Withnail and I: "That's the sort of window faces appear at." But now, in the modern world, evil occurs in the nicest of places, and tonal consistency died in a welter of cheerful stage blood. One needn’t enter an especially Bad Place to meet one’s worst nightmare, or perhaps better to say: the whole bright world qualified as a properly bad place. Imagine the pages of an interior design magazine invaded by anonymous psychopaths intent on painting the gleaming walls red.

Though the victims are overwhelmingly female and their killers male (Argento typically photographed his own leather-gloved hands to stand in for his assassin’s), when the violence becomes over-the-top in its sexualized woman-hating (like the crotch-stabbing in What Have You Done to Solange?), it’s usually a clue that the movie’s murderer will turn out to be female: a simple case of projection. Only Lucio Fulci, the most twisted of the bunch, trained as a doctor and experienced as an art critic, not only assigns misogyny to a straight male killer (The New York Ripper) but plays the killer himself in A Cat in the Brain. Though, in another self-protecting twist of narrative, all psychological explanations in Gialli are bullshit, always. Criminology and clinical psychology are largely ignored, and Argento has a clear preference for outdated theories like the extra chromosome signaling psychopathy (Cat O’Nine Tails). Did anybody use phrenology, or Lombroso’s crackpot physiognomic theories, as plot device?

A tradition of the Giallo is that the characters all tend to be dislikable, something Argento at least resisted in Cat O’ Nine Tails and Deep Red. With disposable characters, each of whom might be the killer and each of whose violent demise is served up as a set-piece, this distancing and contempt might just be a byproduct of the form rather than a principle or ethos, but it’s of some interest, perhaps mitigating the misogyny with a wash of misanthropy. A Unified Field Theory of Gialli would find a more deep-seated reason for the obnoxious characters as well as the stylized snuff and the glamorous presentation. What urge is being satisfied, and why here, now, like this?

Class war? Though prostitute-ripping is encouraged in the Giallo, most victims are wealthy, slashed to ribbons amid opulent interiors. Urbane characters who might previously have graced the sleek “white telephone” films of forties Italian cinema were briefly edged out by neo-realism’s concentration on the working class. Now these exquisite mannequins are trundled back onscreen to be ritually slaughtered for our viewing pleasure.

Victims must always be enviable: either beautiful and sexy or rich and swellegant, or all of the above, so the average moviegoer can rejoice in their dismemberment with a clear conscience. Mario Bava bloodily birthed the genre in Blood and Black Lace (1964), brutally offing fashion models in a variety of Sade-approved ways, the killer a literally faceless assassin into whom the (presumed male) audience could pour their own animosities without ever admitting it, with the female killer finally unmasked to provide exculpatory relief.

If narrative formulas absolve the straight male viewer, compositions have a way of ensnaring him. Beyond that omnivorous indulgence of sensation for its own lurid sake one finds in Giallo, there is a more gilded emphasis placed on Beauty (in the Catholic sense), and it is only the women who are mounted upon its pedestal. That these avatars of beauty are to be savored, ravaged, and brutalized — in that order — is what concerns us. But the sex and the suffering that captivates most sadists is never what registers; no, it is the instance of death, the terror that afflicts the dying woman’s face that resonates. Once again, physical interiors become a negative form of emotional interiority, rooms amplified for the sole purpose of grisly annihilations; a kind of heretical, strictly anti-Catholic transcendence through amoral delight in what otherwise falls under trivial headings, either “the visuals” or “color palette” – neither of which touch the essential nerve endings of Giallo.

Swaddled inside an otherwise hyper-masculine castle lies a windowless chamber with feminine, if not psychotic, decor. Before he tortures and stabs her to death, “Lord Alan Cunningham” (fresh from his sojourn in the asylum) brings his first victim to this pageant of off-gassing plastic furniture, the single most obnoxious vision ever imposed on gothic environs. Risibly overblown ’70s chic rules The Night Evelyn Came Out of the Grave with nods to Edgar Allan Poe, as the modish Lord juggles sports cars and medieval persecution. Laughs escape the viewer’s throat in dry heaves when each new MacGuffin devours itself without warning. Take “Aunt Agatha” (easily two decades younger than her middle-aged nephews) suddenly rising from her motorized wheelchair, clobbered from behind seconds later, her body dragged into a cage where foxes promptly munch her entrails. Nothing comes of this. The phony paralysis, the aunt’s role in a half-dozen mysteries, which include a battalion of sexy maids in miniskirts and blonde Harpo Marx wigs – all gulped, swallowed.

About the only thing we know for certain is that “Aunt Agatha” is gorgeous. Though, in the end, she’s another casualty of the same nihilism that crashes Giallo aesthetics headlong into Poe country. That is into “Lord Alan” and his gaudy room crowded with designer goods to be catalogued in a horror vacui of visual intrusiveness – a trashy shrine to his late wife, the titular Evelyn. If lapses of good taste define The Night Evelyn Came Out of the Grave, they also reflect Giallo’s abiding obsession with real estate. After all, this Mod hypnagogia has to fill the eye somewhere. Why not bang in the middle of a castle? Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher features a wealthy aristocrat burying his twin sister alive, thereby entombing his own femininity.

Evelyn represents both Usher’s primary theme of the divided self and the obdurate refusal to learn from it. “Alan,” who emerges a moral hero in the end (after his shrink aids and abets his murder spree), remains just as ornery, alienated, and vainglorious as Giallo itself. We’re never told precisely what the film’s fetish objects are supposed to mean. And since the camera seizes upon each one with existential grimness, we’re left with a visual style that begs its own questions.

Function follows form into the abyss. One Ophelia after another dies to satisfy our cruel delectation, even as will-o’-the-wisp light, taken from the bogs and neglected cemeteries of Gothic Horror, finds itself transformed into a crimson-dripping stiletto.  Evelyn stands in for all Gialli, a genre which redefines film itself on the narrow front of visual impact: stainless steel cutlery and candy-colored light enact a sentient agenda as color becomes an instrument of hyperbolic misogyny that fills the eye and then some.  

As with certain other Italian genres, notably the peplum, smart characterization, solid performances and decent dialogue seem not only unnecessary to the Giallo but unwelcome (the spaghetti western, conversely, in which many of the same directors dabbled, seemed to demand a steady stream of good, cold-blooded wise-cracks). Argento, in pursuit of that “non-Cartesian” quality he admired in Poe, took this to extremes, stringing non-sequiturs together to form absurdist cut-ups, torching his stars’ credibility merely by forcing them to utter such nonsense. And this wasn’t enough: from Suspiria (1977) on, the psychological thriller (which the Giallo is a sub-genre of, only the psychology has to be deliberately nonsensical) was increasingly replaced by the supernatural. So that the laws of nature could be suspended along with the laws of coherent motivation.

In Suspiria and its 1980 quasi-sequel Inferno, the traditional knifings are interspersed with more uncanny events, as when a stone eagle comes to life and somehow makes a seeing-eye dog kill his owner, and there are also grotesque incidents with no relation to story whatever: a shower of maggots, or an attack by voracious rats in Central Park. The Giallo’s quest for a solution, inspired as it was by the old-school whodunits, is all but abandoned, replaced by the search for the next sensational set-piece.

Argento’s villains are now witches, but, abandoning centuries of tradition, these witches show more interest in stabbing their fellow women with kitchen knives than with worshipping Satan or riding broomsticks. Regardless of who they’re meant to be, Argento’s characters must express his desires, enact the atrocities he dreams of. And inhabit places built for his aesthetic pleasure rather than their own. Following Bava’s cue, he saturates his rooms in light blasted through colored gels, making every scene a stained-glass icon, no naturalistic explanation offered for the lurid tinted hues. Just as no explanation is offered for the presence of a room full of coiled razor-wire in a ballet school, or for the behavior of the young woman who throws herself into its midst without looking.

Dario Argento’s true significance, at least with respect to Giallo, was perceiving in the nick of time the almost incandescent obviousness of its limitations; that Italian commercial cinema’s garish, polychromatic spin on the garden-variety psychological thriller – departing from its forebears mainly in the rampant senselessness of its “psychology” – had Dead End written all over it. It could never last. On the other hand, Giallo does take a fresh turn with Argento’s Inferno, thanks in no small measure to a woman screenwriter who sadly remains uncredited. Daria Nicolodi explains that “having fought so hard to see my humble but excellent work in Suspiria recognized (up until a few days before the première I didn’t know if I would see my name in the film credits), I didn’t want to live through that again, so I said, ‘Do as you please, in any case, the story will talk for me because I wrote it.’”

Daria Nicolodi

Nicolodi’s conception humanizes (it would be tempting to say “feminizes”) Argento’s usual sanguinary exercises du style, while at the same time summoning legitimate psychology. This has nothing to do with strong characterization – indeed, the characters barely speak – and everything to do with the elemental power of water, fire, wind.… Inferno rescues Giallo by plunging it into seemingly endless visual interludes, a cinema that draws its strength from absence.

by The Chiselers

Daniel Riccuito, David Cairns, Tom Sutpen, and Richard Chetwynd

[essaysbyciara]

Old Habits Die Hard| Part Three: Recognize the Butterflies

SYNOPSIS | PART ONE: DAYS BEFORE | PART TWO: JUST BE GOOD TO ME 

Warnings: Language, lightweight mentions of sexual situations, marijuana use

Here’s part three! This is turning into a slow burn which was not my intention lol. Again, thank you for all of the responses and love. It makes my heart super happy. Taglist is still open! 

RECOGNIZE THE BUTTERFLIES

Yahya’s right thumb trails down the seam of your sundress. He slips his hand between the slit of your dress and pinches the brown skin attached to your left hip. It’s the first private moment you two have had since the drive north on I-95.

“I told you my family would love you…” 

“It was looking really rough for a minute there. I thought your Uncle Trace was going to kill me.”

“Trace means no harm. He just loves his niece.”

“And I love his niece…” Yahya’s kisses were beyond soft, your soul flutters during every millisecond his lips meet yours. They feel like butter. Your foreheads touch as your right hand pats his rising chest at the syncopation of your own heart. 

You two desperately needed this moment. Between Aunt Jerri scream-singing every Earth, Wind and Fire song from the depths of her lungs to your uncles somewhat-but-really-not-so-gentle interrogation of Yahya to the incessant screaming of little children and the fight that almost broke out at the end of the street, you craved to find a sliver of the peace that exists back home. 

You also needed another opportunity to hide from Dave. 

Despite the protest by some other organs belonging to your body, your heart made the best decision by coaxing you to instantly delete Dave’s Instagram message. You didn’t even read it, swiping left to throw it all away. You made the decision to stand up for your current relationship. As much as you wanted to settle into Yahya’s affectionate imprisonment of your body and take in his incessant need to kiss your neck and right earlobe, you couldn’t help but to survey your surroundings in hopes of spotting -- and swerving -- Dave. 

The last thing you wanted was to see him in the physical and to marvel at the man who eliminated all timidness from your aura. You were already triggered by the thought of his presence, wanting to  repel -- yet craved to feel -- those lighting bolts that crashed against your body at the sight of him. 

“Aww, look at the two lovebirds!” Aunt Jerri walks upstairs from the basement with a box of Franzia white wine in her right hand. She’s set to drink for the rest of the night. “I’m so happy y’all came up.” 

“Me too, Miss Jerri,” exclaims Yahya as his takes the last sip of his drink. 

“Boy, you are too polite for your own good!” Aunt Jerri caresses Yahya’s left shoulder as she walks past you both and into the living room. You begin to stare at Yahya and wonder how on Earth you found a man this kind, generous and thoughtful. 

That kindness and generousity  motivated you almost a year ago to call Yahya’s office and ask him out on a date. Weeks prior, you watched Yahya speak on a panel at a social justice conference and from the back of the room, you could feel his beautiful spirit. Most of the “social justice warrior” men you encountered up until that point were “woke” in public places but womanizers in private spaces, their misogyny masked by outward motivations to change the world. There was something about the powerful yet gentle way Yahya spoke on the tough topic of criminal justice reform that kept your attention even after your appearance on a panel about arts and justice earlier in the day. 

Against your high levels of exhaustion, you willed yourself into participating in the closing event for the conference. You were finally able to see his height -- long legs and galavanting walk -- up close and personal, totally oblivious to Yahya trying not to stare an ungodly long time at you as you jumped in and out of conversations. You two caught eyes a few times in the midst of the fellowship happening around you, with the last of the stares causing him to walk up to you to introduce himself. The conversation was brief but impacting. You both were in the beginning stages of what they call “the fall”. 

You hadn't felt this way since the summer. With Dave, you encountered these butterflies that traveled throughout and around every peak and valley of your curvaceous body. You never wanted someone beyond the very concept of need like that before. But since that drive back to the mundane life that Dave’s presence saved you from, you hadn’t heard from Dave. He disappeared on you without a trace, Aunt Jerri telling you to let him go because he was only supposed to be, as she called him, “a temporary distraction.” But Dave was a temporary distraction who, on your last night in Philly,  said that he was going to call you every night and come visit you on the weekends. Your orgasms would no longer be limited to the spare room at his brother’s house or the backseat of your car or Aunt Jerri’s basement anymore. 

You owned your townhouse. You could scream as loud as you want.  

Dave broke his promise and after you broke down about it, you made a covenant with yourself to move on. Using the conference’s website, you found out where Yahya worked and called his office. You had to get what was yours -- a confidence you acquired over the summer. You left a message -- along with your phone number -- with his law firm’s file clerk and waited, scrolling through his Instagram as you imagined a day in the life of his love. Yahya called you back and invited you out to lunch. Mission accomplished. 

Dave’s disappearance led to you finding the love of your life. This man standing in Aunt Jerri’s kitchen who can’t keep himself from touching your body, who couldn’t wait to make you his Mrs.; who’s love for you is so deep that your uncles had to fall back because they could tell almost instantly that Yahya was here to protect and honor you in a way that would have met your father’s expectations. 

And you weren’t going to throw that away for Dave. 

Aunt Jerri breaks up your gaze at Yahya. “Y’all two are staying the night, right?” It was only 6 PM, too early in the day to think that you two would be too drunk to get home. “I’m thinking about opening up the house tonight, you know, to celebrate y’all engagement.” 

“Aunt Jerri, you what? You don’t let people in your house…”

Once the street lights come on and the barricades are picked up by the city, the block party moves from outside to inside two or three houses on the street. In years past, Aunt Jerri would never let her house become an “after-party” spot despite the protest of her family. 

“I know, I know. But hey, I’m in a festive-ass mood and I want to celebrate y’all union since your mother didn’t want the hoodlum side of your family present.”

You wince at the brutal honesty of Aunt Jerri’s words. You cut a look at Yahya as he tries to stifle his laughter at Aunt Jerri’s opinion of your mother. He lifts up his hands in defense and apologizes by kissing your forehead. 

“Let me talk with Yahya to see if we’re going to st-”

“We’re staying.” You cut another look at Yahya and this time he’s not relenting. 

“Aww, yay! Let me get the guest room ready for you…”

You take an incredulous look at Yahya. The more you languished, the more chances you had to run into Dave. You loved your family but for the sake of your sanity, it was beyond time to leave. 

“Yahya, babe. We don’t have to stay.”

“What? You’re tired of celebrating us?” 

“Don’t do that to me… I just … there’s a reason why my Mom didn’t want Dad’s side of the family there, you know what I mean…” You remember your Dad’s funeral and the empty liquor bottle that almost hit your mom’s sister, Aunt Rachel. It wasn’t her fault that bottle went flying. 

“Look, let’s stay for a while, sleep it off and leave first thing in the morning. Okay?” Yahya’s sweet kisses always changed your mind. You grin and bear it, yanking at the belt loop of his jeans. You are determined to hold onto him as long as you could. 

As you soak in the rest of your private moment, Uncle Trace enters the kitchen with a bottle of Crown Royal in his hand. “Yo, Yah … come downstairs, man. Let’s rap right quick.” Yahya lets you go with ease and follows Trace downstairs to the basement.

“You smoke, Yah?”

“Not really, man. But it doesn’t bother me.” 

Trace pulls two whiskey glasses from the downstairs bar and places them on top of the table. His pour is heavy and Yahya gulps in fear at how much of a drink he’s about to have with Uncle Trace. The fear still carries on throughout Yahya’s body. 

“Y/N wanted me to talk to you and apologize, man.”

“No apologies necessary, Trace. I get it.” 

“That little girl still has me wrapped around her finger, man. She damn near ran me over today because of you…” Yahya and Trace laugh and tap their glasses. “When my bro was in the hospital, I told him that I’d look out for her like she was my baby girl, you know? I had to see what was good with you. But you’re solid, my dude. Just know that protection doesn’t stop.”

As the day turns into night, the last man that Uncle Trace thought he protected from his niece sits mystified that you ignored his message. He knows you must be up here with the man that benefits from his absence. An absence he still can’t wrap his head around. 

Dave peers out into the street as the barricades are lifted and the neighbors park their cars back into their designated spots. His brother, Pardi, is one of them. 

“Yo, Dave. Miss Jerri’s is the after spot tonight? You comin’?” 

There’s no such thing as leaving a person “on read” when they are right in your face. 

Taglist: @yoursoulstea​​​ @harleycativy​​ @twistedcharismaaa​​ @dorkskinneded​​​ @need-my-fics​​ @ghostfacekill-monger​​ @writerbee-ffs​​ @chaneajoyyy​​ 

[sparda3g]

Kingdom Chapter 627 Review

The clock is ticking, closing in to a new year. It also means a new decade. I have seen countless discussion revolving with the topic on the best of the decade. If someone were to ask me, look no further than this chapter. Just in time. Kingdom is ending the decade with the upmost satisfaction; preparing for a new air of greatness.

I started reading the series three years ago. It was an amazing journey; probably the quickest binge reading ever. It stopped before this current arc; hard to believe it’s been three years already. You could argue I was late to the party, but the climax with Houken and Shin made me feel that I have been following since day one. It’s the grand scope with the payoff that I have been striving for. Honestly, it’s still feel surreal to me, but God, does it feel great.

Right from the start, the chapter sets up the epic climax with the narration describing the hardship and brutality of the ongoing warfare. Qin and Zhao are on their knees, metaphorically speaking, practically at the same stamina level. It’s three years for us, fifteen days for them. It’s crazy to imagine the fighting lasting this long. The war has been hell, but all their attention succumb to the clash between the two titans.

The narrator sold it like a must-see program, once-in-a-lifetime event, and a history to be made. Rightfully deserved. They don’t even know what’s exactly happening, but the chills they felt told them that everything is about to change forever. I got goosebumps from reading it alone. Even the chapter’s title was placed in a black background panel, signifying this chapter to be extraordinary. With every Hi Shin Unit veterans reuniting to see their captain win, you damn right it is.

The battle is at the breaking point. Interruptions from Riboku are completely gone, now that he has finished addressing his point. From here on out, the action is filled with intense atmosphere, heart-stopping reactions, and jarring sequences. The best of all, it ends with possibly the best Christmas gift a fan can ask for. It’s fantastic.

I thought the battle was at the point where Shin can’t move anymore, relying on luck to grasp victory. Surprisingly, he and Houken are still going at it at pure strength. The impact of the attacks gradually grow each times. It’s very captivating, knowing one of them will eventually fall. When Shin takes the impact, he falls, letting out the worst feeling of its end. But he keeps getting back up, and with everyone behind him, his willpower remain stable or rather growing even more. It’s something that you’ll see or saw in other series, but the imagery of a man who is unconsciously fighting a beast is profoundly incredible. It’s among the best edition of David versus Goliath storytelling.

The impact keeps getting powerful. The thing is, it’s the same impact, but the emotional connection made me believe otherwise. It’s gut-wrenching every time Shin takes the hit. Yes, he blocks them, but it’s powerful enough to bring him down. Thank the almighty Ouki for that Glaive to appear unbreakable. Regardless, Shin should have been down and out already, but his spirit is making him move. Even Kyou Kai realized he’s not consciously aware anymore. It’s intense.

Shin’s unlimited stamina has reached to the point where Houken begins to feel dumbfounded, and that alone is stunning. When a beast questions a man’s integrity, that man is closing in to victory. What’s even more stunning is Houken now wonders if his path never existed. His bewilderment is a major red flag to his endgame, and that put a smile on my face. Plenty of signs suggest the end, including the fact Zhao’s men was getting ready to back him up. That’s not common at all. Houken is challenged or feared by Shin’s belief; going completely denial with rage. The climax begins.

The two Glaive clash; the power struggle never looked so defined. The first jaw-dropping highlight is Houken’s Glaive breaks into pieces. That most definitely warranted multiple shock reactions. Zhao’s men comes in to interfere, close to repeat the end of Ouki in a different fashion. The major difference is, Hi Shin Unit is there to cover him, now and forever. God bless those men. At one point, Hara-sensei takes the liberty to scare the hell out of the fans with the broken Glaive closing to pierce through Shin. This is where it all ends.

Earlier, I predicted Shin dodging the last strike and swing his last strike. I technically got it right with Shin miraculously dodge at the last millisecond and go for the mighty swing. Shin is finally overpowering Houken, slowly slashing through. This moment is such an adrenaline rush. It’s practically watching the main event of UFC, boxing, or whatever show that gets you wild; such a mesmerizing event. My mind was praying to be the end. It continues to teases until the most glorious final pages.

Shin defeats Houken with the mighty slash.

Just look at the final pages. It’s the most glorious sight; it gets me teary. I love the detail, especially with Shin ripping through the bandages with pure raw strength. The Glaive angle shot has the same camera effect with Houken, so the message becomes clear. Shin now wields the dominant force. To think, this is the final page of the decade. Beautiful.

What else is there to say about the chapter, but brilliant? Hara-sensei was determined to end the decade with a major development, let alone the year, and dammit, he succeeded. The long-running feud has come to an end. It was climatic, it was raw, and it left me completely satisfied. Maybe there will be a couple of moments before Houken disappears for good, but the first chapter of the new year is definitely crucial. The arc isn’t over yet, but the feel of a new beginning is soaring. Here’s to the new decade of greatness.

[ty-talks-comics]

Best of Marvel: Week of June 5th, 2019

Best of this Week: Meet the Skrulls #5 - Robbie Thompson, Niko Henrichon, Laurent Grossat and Travis Lanham

Earth has a way of changing everyone.

Of all of the races in the Marvel Universe, the Skrulls absolutely blend in the best. They act like us, laugh like us and even have families like us, but what happens when that family becomes more important than the mission? That’s what Meet the Skrulls asks us as we reach the end of the harrowing series.

Mirroring the happy beginnings of their mission, the rest of the Warner family, mother, Gloria, and her daughters, Alice, Madison and a presumed dead Ivy return to their family home. All is not good as it is engulfed in flame, leading to Gloria driving the family to a safe house just outside their city limits. Alice turns into a butterfly to complete her part of the mission while Gloria and Madison are reunited with their father, Carl, who tells them that their handler, Moloth, has betrayed them.

Meanwhile, Alice infiltrates the home of one of her highschool “friends” and tells her of her mission and that once she completes it, she will never show her face again. It’s distressing that things have gone so terribly that she’s willing to throw away her secret in a last ditch effort to salvage her mission, but that’s how the Skrulls are. They are focused on serving their homeworld and anything less than that is unacceptable in their eyes, especially for Alice who had been trying to become part of humanity for the entirety of the series.

At the same time, Carl begins to systematically incapacitate the rest of the family with stun guns, however Gloria catches on when he asks for a spot of tea from her that this is not her husband. She poisons the tea, but he detects it and they confront each other. Elsewhere, Iron Man arrives at a Stark Enterprises facility and questions how none of his staff knew that there was another floor/room that someone was using and how did a Skrull get in. Alice, posing as her friend’s mother, finds the body of her father, having been shot in the chest in the last issue. An unfortunate sacrifice to save his daughter, Ivy.

At the safehouse, Gloria and Moloth fight fiercely. Henrichon’s art reaches a new level of dynamic as limbs expand, twist and contort because of the Skrull’s shapeshifting abilities. Attacks and bodies look gross and everything is impactful because of the closed nature of the space they occupy. Not only that, but faces are expressive of the fury and betrayal that they all feel.

Moloth is disappointed in Skrull High Command and believe them to be weak and incompetent, choosing to betray them to another unknown benefactor and making the Warner’s take the fall for his actions. The Warners, Gloria and a recovered Madison are pissed and hurt that Moloth killed their father. Gloria rages and as she punches and kicks Moloth, it’s so very satisfying.

Moloth, however, gets the better of them and manages to hold them down with his limbs sort of taking the form of tree trunks, almost. He is dispatched when Alice returns, driving a car through the house and crushing him. He tells the family that the Skrull Homeworld will think that they’ve betrayed their home, that they can’t run, but Gloria tells him that that’s exactly what Moloth’s trained them for, turning her arm into a blade and killing him.The family then puts Carl’s body on a pyre and now have to live a life on the run while being pursued by Tony Stark and the Moloth’s unknown bosses.

I’ve been a fan of Meet the Skrulls since the first issue and I wish I had given it more love when it came to showing the books off because they are amazing. Robbie Thompson writes these characters in such a subtle way. The underlying love for each other is there, but it’s clouded by a cover of duty and a little bit of resentment in the first few issues due to the unexplained loss of Ivy sometime prior. Once it’s revealed that Ivy is alive and you think that the family may have  happy ending, that feeling is immediately ripped away and replaced with grief.

These characters are soldiers in a never ending war, but they somehow managed to form a bond beyond the war. It’s even harder because they are an actual family, but adjusting to life on Earth and some semblance of freedom making them supposedly weaker humanizes them in a way that we haven’t seen from the Skrulls before.

Not to mention how beautiful Henrichon’s art is. Henrichon has done amazing art for Doctor Strange and New Mutants with lots of spectacle and style, but the way that he draws small moments... little moments of intimacy and smiles, sometimes panels with no dialogue whatsoever is spectacular. His faces are awesome and the feeling is palpable in each of them. The sorrow from Alice as her “friend” questions who she is, the shock as Madison and Gloria see “Carl” and the rage as previously mentioned.

Meet the Skrulls definitely deserves some acclaim. It’s a spy thriller, a family drama and an alien invasion story wrapped into one nice and neat package. The art is phenomenal and while it may not continue past this story, it’s definitely one worth reading. The characters are engaging, from the overbearing and mission focused Carl, to his loving wife who’s grown disillusioned to the mission, to the dutiful Madison and the wistful Alice who just wants to be as normal as the humans. It’s an emotional journey and the ending is as impactful as its beginning. High recommend.

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

There aren't many other words to describe this issue other than EPIC.

Runner Up: The War of the Realms #5 - Jason Aaron, Russell Dauterman, Matthew Wilson and Joe Sabino

The War of the Realms is in full swing and the forces of Midgard are mounting their comeback! Thanks to the work of Shuri, communications are restored, allowing the various heroes of Earth to coordinate their actions, allowing for everyone to be teleported to areas that need them the most.

This leads to various amazing shots drawn by Russell Dauterman. The visual of Black Panther on a winged horse as Okoye and the Dora Milaje fight off the Angels of Heven is the background is stunning, Captain Britain and Captain America fighting off Dark Elves to the shores of France is amazingly inspiring and watching Wolverine be welcomed into the Warriors Three by Hogun and Fandral as he tears through Muspelheim's demons is brutal and hilarious.

Not only these moments, but the ones that are even longer look badass! Watching Volstagg return to his normal self as he dons the Destroyer Armor to fight Kurse is awesome because he shows that he'll never give up, even while suffering from his injuries against The Mangog. Frank Castle leading the Light Elves of Alfheim, wielding GUNS to fight the dark elves is AMAZING. And watching Captain Marvel and Roz Solomon team up to fight Dario Agger, giving him the comeuppance he deserves is so fulfilling.

While all of this war is going on, Thor is being ferried to the World Tree, Yggdrasil, by Daredevil. Surprisingly, it has been surviving on the surface of the sun as a seed of it was on Asgardia when it was being destroyed. To attain knowledge of how to win the war, Thor has Daredevil pin him to the tree in a fashion similar to when his father hung himself on the tree for seven years or so(?).

He returns in a series of shots, thunder rumbling as he crashes through the enemy forces, looking for Malekith. Hoping to mark the end of a rivalry that's been years in the making.

Because of the vast nature of this book and its extra size, there's so much to cover, but the main points are there. This is a Thor story, but it's a Marvel Event. An initial criticism that I had was that it did not feature Thor enough, casting him away to fight Frost Giants in Jotunheim for most of it, but honestly that's a good thing.

If Thor had remained, then we wouldn't have gotten the struggles that all of these heroes had to face while going up against Thor's magic nonsense. It's been a wild ride seeing Daredevil as The God Without Fear, seeing him use powers and a newfound sight to fight the forces of evil. Watching Frank Castle's profile raise CONSIDERABLY because of how integral to the War he has been is something else entirely. Most importantly, watching Black Panther coordinate everything alongside Lady Freyja cements him as a leader right on par with Steve Rogers.

When Malekith took Thor's arm back in 2014, no one knew that the villain would grow into such a huge threat this many years later, except for Jason Aaron. The War of the Realms is the culmination of everything that he's been building since 2012's Thor: God of Thunder. It's been a WILD and fun ride throughout and this penultimate issue has me salivating for the epic final confrontation between the Accursed and The Unworthy.

[qdtquietdownthere]

Day 11- A day of reflecting in an art gallery and painting, glueing and giggling in the sun.

Day 11

The waking up process, if it can be called a process, is the trickiest part of the residency actually. Waking up in your own bed, in Tottenham, seeing your flatmates, talking about the day ahead. It is a different world. I have to go from that, to the tube, then be in Pimlico. To this new, yet familiar place of comfort. What is the most exhausting is this point of change and transition- waking up in the life you are used to then diving into a day of fresh, exiting, uncertainty. No one really understands whats going on, and no one really wants to listen to me describing every detail of my day. I do not think this is something I would enjoy to do either. It’s lonesome in this sense. A temporary community which no one else is experiencing. That is so special though. I feel useful, like my existence and participation means something. 

I am very aware it is ending. Second last day. I am so comfortable now.

I walk around the area following a gentle map. I have walked these streets before. The Thames, the Bridge, the view of brutal Battersea, the tiny parks and the contrasts. There are so many contrasting textures, architecture and people. An area of extreme wealth, and then a definite lack of it. I feel uncomfortable with it at points. In my favourite park which sits just behind Tate Britain I watch a very wealthy man spend half an hour with a puppy trainer and his pedigree puppy. He tells me they have traveled from Devon. There is a visible contrast when you look for it. You can maybe hear it more than you can see it. I hear coffee orders which are 3 minutes long, decaf, soy, skinny milk. At the community centre in Churchill Gardens a cup of tea will always be milk and one sugar. I wonder where I sit in this pool of people, I wonder where other people see me belonging.

CCA is based next to Tate Britain and I try to go in to see the degree show but I am told it ended last week. There aren't many students around, ever. The whole time I have been in Pimlico I haven't noticed anyone who jumped out to me as looking like a student (whatever that means). I guess they have all gone home for summer. Over the past week I have seen a few Chinese students, as I guess flying home at such a high price isn't necessarily an option for international students. I wonder about the loneliness of living in this city when your purpose of being here is to purely be a student. I did my undergraduate at Leeds and it was the loneliest time for me. Sometimes I would walk to town, to the big Boots and back, just to get out, see people and feel like I was a part of what everyone else was doing. I worked all through university but I didn't really hang out with work friends, and with a class size of 10, well, there wasn't much social life going on. I wish I had gone out more, joined societies. Even if they didn't interest me, I should have pushed myself. I was nineteen and maybe I was shy, but I think what kept me being lonely was a reluctancy to say I was lonely to anyone apart from my family and friends who all lived back home in Edinburgh. I think about the mother I met during the babies library session at Victoria Library and how she was frustrated there were no classes on for her thirteen year old son. Kids don't want to look uncool, and I think this can continue for some people into university. There is a pool of opportunity in this pool of young people who are desperate to engage in a world, but scared and uncertain how to. No one whats to stand out from the self conscious crowd of teenagers and there is opportunity in making activities which both work with, and eradicate this. 

I walk across the courtyard from CCA and find a different art show; “Observer: John Latham and the Distant Perspective”. Latham’s body of work explores derelict land outside of Edinburgh and was developed from an artist placement with the Scottish Development Agency. The three month long artist residences took place in different locations, from industrial settings such as fishing villages to a residency exploring the mental health care service (https://mapmagazine.co.uk/john-latham-incidental-person). What was the desired outcome of these residencies? Well, the hope was that by involving an artist, “his creative intelligence or imagination can spark off ideas, possibilities and actions” ultimately benefiting development projects in Scotland (Lyddon, 2007). When the committee introducing Latham to the project asked if the artist was going to solve problems, Lyddon replied “No, the artist is going to show us problems we didn't know were there”. In the end, if there is ever an end to a body of work, Latham decided to explore the area in Midlothian from an areal perspective, or ‘from the distance’. It was from this, and through interacting intensely with archival aerial photography from the area, he was able to map out distinctive land features from the shale industry and turn these into a piece of re-conceived monumental, or sculptural work. The act of doing this changes how the public interact with the local landscape. I find the work fascinating and oh so funny to have stumbled into work made in this context during my time doing the residency in Churchill Gardens. I haven't continued to read into the work of Latham, but it has brought up interesting ideas as to how perspectives of place, how history, and fresh eyes can have an impact on how individuals engage with space. I think of how my view of the streets have changed since I began engaging in the area. How the image of a street morphs the more you walk down it. How the build up of memories connected to place erode and evolve as you step away then interact with them again. I am lucky to know these streets now and I get an overwhelming sense to draw them. Once again I'm excited by the power of naming, of bringing into the spotlight, places or people to create a transformative effect on how we engage with them. As I have been unable to draw or make during my time on the residency, I have taken up naming and writing lists of names instead. My diary has one section which includes as many names I can remember from all the people I have interacted with since my time in and around Pimlico and Churchill Gardens. Drawing cements and validates a memory or idea through the act of mark making, and I believe the power of naming and writing these names validates all the connections I have had to people over the course of the two weeks. I have found this at least itches my little creative scratch. Or rather, it scratches my creative itch.

In the afternoon I return to the Thamesbank Centre to volunteer with Shambush as part of the South west festival. With children from the surrounding housing estates, Shambush are holding creative making events in local community centres to try and create a way for children to engage with art and their neighbouring communities. We work to a brief which is to design, paint and glue onto paper ‘solar panels’ these of space, which will later be put together and secured to a huge metal structure and presented as a space shuttle in the gardens of Tate Britain. For each making event a child attends in their local area, they receive a stamp on their ‘space engineer passport’. It is a fantastic idea and I find it so exciting to hear that there is an activity in place to connect these very separate housing estates which tend to never really mix. When speaking to both Shambush and the local children who come to do the making session, it is apparent that Tate Britain is another world to this community. Im not surprised. It is a twenty minute walk away, yet completely inaccessible as a cultural engagement. This is sad but a very real reality.  Fine art is most easily digested by those with the confidence to enter into the gallery space and those with the education to understand how to interact with it. 

The kids are wonderful and messy and giggly and I laugh a lot with two girls in particular. We are silly and happy and I feel in my element. I feel so lucky to be in this space making with such interesting and wonderful kids. A group of boys come over and make maths themed solar panels. One boy manages to name every dwarf planet in our solar system and I feel very stupid when I talk about the ‘fire hurricanes on Venus’ (he probably knows the scientific latin name for them). Its so great how the space works. We are outside, the sun is shining, kids come and go and there is a real sense that we are in the heart of the community. We are on Peabody estate on Tachbrook Avenue so the street is lined by beautiful tall flats. In its centre is the park which is connected to the community centre, so every flat can watch down on us. I speak to one boy who is in year 5 and he says because of the park he has lots of friends who are older and younger than him. It is a place for all ages. 

Throughout the day only two parents come and talk to us and engage with the activities. Its a shame because so often it is the parents who are cautious and scared to venture out and try new things, and go new places which ultimately gets passed down to the kids. When we age we tend to view creativity as something that we have or we don't have. The older we get the more we become aware that we can or cannot draw. The older we get the more we isolate ourselves from activities and places we don't feel comfortable, or that accentuate the fact we cant draw, or paint or act. The kids seem to want to come to Tate when we tell them their work will be shown there, but unfortunately that isn't enough, it is about the parents. Pimlico toy library was great for this, and Shelia was really passionate that she was creating a space which was confidence building for parents. This is vital. 

The children power through the activities and start getting a little bored. I suggest making some space themed origami fortune tellers. Im worried that maybe I should have asked before doing this but Shambush are lovely and energetic about getting stuck in and keeping busy. The kids seem to love it and I get a real sense of right. I don't really know how to describe it. I feel in my element. This is huge for me and something which means the world when you're at the start of a career as a young artist who is still trying to find her feet. I wouldn't have had the means to experience bringing ideas to a children's art session before this and I feel so lucky that I am in this position. I feel validated that it is met with so much enthusiasm. 

The afternoon wizzes past. The father of the two girls who I had spent a lot of time with is brought down by his carer to go to the park. From the top floor flat their mother calls them up to go and help with caring for the neighbours. They give me lots of cuddles goodbye and run off with hands covered in glue and crisps. I cant help but think about what a potentially tricky life they must have, but how wonderful and giggly they are. I wish I could meet their mother and tell her how great they have been. How great all the kids have been. I leave and have a little cry down the phone to my friend because I'm so sad it has ended. It felt pivotal for me as just me, as someone who is unsure of my next steps, of what areas of work I would like to pursue. It is because of this afternoon, and because of this residency that I have been given this opportunity and this space to gain confidence and experience in wonderful exciting and giggle fuelled roles. 

Today is one of the best days I have had. Volunteering gives the residency a whole new level as i feel I'm working as part of a service which is effecting change. This is something I have a growing need to do. Its a wonderful thing that these two great volunteering opportunities with Shambush and the food distribution with Mike happened on my last few days. I feel I am more ready for them at this stage. I think about the residency ending, but on a larger scale, I think about goodbyes. I am not very good at them. I am home and I'm writing lots, I will have vegetable ratatouille for tea and I am going to have a gin and tonic too, because the sun is shining and I am happy. Big day tomorrow. Sad day. Big day. Last day. 

[massielandnetwork]

Thriving in an Economic Bubble during Anarchy

5. The Christian Succession – Are the DM Wheels Beginning to Wobble?

Most Americans across our country celebrated Independence Day last weekend. We traveled to Florida for a family event and returned by car on Sunday afternoon. Thinking traffic would be bad we had planned to break the return trip into two legs. But on Sunday traffic was light so we drove all the way through. It was interesting that every time I stopped for gas, when the pump was supposed to print my receipt, all of them were out of paper. America had been on the road.

The Demented Marxists (DM) had a bad week. It was interesting to watch. Here are four questions:

1. The New York City (NYC) Mayor election saw 1 Million voters cast their ballots but the DM’s ended up with more than 1.1M ballots. Oops. The DM’s had to publicly acknowledge that they do not know who won the first round and it will be a few weeks before they can figure it out. Election fraud? Can the DMs get the Republican Senate in Arizona to audit the NYC Mayor election?

2. I have lost count, is the non-infrastructure Infrastructure Deal on or off. Neither Biden knows, but for different reasons. Perhaps Obama has not told them yet. More stimulus into an economy already operating at capacity will simply increase the rate of inflation from high to rampant. Is rampant inflation the DM economic plan?

3. The Momma Bears have the CRT idiots on the run including some of the founders of the CRT movement. As that culture war continues, the DMs have sent in their reserves, the National Education Association (NEA), which voted to (1) resist going back to the classrooms until all students are vaccinated despite the lack of an approval of the vaccines for anyone under the age of 18, and (2) insist on teaching CRT in every public classroom in America. Are we witnessing the end of public education?

4. Remember the Democrats running around yelling about the Republicans’ War on Women? Since Democrats support transgenders winning women’s athletic events and women’s beauty contests – does that qualify as a war on women?

Give our Lord and Savior the credit for the great awakening that is happening as Christians stand firm when Satan is being exposed. Hallelujah. Amen. Here are just a few recent examples:

1. Trump held his second rally, this time in Sarasota, Florida. Another sellout crowd. Biden’s July 4th message received views equal to 25% of the attendees at Trump’s rally. Yet we are supposed to believe that Biden got the most votes in the history of the USA.

2. More governors are sending either police or troops to the USA southern border. My guess is it is a different group of states than sent troops to DC in January – March. Both events highlight failure on the part of the DM’s and displays that states are increasingly acting independent of the Federal government.

3. One of Arizona’s State Senators has called for a national movement to audit all elections in all states. Every nonprofit organization has an annual audit, publicly traded companies get audited, how come it is not standard procedure to audit our elections? Virginia’s Republicans must be hiding under their blankies because they are not discussing an audit.

I highly recommend that you read the book “Unsettled” by Steven E. Koonin. It is the most thorough analysis of Climate Change I have found. Pure FACTS not opinions wrapped in spin. Mr. Koonin is candid in his disdain for the media’s distortion of the facts that have been and are issued on the topic of Climate Change. It is easy to see that the media types are either clueless about science or severely slanted in their view (or both) because they never let the facts stand in the way of making up a good story.

Speaking of Climate Change, watch for rolling electrical brownouts in California and Texas. Is Virginia next to experience a highest cost and lowest reliability electric grid dependent on solar panels and bird slicers called windmills. Perhaps the DM’s think brownouts are a way of fighting their imagined climate change. To me, brownouts mean a lousy government.

Melissa MacKenzie, the Publisher of American Spectator, wrote a personal blog article last week and described her movement away from the “dying social media platforms” to the new ones – Rumble, Signal, Telegram, Speakeasy, Gab, and Parler. She has marked a trend. Join it.

In the economy, here are some critical data points:

1. Two homebuilders have now shared with me that their sales pace has declined each month for the last three months in a row. If you have been reading this blog, you know that in February we forecasted that trend would occur and explained the reason why it is happening – higher mortgage rates.

2. Thanks to the Biden the USA is no longer energy independent but again subject to the whims of OPEC which has raised the price of oil to more than $75 per barrel and headed to $100 a barrel. Get ready for $4 gas. That adds a higher cost of energy into the DMs economic toxic mix. Higher interest rates, higher energy prices, higher inflation, capped off with higher taxes … anyone one of them equals a recession.

3. The report of 850,000 jobs in June reflects the states that stopped paying folks not to work so they found jobs. While that is significant, the real significance is its impact on The Fed. The Fed meets the end of this month and then the end of September. By the end of September, the pressure on the Fed to reduce stimulus will be so high they will at least announce when they will begin to taper their Quantitative Easing (QE), the term for The Fed buying 10-year Treasuries and mortgages to reduce mortgage interest rates to stimulate the real estate market. When The Fed announces that they will begin to taper QE, the 10-year Treasuries and therefore mortgage interest rates will both increase and burst the real estate bubble.

4. Biden fired the CEO of FNMA, the quasi-government mortgage entity. Biden stated that he will appoint someone who will lower the standards for mortgage loans so that more folks can buy homes. If making bad loans on houses sounds familiar, Billy Clinton did the same in 1998 and the result was the financial crisis that created The Great Recession. Why do the DM’s want another financial crisis?

The Fed now owns such a large percentage of the Treasury market that it causes mixed signals in those markets. Do not be fooled. As The Fed tapers QE, interest rates will rise and the economy will slow. The higher interest rates will impact a matrix of forces but the result is simple to forecast - the ripple effects cause a brutal recession.

Counting the one that is coming in 2022, during my career I will have been through seven recessions caused by one of the following – (1) increased energy prices, (2) interest rates being raised to combat inflation, and (3) increased taxes. The recession coming next year will be the result of a combination of all three of those forces in combination with stagflation. Ugly.

177 days into the DM’s Coup, eventually, we will know all the facts. Pray for the patriot attorney in Antrim County, Michigan who called for the Secretary of State to resign or be impeached and the election to be De-Certified. Another county in Michigan has voted to audit its election. Interesting that the Michigan GOP is reported to have issued a statement that no fraud occurred in the election. The data suggest the opposite is correct, so one has to wonder who is owned by whom.

Keep watching the Arizona Audit. The Secretary of State in Georgia decided to investigate the chain of custody of some of the mail in ballots to CYA. As the election audits spread and the terabytes of information from Mr. Dong bubble, you can smell the fear of the DMs.

A great piece of land remains The Best investment long term. Capitalism builds wealth, Marxism/Socialism consumes it in self destruction. Pray for a return to honest and audited elections in the USA. God is in control. Men make plans, but God ALWAYS wins.

“And not only that, but we boast of our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us.”

(Romans 5:3-5) New Revised Standard Version, Oxford University Press)

Stay healthy,

Ned

July 8, 2021

Copyright Massie Land Network. All rights Reserved.

[themusesofmars]

Fanfiction Updated - Final Fantasy XV

In case you’re unaware, there’s an IgNoct drabbles challenge on Archive of Our Own! My most recent chapter is for the sci-fi A/U. I got a bit carried away! Drabbles are supposed to be 100 words, but my sci-fi story is over 2,000. Oops. Synopsis: Ignis is on a solo mission to discover new planets. He crash-lands on a strange new world and is rescued by a beautiful Alien (Noct). Read it on Archive of Our Own or continue reading on Tumblr!

The rush of wind roused Ignis Scientia to a slowly wakening consciousness. When he realized he was actually alive, he tried opening his eyes, then blinked against the sting of the sand flying into them. The air billowed around Ignis and whipped his ash blond hair sharply against his soot-streaked face. He hurt all over, but it was only a stiff sort of ache. As he carefully pushed down against the ground and forced himself to his hands and knees, he was able to ascertain no bones were broken. Neither, it seemed, were his glasses, by no small miracle.

The inventor climbed sorely to his feet and rolled his shoulders, testing his joints. Good. Nothing had dislocated, either. He smelled smoke in the dry air of the unfamiliar planet, and turned in a slow circle to locate the specific site of his apparent shipwreck. The last thing he remembered was an alien planet appearing on the ship’s radar. No one had ever traveled so far from Eos, but Ignis had set out to discover new worlds in a craft he designed and built with his own hands, and it had seemed his goal was within reach. But now…

The Chocobo was a complete loss; that much was evident even at a distance. Ignis didn’t know if the jettison controls had finally kicked into gear and he had been flung from the ship before the moment of impact, or if he had endured the entire crash and somehow survived it to crawl from the wreckage.

There was little left of the vessel that wasn’t charred or ash by now. There would be nothing left to repair, Ignis realized, so he would have to abandon it and pray to the Six this planet was inhabited by humanoid life, or at least had edible vegetation nearby. But all he saw was sand and rock, tinted the color of rust beneath a hazy purple sky. Everything was in smog and his legs felt heavy, almost as if he were walking underwater. This was definitely not the gravitational pull he was used to back on Eos. There wasn’t a person or an animal in sight, never mind a source of drinking water.

Well, Ignis thought, sighing to himself, at least I reached the Bahamut Galaxy and lived to tell about it. For now.

But tell whom?

The fire had mostly dwindled and died out, but perhaps some supplies had fared as well as he had. Ignis adjusted his glasses, wiped the sweat from his brow—this planet was bloody scorching!—and began inspecting The Chocobo to see if he could gain entry.

It was difficult to discern which was the front and which was the back end of the craft, but Ignis found an open portal where the ship’s door had apparently blown off and he was finally able to climb inside.

The instruments and dials in the cockpit had been destroyed. There must have been an electrical fire, but it was out now. The displays were smashed and the dash panel had been broken in two. Ignis avoided looking at the pilot’s seat; he didn’t even want to think about what might have happened, or how it didn’t.

Instead the engineer found his way to the storage lockers at the back of the ship. One of the three had been completely incinerated. The next caught enough of the fire damage that its contents—all the food he had on board—were a total loss. The last container, filled with medical supplies and bottled water, was mercifully intact.

Ignis gathered everything salvageable that remained into a rucksack and headed out. He didn’t know where he was going, but it would be pointless to stay here.

Outside, the sky had grown dark. Everything was looking a little sickly, a little green. Perhaps the sun was setting. Until he spent some time here, he wouldn’t know how long the days and nights lasted on this planet, especially without his tools handy. It felt as though it had cooled considerably in the short time Ignis had been aboard his demolished aircraft. He would need to find shelter soon, or burn what was left of the wreckage so he could stay warm tonight.

An unexpected sound interrupted Ignis’s indecision, and as a large, majestic animal raced into view, its hooves thundering on the rocky terrain, it seemed his mind would be made up for him.

The beast boasted six slender legs, every bit as lanky as the limbs of the anaklaban back home, but also bore two double pairs of wings. It had a light coat of fur, Ignis noticed as it drew closer, but its long neck was scaled like a reptile’s. Its head was a cross between a bird’s and a lizard’s, and in the center of its forehead curled a long, twisting horn. It was magnificent, and it carried a rider.

A figure swathed in gauzy material jumped down from the beast’s rather ornately crafted saddle. The young man’s face was obscured by a hood and mask of fabric, all but his colorless eyes, while his legs and midriff were bare. He wore leather sandals that laced all the way up to his knees and matching bracers protected his forearms and shoulders.

They stared at one another for a moment, each with an inquisitive gaze. Yet, strangely, Ignis felt no fear. The boy had no weapon that he could discern, nor did Ignis read malice in his expression. The young man’s dark brows were furrowed, but it was a look of concern, not anger.

Ignis decided he would have to take the first step towards an introduction. He lifted a hand by way of greeting. “Hello,” he called out, smiling. Smiles, he hoped, were a universal language.

The boy cocked his head curiously.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Ignis added with a polite nod. “What’s your name?”

The wind picked up and tossed the boy’s garment across his eyes. He clawed at it impatiently, then pointed at the sky. Ignis lifted his chin but didn’t know what the young man was trying to tell him. He shook his head. The boy flung his arm out wide, pointing urgently at the deep amethyst clouds gathering on the horizon.

Ignis felt a prickling sensation along the nape of his neck. “I take it that’s…bad?” he said worriedly.

The boy turned his back on him and started back toward his steed.

“Wait!” Ignis said, hurrying after him. “Please! If a storm’s coming, I—”

He did not need to explain. The young man took to his mount in a single leap, then reached his arm out to help Ignis up.

Ignis released a quick sigh of relief. “Right. Thank you.”

The boy was stronger than his small frame suggested. Of course, the force of the gravity on this planet likely had something to do with that. Ignis hesitated to put his hands on the other man, but the decision was again made for him as he found his arms drawn around the rider’s waist, indicating this was going to be a bumpy ride. Then the young man lifted his steed’s reins and gave them a sharp tug, and the beast bolted faster than any spiracorn Ignis had ever seen.

The animal’s hooves were beating so hard against the rugged earth, Ignis’s ears began to ache from the deafening sound. It took him some time to realize what he was actually hearing was thunder. He chanced a look over his shoulder and witnessed a dazzling display of sparks and bursts of lightning unlike anything he had ever seen. But his arms began to loosen their grip as he observed the alien phenomenon, and he nearly fell off the saddle, quickly realizing that now was not the best time to take in the scenery.

Craggy mountains appeared on the horizon and they were apparently heading straight for them. The alps were far too steep for traversing, and their mount’s wings did not appear to be made for flying. The ridges seemed to be directly in their path, so for a moment Ignis was afraid they would be caught between them and the storm. But as they raced towards the rock face, Ignis saw there was a cave just ahead. Before they reached it, however, they were caught in the icy grip of the sandstorm.

The wind was fierce and bitterly cold. The sand felt like ice shards piercing his skin, and Ignis’s glasses were nearly blown off his face. He pressed his face against the rider’s back to protect his spectacles, but he feared they would both be lost and die from exposure to these powerful elements.

Then all at once the wind was at their backs and they were in a loudly echoing tunnel, racing onward. Ignis was afraid to look until the roar of the brutal storm outside had dulled to a whisper, and by then their steed was trotting more slowly.

When Ignis did lift his head and open his eyes, he gasped in astonishment. The cave was lit up by the reflecting glow of sky blue crystals as far as he could see. The entire passageway was made up of the iridescent shards. A shimmer danced all over the cavern walls and ceiling, and the pathway they traveled was littered with glittering pebbles. It was like being inside of a geode. He had never seen anything so beautiful. Or so he thought.

After a while the tunnel opened up into a sizable grotto. A large pool of something that looked very much like water was glimmering just in reach, and Ignis hoped it was drinkable in spite of the way the surface rippled in slow motion as though it were not liquid, but a gelatinous substance. He got an answer soon enough.

Their steed came to a slow stop and Ignis lowered his arms as the boy climbed down to the ground. He accepted the young man’s help in climbing down, realizing suddenly how his own limbs were trembling with the exhaustion of having been clinging so hard to the rider and his mount. And he was surprised to discover they were both coated in a dusting of snow, not sand, as he’d initially presumed.

The boy slowly unwrapped himself from his garment, revealing a silken mane of ebony and cat-like eyes that were anything but colorless. Gazing into them, Ignis realized they were a deep grey-blue, like the sky on Eos during an encroaching storm. Here, on this strange planet, they had no comparison, and they were beyond beautiful.

As was the rest of the alien, who now stood in nothing but a leather loin cloth and his own taupe skin, watching him.

Ignis removed his rucksack and set it gently down on the ground. The boy gestured and led him to the gel pool’s edge, where he knelt and showed him the cool substance was indeed drinkable. Ignis joined the boy in kneeling and scooped up some of the stuff in both his palms. It danced in his cupped hands like some exotic dessert. He parted his lips, then opened his mouth and let it pour between his teeth. It was sweet on his tongue, like fresh spring water with a splash of fruit juice. It was refreshing, and he drank thirstily.

The wind was not billowing inside the haven, but the air was still cold. The boy seemed less affected, but his curious eyes noticed the way Ignis shivered in his torn flight suit. The alien guided him around some crystalline stalagmites jutting up out of the ground and to some cloth and fur blankets. A bed.

“You…live here?” Ignis asked with surprise.

The boy stripped off his leather waist covering, the bracers, and his sandals, then crawled onto the bedding and patted it, offering to share.

Ignis told himself that clothes were nothing but a social construct that varied amongst cultures, and tried not to be embarrassed as he removed his own. The boy moved closer, offering to share his body’s boundless warmth. He was so beautiful, Ignis could not help but accept it.

Some time later, he and the lovely alien were standing on a cliff, watching a menagerie of exotic birds and beasts roam a lush and fertile land, where food sources were plentiful for all. His ship was gone, and no one knew where he was, but Ignis had ceased to care. He had everything he needed: shelter, resources, beauty, and an alien boy named Noctis, whom he had come to love.

[recentanimenews]

Adapting the Impossible: Translating the Overhaul Arc into Animation

Hello all, and welcome back to Why It Works. Over the past few weeks, My Hero Academia’s initially slow-burning fourth season has exploded into dramatic action, as the assault on the Hassaikai yakuza compound has resulted in episode after episode of brutal, all-encompassing fight scenes. Red Riot’s first two battles, Suneater versus three Hassaikai lieutenants, Lemillion’s desperate attempts to save Emi - My Hero Academia has been firing on all cylinders recently, and beyond the immediate thrill of its recent fights, I’ve also been enjoying seeing the production as a whole navigate the inherent difficulties of translating this particular manga’s fight scenes into animation. Today let’s dig a little more deeply into that process, as we examine the challenges of translating Horikoshi’s thrilling fights into motion!

First off, it should go without saying that different mediums have different strengths, and thus great adaptations tend to embrace a rule that some might consider sacrilege: do not attempt to faithfully translate all of the elements of the source material, but instead capture its spirit in a way that best takes advantage of the strengths of its new medium.

A movie that attempts to contain all the internal monologue of the book it’s based on will likely be a worse movie for it; books are just naturally suited to extended internal monologue, whereas visual mediums are unsurprisingly better at conveying their drama visually. And though manga and anime are a bit closer in terms of their strengths, My Hero Academia’s recent arcs have clearly demonstrated Horikoshi embracing the unique strengths of manga in a way that’s actually made it harder to adapt his work.

So what are those unique strengths? For manga, the relationship between panels is actually crucial to their momentum and tension. Manga normally drives our attention forward quickly through stacking panels, with extended panels tending to prompt a brief mental pause, as we scan across the panel in order to take in the whole. This is how you manage “pacing” in a medium like comics - the relationships between panels dictate the speed at which they are consumed, with many small panels implying frantic movement, and larger ones implying stillness or impact.

Following that logic, manga’s most impressive (or at least attention-drawing) panels tend to be dramatic two-page spreads, the most impactful tool in a mangaka’s toolkit. They force the reader to sit back and take stock of the image as a whole, and are generally framed as the key turning points of any given battle. Two-page spreads embody manga’s potential for outright awe in single, overwhelming images, and My Hero Academia’s recent arcs have been making increasingly prominent use of these shots for its big action setpieces. Unfortunately, while these impressive visual setpieces naturally embody the strengths of manga, their appeal is almost untranslatable into anime.

  There are a variety of reasons for this. As I said, the size and distribution of panels is one of the main ways comics manage pacing - but in anime, no single panel is generally “larger” than any other. All sequences that are adapted tend to consume the same amount of screen real estate, resulting in a “flattening” of dramatic emphasis. Jokes that might have only occupied a tiny side panel are now forced to carry the whole screen, while two-page spreads that would have naturally drawn attention to themselves in comic form can be afforded no more attention than any other image. Often, if you think some sequence felt funnier or cooler or whatnot in the manga than in the anime, this can be a subtle byproduct of this flattening of dramatic intent between panels.

But there are reasons beyond the general difficulty of adaptation that make My Hero Academia such a tricky adaptation. Horikoshi’s big panels tend to be less about conveying a dramatic still moment than about capturing one moment within a larger transformation. As his creativity and ambition when it comes to Quirk designs has increased, so has the complexity of these shots, and so has the inherent difficulty of parsing his battles. For a character like Sun Eater, the number of moving on-screen parts is bountiful and strangely articulated, with characters actively morphing as they fight, and it can be hard to tell what’s going on even when given the guiding hand of panel-by-panel storytelling.

  This issue was clear to see even back in the Hero License arc, when the anime was forced to contend with adapting the introductory fights of characters like Inasa Yoarashi. As impressive as single panels like this are, they present an impossible challenge for adaptation, as all those beautiful still objects represent a nightmare to bring to life. And this challenge has reached new heights in the Overhaul arc, through the absurd difficulty of conveying transformational powers like Sun Eater, as well as the issues presented by the Hassaikai’s own powers.

One of the foundational rules of animation is that adjusting the camera’s own perspective is prohibitively difficult. Animating characters in motion is difficult enough, but when you move the camera, your perspective relative to all other objects shifts, and thus everything in the frame must be redrawn. Well then, how do you animate a sequence when the backgrounds themselves are constantly shifting, like, say, due to a Quirk that manipulates static objects, or one that constantly destroys and rebuilds matter on the fly?

The answers will unfortunately have to wait until next week, as I've already run out of time. Sorry to jerk your chains like that, but I'll be back soon, and I hope you've enjoyed this dive into the details of adaptation!

    --------------

Nick Creamer has been writing about cartoons for too many years now, and is always ready to cry about Madoka. You can find more of his work at his blog Wrong Every Time, or follow him on Twitter.

Do you love writing? Do you love anime? If you have an idea for a features story, pitch it to Crunchyroll Features!

    By: news+feed@crunchyroll.com

[gallery19chicago]

Chicago Artist Kathy Weaver has always used her artwork as a reaction to the injustice and failures in our society. Her newest series currently showcased at Gallery19 does not veer away from some of the most difficult issues of our age.

Weaver initially started expressing her observations through fiber arts. Quilting and embroidery created by the Amish in her home town affected her artistic sensibility from an early age. The artist still works with fiber, but has primarily transitioned her techniques to heavy art paper. She stitches, burns and reassembles the ripped pieces that make up her compositions. The significance of these almost violent assemblages is the representation of our wounded world, held together with Weaver’s own sutures.

The artist’s newest series, titled “A Tear in the Fabric” serves as a warning of the political and environmental degradation of our world. Weaver uses robots, animals and infants as visual warnings of the disaster yet to come. Her subjects stand in as replacements for the adult human, creating neutral and enticing focal points in vulnerable landscapes. The fragility of the environment is heightened through these forms, who plead for understanding through their body language.

Weaver favors a bright color palette and surreal imagery to pull people in.  Her most current piece “Toxic Game” came into focus after she spotted a photograph of workers walking around on stilts after the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Disaster. The juxtaposition of these men striding through toxic water without much protection really hit a cord with Weaver. She felt the need to create Toxic Game to honor the sacrifice these workers made, as well as illustrate the absurdity of this deadly situation. Gold finches perch in the foreground of this embattled piece, serving as the “canaries in the coal mine” to an almost hopeless situation.

The continued war in Syria has had a deep impact on the artist as well. Weaver recently created three monumental scrolls depicting the brutal treatment of civilians as part of the traveling exhibit “A Voice for Victims”. The panel titled “Barrel Bombs over Aleppo” was shown at Gallery19, and showcased Weaver’s very poignant ability to make artwork embody humanity’s hurt. The primary figure in the piece, clothed in Medieval armor, sits atop barrel bombs as blood, screws, nails and rebar rains down. The gazelle, a symbol of the country, stands exposed with its faun as death approaches.

Weaver isn’t afraid to dive into difficult subject matter, handily taking it on and creating work that is both beautiful and meaningful. The artist hopes the work will draw people into a dialogue, and ultimately create a reaction strong enough to help create change…

-Mieke Zuiderweg

[sportsanimebreakdown]

How to Draw Someone Getting Punched in The Face

AKA: The first of many posts where I don’t just lose my shit over Hajime no Ippo, but I explain to you, in stupid amounts of detail, whhhyyy.

Layout Disclaimer: Any sequential pages will be laid out right to left. That’s how it goes in Japan and it’s important to the motion of the page to keep it the way the artist intended it. Also, I don’t own any of the following artwork. If you’re a publishing company and want me to take it down, just ask and I will.

SO!

Let’s start with the basics. Let’s have one of Japan’s greatest living artists, Inoue Takehiko, rewind like thirty years of his life and show us the early years of Slam Dunk as an example of how most artists show someone getting punched in the face. (Non-sequential excerpts)

So on the right, we have a decent and typical page: we can’t really see the person who’s hitting our protagonist, his eyes are flat for comedic effect, and we’re in the split-second right after the punch. To tell us the strength of the hit, we have strong motion lines, mild distortion of the character’s face, and some ink splatter for blood from a split lip. In the other page, we get even less info, not even seeing their faces. We still get the sense of the strength of the big guy’s hit, both from the motion lines and by how much the guy dominates the panel. 

It gets the point across that someone was just punched in the face, and it does it a lot better than most. (Have you ever seen someone get punched in a shoujo manga? It’s pathetic, they really need to pick up their game over there.)

But in order to talk about this, let’s introduce a timing/effectiveness numbering  system:

So 0 is the point of impact. 1 is right before it. -1 is right after it. So a 5 might be “Hitter walking up to Hittee” while a -5 might be “Hitter walking away from struck Hittee”. So that’s the timing numbering. And then let’s add a second number in there to account for power. As you can see in 1:2, it’s the moment before impact, but it looks a hell of a lot more effective than 1. and in -1:2, that impact actually looks like it hurt, as opposed to -1. 

I’d put the Slam Dunk panels at -1:1. So they’re both right after the moment of impact, and they’re effective punches, but I’m not thinking that someone’s gonna get knocked unconscious.

Now let’s look at George Morikawa’s early work on Hajime no Ippo (sequential excerpts, right to left) at Issue 9: 

First panel: 0:2. Point of impact, fairly effective.  Second panel: -3:2. Opponent's body has had full falling-down-reaction, and we can see his legs shaking.

So in this early example, Morikawa is still getting his feet under him. The sound effect (PAN!) isn’t as effective as it could be. It feels like a solid object between us and the image. This translates to the impression that Ippo has just stopped Miyata in his tracks. Which works, but... well you’ll see how he’ll improve. We can’t see Ippo’s expression, which would be nice since this is a plot point, but we get a sliver of Miyata’s shocked face.  Also, notice the direction of force and how it creates a mass on the page. We’re going up. Naturally, Morikawa keeps that consistent across the punches and the reaction, but look at the mass the two fighters create on the right panel. Awkward, much? It’s hard for us to get a sense of how hard Ippo’s hit him because there’s very limited directionality to his strikes. Also, it doesn’t lead the viewer’s eye to naturally move quite as well from panel to panel.

Let’s go forward to Issue 100:

First Page: 2:2 The puncher is crouched down, showing the power he’s going to put into it, which we see in the next panels, where the impact happens (I’d put the impact panel at 0:2) Second Page: -1:3 . Ippo’s head is already flying back.

Here, we only get one panel of the actual impact, but we see a strong wind-up and a strong reaction, so it’s definitely improving. We even get, right after the impact, the audience reaction in a quick three-pane, while Ippo’s “just been struck” face hangs in the air. Learning how to massage time, when to hold a moment and when to fast forward, is important for any artist, but the skill -or lack thereof- is more obvious in the sports genre. Also, let’s look at the directionality, which is improving: the opponent’s punch direction on page 1 leads the uppercut you know is coming right to the top left corner, as it should. Then it keeps this direction, pivoting behind ippo slightly, for the next page. So consistent and solid, but nothing that makes you get chills.

Issue 131:

Page One: 2:4 to 1:3 We get a whole page of the opponent’s incoming punch and Miyata watching it, calculating. Page Two: 0:6 Miyata’s landed his surprise counter punch and it’s completely caved the dude’s face in. Page Three: 0:7 At the start of the next chapter, Morikawa brings us back to this moment of impact, extending it. Page Four: 0:7 to -2:7 he hit him so hard, -1 was blown past and he’s already on the ground.

Morikawa’s got it DOWN. The balance between audience reaction/Miyata’s internal focus (look at those eyes) and the action is perfect. The pace is kept up by the constant breaking of the rigid square panels by the sound effects. The two-page spread gives an entire page over to the sound effects. The ink splatter (or what will later develop into Morikawa’s “debris” effect) makes it feel like blood/sweat is being blown off of the opponent. The motion lines tell us his head is practically exploding and that Miyata is moving with incredible speed. The great top/right-to-bottom/left movement on the title page is classic and gorgeous and brutal. On page 4 there’s an angle change that’s done very naturally (from right-left to left-down) which, slamming the guy down at an angle that stops all future momentum on the page, tells us what a game-changing, fight-ending punch that was.

I’ll stop with the damn blow-by-blow, but let’s look at how, past Issues 900, Morikawa’s style has developed to the point where he can make anything look fucking amazing:

Shadow boxing: 

Look at the beautiful directionality of that! The twisting cyclone of power! Not only do we have the motion lines on the objects themselves, and not only is there the directionality of the abstracted sound effects, but movement itself is given form in those white stripes and the tiny bits of debris. What are those?? I DON’T EVEN KNOW BUT THEY FUCKING WORK.

Clenching a fist and starting to twist his body:

Look at one of the few pages where Morikawa will break his usual 90-degree-rectangle-panel-layout. How it makes everything feel like it’s happening at the same moment. Look at how the sound effects are chaos everywhere, and you don’t even know what they SAY but you can TELL what they say because of how they’re drawn (like the cracking knuckles in the middle panel or the shooting-off-to-the-right one at the bottom (which says hiiiIIII...! like a plane taking off) and how they draw the eye from panel to panel and shooting onto the next page, making you blow past this page in eagerness, even though it’s so great.  FUCK. LOOK AT IT.

And finally... How to blow someone’s head off and do it in a way that makes you wonder how they’re still alive: -1:10

That’s it. I have nothing more to say. I only have intense hand waving and an artistic inferiority complex left. 

Ah well. At least he didn’t start this freakin good. There’s hope for the rest of us.

[an-tig-on-ie]

Just Cause 4 deep review

What is another oppressive dictatorship to show protagonist Rico Rodriguez? Not much. He does experience a new type of enemy in Only Cause 4, nevertheless: intense weather. It is the frequent thread which runs through the the narrative and new mechanisms and shirts off the volatile spectacle the show is famous for. And alongside new gadgets to ship objects (and individuals ) flying around the Earth, Just Cause has come to be a physics playground. Unfortunately, there simply are not enough chances to put those features to great use; underwhelming mission arrangement along with also a world slender on enticing actions makes Only Cause 4 per short-lived burst with untapped potential.

The very best and most common piece of Just Cause games would be in the forefront once more. An outstanding traversal system enables you to propel Rico across the gorgeous landscapes of Solis and easily soar through the heavens. Like previous matches, you build momentum and basically catapult yourself utilizing the mixture of those tools and hardly ever need to touch the floor. It is hard to comprehend how gratifying it would be to escape enemy hordes and hook on the bottom of a helicopter to hijack it and rip down them, or even slingshot yourself from harm's way toward another goal you will blow to pieces.

Rico is not only constructed to move quickly, but: if you are not causing explosions on a regular basis, you may do something wrong. Considering that the grappling hook may also be used to tether items collectively, you've got a great deal of chances to find creative out of exhausting your arsenal of guns --a few of which have their very own wacky practical software, such as the end cannon or lightning gun. Some weapons simply wreak havoc like the railgun or even burst-fire rocket launcher, as well as small tiny arms such as the SMG have impactful alternate fire modes.

It is hard to comprehend how gratifying it would be to escape enemy hordes and hook on the bottom of a helicopter to hijack it and rip down them, or even slingshot yourself from harm's way toward another goal you will blow to pieces.

All 3 devices coincide with all the new engine. Air lifters (essentially miniature hot air balloons) allow you to launch items into the skies, and they may be further customized concerning speed, behaviour, and elevation. Retractors pull targets collectively , and boosters operate like jet engines that will send things into a speeding wave, if it be an assault helicopter or a bad enemy soldier. Numerous permutations of those contraptions are made possible, because their effects may be stacked into one tether and three loadout configurations allow you to switch between loadouts on the fly. These gadgets have been unlocked through side tasks, and you are given lots of paths to make them function as you need, which contributes to the most unsatisfactory part.

Mission construction is uninspired, since you're always requested to escort NPCs, shield a particular thing for a specified duration, trigger (or ruin ) inconspicuous generators, or even strike a range of games panels to trigger some kind of procedure. All these are connected with Region Strikes, which have to unlock lands on the map and advancement to main story assignments. While hammering through waves of enemies and their military-grade vehicles provides a few fantastic moments, you are frequently asking yourself: fine, what else? Shielded heavies, snipers perched from a mile off, and flocks of assault helicopters can come to be enjoyably overwhelming, because you've got to quickly use your varied toolset. But many missions are made in such a way that is strangely limiting, limiting the game's most powerful resources. Enemies simply swarm and behave as fundamental obstacles instead of clever challenges, which leaves you with goals that seldom bring out the very best from the mechanisms and methods of Just Cause 4.

In some time when open-world games occasionally overstay their welcome, Just Cause 4 is in the opposite end of the spectrum, in which you need there was to encounter since it's so much going for this.

There are a couple of stellar moments in the main story missions which produce proper use of this intense weather system that's the heart of Just Cause 4's premise. Particularly, the end into some stormchaser-themed questline funnels you via a range of conflicts as a tornado rips through your environment. 1 specific sequence can also be indicative of what the grappling hook mods are effective at; ruining huge end cannons that slow progress with boosters was not just the most effective method, but viewing those heaps of steel spin out of control proved to be a sight to behold. The final stand in this assignment, a succession of rooftop firefights amid the brutal weather, brings the most fantastic parts of the match together.

The exact same can not be said about another extreme weather conditions, nevertheless. But they are not game-changing from the manner tornadoes are because they have a minimum impact on gameplay. Even then, the questlines tied into those climate conditions and their individual biomes are over before you can fully experience their specific qualities.

All the time, a coherent narrative about a rebellion against the evil regime serves as the stage for Rico's crazy ride. Stories in Just Cause have not been more than explanations for ecological destruction and a means to make you feel comically strong, and the exact same holds true here, even although you will come across the ties to preceding entrances somewhat endearing. The harsh predictions are warranted by protagonist Oscar Espinoza's high-tech apparatus that control the weather and oppress the people of this fictional South American nation Solis. Rico stays the plausible one-man military with the abilities of a superhero with all the atmosphere of a grounded, unassuming protagonist. If there's anything that Just Cause does nicely story-wise, it is compelling you to take the absurdity of everything.

Through the game, you are going to be constructing a revolution around Solis, bolstering what is known as the Army of Chaos. It is a basic piece to advancement as well as the secret to taking down Espinoza and toppling The Dark Hand private army again. The Army of Chaos functions as an instrument to controlling lands throughout the map as you want to collect squad reinforcements to overtake regions, which additionally gates your capacity to undertake story assignments. Cause destruction and lift your insanity level, and receive squads to advance. It boils down to a numbers game, and after you realize the construction of the system, you may easily snowball squad amounts and command all Solis without needing to grind your insanity level. It is more things to do, plus they unlock the above grappling hook mods, but they are easy in character and are not sufficient to compensate for the shortcomings of different assignments.

Only Cause 4 has unbelievable moments where beauty and devastation cross with Rico's capacity to zip round the world in a minute's notice.

[thesnhuup]

Confronting Racism, Past and Present

Our Board of Trustees meets in mid-winter for what we have called a “learning retreat,” going with my leadership team to a place where we can expand our thinking, to learn from some other area of work or industry, and to engage with thinkers and doers in other fields. One year it was Washington, D.C., where we did a deep dive into policy. Another year it was Silicon Valley to engage with new technology. Last year it was LA, where we visited SpaceX, heard from experts in entertainment, and met with Mayor Eric Garcetti. This past week we went to Alabama, to the cradle of the Civil Rights Movement in Montgomery and Birmingham, a fitting place to think hard about diversity, inclusivity, and equity. For most of us, maybe for all of us, it was the single most powerful experience of our time at SNHU.

I’m still processing why it was so. Almost everything we learned we knew at some level, intellectually, but this felt more visceral, often like a punch to the gut and a clasping of the heart. We know that the gun violence of a place like Chicago is out of control and exacting a terrible toll on the children and young people who live in what is effectively a war zone on American soil, but then Arne Duncan joined us with a group of the young men from his Chicago CRED program and we heard the reality of their lives. One had been shot ten times. Billy, the learning coach, had served twenty years for the murder of one of Arne’s best friends and the basketball hope of the neighborhood (a story told in ESPN’s 30-for-30 episode “Benji,” in which Billy appears). The story of the dinner he then had with the victim’s family was a knee buckling story of redemption and forgiveness – not a Hallmark version, but raw and true and ongoing. It’s a story I’ll never forget and one I really can’t recount here – I’m not good enough a writer to do it justice.

Arne shared that in the elementary school classrooms he can ask kids to raise their hands if they know someone who was shot and every hand goes up. He asks them to keep their hands raised if they know five people who were shot — all hands remain up. Ten people? Most hands. Fifteen people? More than half the hands. Twenty people? Half the hands. Think about it – these are little children in an American city. If they were white children, we would have a massive government effort to address the problem. This was a gut punch moment.

We spent time with our colleagues in Birmingham, one of our first urban eco-system learning pilot sites, and had a panel with the amazingly talented team Mayor Woodfin has assembled to address Birmingham’s challenges, including a similar wave of gun violence in the city’s poorest neighborhoods.

Not coincidentally, these are the same neighborhoods that were “redlined,” set aside for Blacks, as official city planning policy.

I had always heard the expression and assumed it was a tacit understanding. It was instead official policy, planned, and its effects are still being felt decades later. Arne’s program in Chicago aims to give young men an alternative to the violence, through work pathways. In Birmingham, we are working to create educational pathways to work through LRNG, our newly acquired community impact group. Billy made a simple and yet deep insight: if you live in a war zone and fear for your life, you carry a gun. If your little sister is going hungry and there is no work, you do whatever it takes to get money to buy food. If you live with incessant fear and hopelessness, you self-medicate through drugs or alcohol. These are rational choices when seen through that lens. Arne and others doing the hardest work imaginable in the hardest places in our country are trying to create hope and a different set of rational choices. I hope that our work with the city of Birmingham will provide a pathway to education, and connect talent with opportunity.

While in Birmingham, we visited the sacred ground that is the 16th Street Baptist Church, where in 1963 white supremacists planted a bomb that killed four little girls.

This storied church is where the heroes of the Civil Rights Movement met, and often preached, including Dr. Martin Luther King, the resolute Fred Shuttlesworth, an amazing man who is not as widely known as he should be, and Ralph David Abernathy, and where the 1963 Children’s Crusade was organized.

We have all read about the heroic struggle for equal rights, but there was something about being in the place that was incredibly powerful. One feels a kind of gravity, the weight of a history that suddenly feels less distant or abstract. It was a feeling I’ve had on the battlefields of the Somme or in the Killing Fields of Cambodia — the presence of those who haunt these places. It was true of Kelly Ingram Park, right across the street from the church and the site of the demonstrations where Theophilus Eugene “Bull” Connor had dogs released and fire hoses used on marchers.

The images from the church bombing and the brutal repression of the marchers made headlines worldwide, sparking outrage across the U.S., and led to the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Voter suppression and an ongoing attempt to undercut the act, including demonstrably false charges of widespread voter fraud, are stark reminders that the most basic civil rights remain under threat even after all these years.

If there was any doubt of that fact, it was shattered by our visit to the newly created National Memorial for Peace and Justice, a stunning memorial to all those killed by racial terror, including thousands of lynchings, in the 19th and 20th centuries. It is the first time I’ve seen in the U.S. a formal coming to grips with the racial hatred of our past in the way one sees in Berlin, which lays bare its guilt around the Holocaust.

Every metal piece, reminiscent of tombstones, represents a county and the names of those murdered there. While they are mostly from the southern states that enslaved people, New York, Oregon, California, and Illinois are among the northern states also represented. Racism knows no boundaries in America then or now.

The “crimes” for which people were murdered are shocking.

Lynchings were not rare. The Memorial is stunning in visually and physically capturing the scope of the multi-decade domestic terrorism that created a mass migration north, ethnic cleansing in today’s parlance.

Lest we take some comfort in the notion that these were the acts of some small, psychotic group of terrorists, the nearby Legacy Museum reminds us that thousands of people would turn out to see the violence, bringing children and whole families. Postcards were made and sold. As Bryan Stevenson would remind us, the perpetrators of this systemic terror were not just the uneducated and backward. Complicit were the best educated politicians, business people, clergymen, and yes, academics. And that history is not so distant, extending into my lifetime.

The Memorial and the Legacy Museum were the brainchild of the aforementioned Bryan Stevenson, the crusading lawyer and author of Just Mercy. Founder of the Equal Justice Initiative, Bryan has fought against the death penalty (which overwhelmingly reflects racial bias in its application) and mass incarceration. The Museum draws a clear and unequivocal line from slavery to racial terror to mass incarceration and a deeply racist criminal justice system. Later that evening Alabama put another Black man to death, a jarring and vivid reminder that the injustice remains that close.

Bryan met with us and gave a talk that was at once enraged and inspired. The MacArthur Prize winner was an inspiration, a master storyteller, and reminded us that however hard the challenges are today, they pale in comparison to the fights and the suffering that was endured by those who came before and that it is to them that we have a responsibility to continue the struggle for civil and human rights.

It’s how we honor their sacrifice.

How elevated and inspiring the fight can be was made clear to all of us when we spent over an hour with fabled Judge Myron H. Thompson, the first Black federal judge in Alabama. We sat in his courtroom, the courtroom where Judge Frank Johnson ruled in key civil rights cases, including the Rosa Parks case that struck down segregation in public transportation and the ruling that allowed the march from Selma. Judge Thompson, who has also ruled in famous cases, including Roy Moore’s Ten Commandments case and Planned Parenthood vs. Bentley, reminded us that in this melting pot of a country (some would say “salad”), it is the Law that acts as the pot, that keeps it all together. He reminded us that we were sitting in seats once occupied by Rosa Parks and Dr. King. It was absolutely inspiring and that old beautiful 1930s courtroom, witness to so much history, seemed like church.

As we walked back to our hotel, one member of my team, with tears still in her eyes, said, “I thought I knew. This was like a 2×4 to the side of the head.” At dinner, someone else said, “I’ve never cried so many times in one day, both out of sadness and inspiration.” It was against the background of these remarkable three days that the Board of Trustees unanimously approved our new Strategic Plan for Diversity, Equity, and Inclusivity, which we will release in the coming weeks. They did so because it is a superb plan. They also did it with a deep and abiding resolve that SNHU should play its part in countering this country’s long and ongoing racism and genocidal origins. The Legacy Museum begins with American Indians, the far too often neglected origin story steeped in bloody genocide against a whole people, acknowledging that we have so far to go as an institution and as a country.

On our evening news, the embarrassment that is Virginia politics right now, and in the chants of “Don’t shoot” that ring throughout American cities, we have stark reminders that before we can have reconciliation, we need truth. The truth about America’s ongoing racism is hard to bear, as all who were with us this week would attest, but it did not feel defeating. It felt freeing and empowering and humbling. As it does in so much of its work, SNHU will now put its resources into doing its part. At a time when American higher education is seen as part of the problem, we have to be part of the solution. Access is a starting point and we’ve worked hard on that part of the calculus of hope. With purpose and determination, we will focus on equity, diversity, and inclusivity.

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