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dulcidyne · 8 years ago

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Experiments in Diplomacy: Fine-Tuning [5/?]

There’s nothing in the Interspecies Diplomacy subsection of the Initiative handbook that covers sharing a tech lab with an angara who can kill her in her sleep. She knows, she’s read every page. Twice. (A collection of in-between vignettes from the Tempest tech lab) //Jaal x Ryder // Humor. Romance. SFW // 2687 words // Voeld Spoilers Previous chapters: [1][2][3][4][5] or read on Ao3

Se-ah makes it ninety-seven minutes before clawing away the sheets and rolling clumsily out of bed. At least, attempting to. Mid-roll, her legs tangle up in twisted fabric and one knee wrests free only to smack hard against the deck. Hissing out a choice curse, she stops struggling and lets artificial gravity do the rest of the work of pulling her down one centimeter at a time until she’s lying in a heap on the blessedly cold decking panels.

By the time she flops over onto her back, the overhead of the compartment is where it belongs. She knew it would be. She didn’t actually believe it was inching down lower and lower, getting closer with every rapid, shallow breath. This is the Tempest, not a Prothean temple ruin in a cheesy action/adventure vid--the ones with archeologists who have a better working knowledge of verbal zingers than proper site excavation.

Groaning, she rips off the transdermal patch nestled into the crook of her arm. A mild sedative. Lexi’s idea when the melatonin supplements didn't make a dent into her godawful sleeping habits--or convince her brain to stop imagining that the Pathfinder’s cabin was attempting to kill her.

It's almost insulting how little effort her subconscious put into this. Why couldn't the crushing weight of her inherited responsibilities manifest in a less obvious metaphor? Why can't she imagine herself pinned beneath a pile of old-school Blasto merchandise every night?

“SAM, do you have any sway in that department? I'm officially filing a complaint.”

“While within my capacity, neural modification of this nature has not been tested and therefore cannot be recommended.”

Reluctantly, she drags herself up off the floor. Her legs are killing her. “It was just a joke, SAM.”

“Noted. Should I notify Dr. T’Perro regarding the state of your injuries?” She shakes her head. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. Just the side-effect of getting backhanded halfway across a landing platform by seven thousand kilos of kett-engineered menace.”

Really, she was lucky to escape the facility with nothing more than a fractured femur, ruptured tendon, and some deep tissue bruising. It was a lucky day all around. One no one was in the mood to celebrate.

Se-ah snatches up some more transdermal medi-gel patches on her way to the door. She slaps one on her smarting knee and adds a couple more to her thighs and lower back before pulling on her clothes. “Pathfinder, Dr. T’Perro highly stressed the need for rest.”

“I’m aware.”

She’s also aware that Lexi has the Moshae to tend to, which means she’s too preoccupied to check-in on the crew with minor fractures and bruises and make sure they’re getting the rest part of their R&R. “I just need to check something with Mags real quick.”

Not only is Jaal awake, but he doesn’t even look surprised to see her when the door opens. Instead, he glances up from the bench with expectant happiness and one knot in her stomach loosens just as another one tightens.

“Trouble sleeping?” he asks.

“No rest for the wicked,” she quips, examining the parts he's scattered over Maggie’s top. Reaching forward, she picks up a tiny capacitor from the jigsaw puzzle of metal pieces. Kett, judging from the symbols printed on the side. Not her specialty. Jaal dabbles in anything that takes his interest, like Liam, whereas she and Peebee share a passion for narrow focus.

He plucks the capacitor from between her fingertips, touch lingering. The disconcerting intensity of his gaze captures her startled glance before it can dart away.

“And...you've been wicked?” he asks, all careful enunciations and thoughtful pauses. Jaal treats language the way he treats tech, taking the time to consider each component before he fits them all together into a working whole.

Maybe it’s the last dregs of the sedative still churning around in her bloodstream like alcohol minus the splotchy flush. Maybe it’s the fresh memory of three simple words, ‘fascinating’, ‘special’ and ‘strange’, curling up around her ribcage and squeezing her so tight she still can’t quite catch her breath. Maybe her cabin really was rigged to kill and she’s in the most unexpected version of the afterlife ever. Heaven is real and it has angara.

Or maybe…he’s flirting with her?

She doesn’t quite know what do or how to respond, so Se-ah filches another piece off the bench--a metal-capped glass cartridge containing coils of wire--just for the excuse to look away. By the time she looks up again, a playful smile is pulling up at the corner of her mouth. It’s half defense mechanism. A familiar tactic in her ‘Avoiding Emotional Risks’ playbook: when in doubt, make light of the situation.

As if her heart isn’t pounding against her sternum, she teases, “Are you flirting with me right now?”

There are two things she knows about Jaal Ama Darav. The first is that he is unflinchingly candid. The second is that the look of utter bafflement on his face is the exact match to the one he had when she stuck her hand out, unthinking, for the universe’s most awkward handshake. Together they mean she’s milliseconds away from complete humiliation.

“No.”

Yup, she’s in the afterlife alright and not the good one.

“Is it customary for humans to flirt with questions about someone’s perception of poor moral character?” The concept clearly perturbs him the more he considers it. At least, that’s what it sounds like. She can’t actually see on account of burying her burning face into her cupped palms. The kett fuse digs into her cheek, cool glass rapidly warming against her skin.

“No, it’s not. Just forget I said anything, please.”

“I apologize--there’s something I’ve missed.” Fabric whispers as he draws closer to brush fleeting fingers over her wrists. The request is unspoken but every subtle shade of feeling hums through her. Plaintive. Undemanding. Kind. Please look at me.

She does.

He’s closer than she expects, standing in front of her, head tipped down so that he can meet her eyes despite the differences in their height. The gust of her shallow breath breaks over his collar before eddying back towards her smelling like Jeju tangerines and sandalwood soaked in hibiscus tea with a curl of cinnamon bark--and simultaneously nothing like any of that. Every cell in her body lights up with the disorienting sensation she gets during a-grav failure, forces tethering her down snapping away until she is weightless and floating adrift in the intoxicating current.

Embarrassment flash evaporates and she laughs into her steepled hands before letting them slide down the rest of the way past the tip of her nose and over her lips--the fuse still cradled in between her thumb and index finger. He’s already pulled back, taking the warm pocket of tangerine and sandalwood air with him. Which is good, she tells herself. Jaal being that close is dangerous for coherent thought.

“Just a miscommunication,” she says, trying to alleviate the traces of dismay still lingering in his eyes. “Asking someone if they’ve been wicked--most humans...well, most Milky Way species that I’m familiar with, would read that as an innuendo.”

The word clearly does not translate. “Like a sexually suggestive insinuation, which is how we flirt for the most part--double meanings that hint at interest instead of...more overtly conveying it, if that makes any sense? Not everyone is subtle of course, I mean, you’ve met Peebee. Are angara similar?”

Jaal makes a small, frustrated noise. “Some, to an extent-- I am not in the habit of veiling my interest. I have little patience for it. But, no, my confusion has more to do with why wickedness has another meaning that is sexually suggestive. It’s equivalent in Shelesh is…”

He struggles to come up with a translator-proof explanation. “It’s a word we associate with deep moral wrong. It has nothing to do with physical intimacy.”

“Ah.” And she thought idioms were troublesome for the translators. Idioms have nothing on the grab bag of culture-specific double meaning, nuance, and subtlety that constitutes flirtation. Hell, she’s had her fair share of romantic miscommunications in her own native tongue. Do you like me or do you like me? Did you mean hot or hot?

She sets the fuse down before she can forget about it and drop it. Glass clicks against the bench top. “I’m not actually sure. SAM?”

“I would venture that the ironic usage arises from certain ancient cultures viewing sexual acts as amoral. But this is not my area of expertise.”

Jaal nods. “I see.” There’s no judgment in his voice. It’s distant, lost in thought.

“The phrase ‘No rest for the wicked’ references eternal torment depicted in the religious text--”

“Thank you SAM, but it was just a joke. A terrible joke. It really doesn’t need further explanation.”

Se-ah leans a hip against Maggie and exhales slowly. Objectively, she should be humiliated over this latest misstep. Anyone else and there would be two weeks of careful avoidance and pained, awkward silences--hard to manage on a frigate this size but she’s done longer in smaller spaces. But Jaal is...different.

“A joke. That is...reassuring. I was concerned for you. I’m thankful for your decision on Voeld. But neither of us are blind to the cost.”

He looks at her. “And you’re the one who must bear the burden of that knowledge.”

So he’d interpreted her joke as a crisis of self-doubt. Only someone with the emotional sensitivity of a potato could misread that for flirting.

“I don’t believe in doubting decisions after I’ve made them,” she says but the answer has all the mechanical automation of something memorized and then recited. It’s an Alec Ryder answer. Dad wasn’t one for regret. He wasn’t one for giving up a tactical advantage either, even when it came with a cost.

Willing the ‘stand at attention’ rigidity out of her spine, she tries for something that doesn’t sound like she had to study it for an exam, “Just how I was raised. My dad...once we made a decision, we had to stick to it. Good or bad. When I was seven, I got it into my head that I wanted to learn the same instrument as my best friend. The siithara, this massive 20-string zither--asari, which is important because they spend entire centuries becoming proficient. I was terrible . I was terrible even after ten years of daily practice, which Scott always argued constituted a violation of anti-torture Citadel Council Conventions.”

Jaal chuckles, full and deep and she flashes a wistful smile. Her baby brother, always and forever a little shit. “It didn’t matter though. It was my choice, I took responsibility for it, and that was all Dad cared about. Although, he never had to suffer through any of my recitals. He might’ve changed his mind then.”

Before she can stop them, the words are already out of her mouth. “He would’ve destroyed the facility.”

Her smile withers on her lips as if the words are poison. Maybe they are because she’s shaking her head, trying to clear the bitter-cyanide taste from her mouth. “It doesn’t change anything. I made my choice already knowing that and I’d make it again.”

Fingernails catch on the fabric over her elbows when she folds her arms, tight, across her chest. “I’m not beholden to his decisions. It doesn’t matter what he would’ve done.”

In the murky depths of her subconscious, something clicks to life and she can’t help but prod at it with blind, curious fingers. It feels like a jumble of sharp metal and glass fuses, coiled wires twisting snarls of conflicting feeling into an emotional trip mine. Instead of backing off and leaving the damn thing alone before it goes off, scattering fragments of pressurized grief like shrapnel, she teases out a tangled filament. Realizations strobe up in quick succession, blinding flare after blinding flare.

It's not that dad would've chosen differently, it's that she would--the dead woman. Professional. Logical. Scott was still trapped in his cryopod and she suited up, business as usual. Mission first. That Se-ah was like her father and their cost-benefit analysis on Voeld would have gone much differently.

Scott’s derisive snort is sudden and clear at her ear. As if he’s standing right next to her, on the Tempest, like he should be, instead of lying comatose on a ship entire systems away. Where was that cost-benefit analysis on Habitat 7? She’s one breath away from tripping a full-blown detonation when Jaal spans the distance between them and settles steadfast hands on her shoulders, bracing her. It’s as close to a hug as her crossed-arms will allow but somehow he manages to make it feel like his arms are enfolding around her, drawing her against his expansive chest.

“I know very well what it’s like to stand in someone else’s shadow and lose sight of yourself.” One large hand drifts up from her shoulder to smooth over the line of her jaw. It’s so big, it spans from the point of her chin and past her earlobe. “Do you want to know what helped me?”

Throat dry, she gulps and his eyes flicker down to trace the faint, fluttering shadow of her adam’s apple. Not trusting herself to speak, Se-ah nods. Tousled hair slips over and parts, feather-light, around the fingers tipping past her ear and a tiny, almost imperceptible shiver travels from his skin into her scalp. “Being here. With you...and with your crew. I feel as if I can finally see myself clearly, see my purpose. I’m...illuminated. This galaxy is brighter and more beautiful than I’ve ever seen it before.”

Eyes impossibly luminous and impossibly blue, he curls his fingertips to capture the sifting amber fall of her hair. “That is your doing.”

Every word is a mote of stellar dust gleaming radiant in the air between them. They collect in her lungs with each stuttered breath and coalesce into a single incandescent point--a star in miniature forming in the lonely, neglected hollows of her heart. It’s singularly painful. Too dense and too heavy and too much.

Either she’s about to burst into tears or kiss him. Neither option is good, considering the circumstances. So she does nothing except go rigid and try to school her expression into something that doesn’t scream ‘I can’t handle this’. It does not work. She can feel it not working and what she can’t feel, she can infer from the look on Jaal’s face when he suddenly clears his throat and releases her.

Shit. She scrambles for something, anything to convey how much his words meant to her without fully conveying how much they meant to hear.

“I--thank you. That’s really nice of you to...I’m...halad. I mean, glappy. Er...glad. I’m glad.”

It’s as close as she’ll get so she takes it. She also changes the subject before her heart pounds through her chest. “So uh--why are you awake? You’re usually out by now.”

Jaal shoots her a wry look like he’s just caught her trying to bluff her way through a bad hand in one of Gil’s poker games. But he lets it slide. “I couldn’t sleep. Your ship is a wonder but it is very quiet. Angara live communally and I find it difficult to rest without snores buzzing through the walls.”

She can finally breath easy enough for a halfway decent laugh. “You could always bunk with Drack. No chance of quiet there.”

He gives her a pointed look. “Most nights, there’s no chance of quiet in here either.”

Ah. Her absent-minded habit of humming to herself when she’s concentrating. The omni-blade temperature trials aren’t exactly whisper-quiet either. And then there’s Maggie’s array of beeps and chimes.

“So that’s the reason you never kicked me out? I’m your ambient noise machine?”

Jaal’s laugh is a quiet rumble in his big chest. “I don’t know what that is but I can safely say that is not the reason. I never ask you to leave because I enjoy your presence, immensely. “ “See,” he adds to clarify. “ Now I’m flirting with you.”

#jaal romance #jaal x ryder #jaal ama darav #rydaal #Dulcidyne writes #Tales from the Tempest Tech Lab

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apsbicepstraining · 7 years ago

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5 People Who Ruled At Things They Had No Right to Even Try

If we were to tell you the person who performed your emergency appendectomy wasn’t an actual surgeon — just some guy who happened to be giving a sing telegram to the hospital that day, and figured he was good with knives, so why not? — you might be a bit miffed. But what if he is not simply saved your life, he included a few inches there while he was at it. Yes, there . Suddenly you’re not mad; you’re simply amazed. He had no business doing it at all, yet he altogether exceeded. Just like …

A 61 -Year-Old Hillbilly Reigns His Very First Ultramarathon

If marathons exist for beings to prove that they’re intrinsically better than you, ultra marathons exist to reproach you for describing the same air as their players. And Australia’s Westfield Sydney to Melbourne Ultramarathon is the steeple. The occurrence consisted of a 544 -mile run — we’d give up on driving that — across merciles and unforgiving area. So imagine everyone’s bombshell back in 1983, when a 61 -year-old potato farmer named Cliff Young lined up right alongside the strapping young deities and goddesses that are commonly go in for this sort of situation. Literally toothless, dressed in gumboots and long trousers, he ran in a creepy old-man shuffle. Cliff further been demonstrated that he was a virgin who still lived with his mom — as though that needed elaborating.

By the end of day 2, Cliff was not only markedly less dead than everyone expected, but had a sizeable lead on his contestants. This was largely due to his coach-and-four/ insane friend Wally Zeuschner who, after an wearying first day of ranging, inadvertently determined Cliff’s alarm clock for 2AM. For the rest of the hasten, Wally “ve been there”, informing Cliff that sleep was for pussies, and hacking off foot cysts with a rabbit spear. When Cliff shuffled his route into Melbourne, he wasn’t merely ahead of his competitors — he was miles and miles onward, having knocked a good two goddamned epoches off the previous evidence for the course.

Cliff passed away at persons under the age of 81, but his influence on the play is still evident today. In tell to eke out the maximum possible execution, ultramarathoners now go to bed afterwards, get up earlier, and run in an odd gait that attains them look like fitness zombies.

Nigel Richards Acquires A French Scrabble Tournament Despite Not Expressing A Word Of French

This is Nigel Richards, a Scrabble World Champion and Undefeated Beardmaster.

A native New Zealander, Nigel acquired his national entitle before going on to land European, North American, and macrocosm designations as well. And that’s no aim feat, considering the first time he played the game, he was 28 years old. So where does a World Champion drive, formerly he’s entirely reigned the English-speaking Scrabble scene? Why, he moves on to another language, of course. Even if he doesn’t speak it .

In 2015, Nigel easily took the French macrocosm title with a tally of 565-434 over the Scrabble-nightmare-named Schelick Ilagou Rekawe, and he did it without knowing a lick of French .

How is that even possible? Simply set: Nigel is a mutant. That’s … that’s actually the only rationale. In part of the preparations for the tournament, he just picked up the French Scrabble dictionary and memorized the words. All of them . He may not have had a clue what the vast majority of them intended, but he could play ’em. And he did. And he won. And that’s not humanly possible, so Sentinels are already on the best way of his house.

Ray Stanford Finds Just … All Of The Dinosaur Fossils( Where Experts Said There Were None )

Anybody with a scourge and a fedora to their refer knew that Washington DC was an archaeological dead zone, due to its iron-rich geology. Unfortunately, College Park, Maryland native and self-taught paleontologist Ray Stanford only had math-teacher glasses and a bolo tie. He didn’t know DC was devoid of dinosaurs. So there was nothing to stop him from going there, and finding some.

Smithsonian Institute Well, besides geology .

Since 1994, Ray has spent his free time stomping through streambeds and accumulating dinosaur tracks — tracks which, prior to Ray’s discovery, had never been found in the area. He then lends the fogies to his collection at the Stanford Museum … AKA his living room, which examines “like a stone quarry exploded.” When Robert Bakker, readily the most famous paleontologist of the past century, toured Ray’s collection in person, he said, “My jaw abode dropped for the purposes of an hour.”

Marvin Joseph/ The Washington Post Dr. Alan Grant, however, abode thoroughly unimpressed .

The ornaments of Ray’s collection are a pterosaur track so large that it collapses the previously consented sizing of the beasts, and the teensy hatchling footprints of a species Ray personally dubbed Hypsiloichnus marylandicus . That’s just one of various fossils in his collection that the Smithsonian doesn’t even have bones for yet.

So why hasn’t some foundation gifted Ray an honorary doctorate, and applied his skills to official implement? Possibly because all this paleontology business is just a surface gig to his true fury: spy UFOs.

Yep, that’ll do it .

An Undertaker Revolutionized Telecommunications To Spite A Rival

In Kansas City, 1878, Almon Strowger’s initiating business was booming. This was 1878: Life was inexpensive, but apparently extinction wasn’t. A new mortician opened up store only down the road, and before you knew it, Strowger’s customer base dried up. Possibly literally.

This was back in the working day when, in order to make a telephone call, a caller firstly “ve spoken to” business operators, who in turn connected them to their defendant. As it turns out, the upstart undertaker was married to an operator at the local phone company. When callers rang up and asked to be connected to Strowger’s Crematorium Emporium, she’d simply connect them to her husband’s place instead. Plainly, this villainous programme involved a mixture, and for that, Strowger had to tap his flavour animal: Wile E. Coyote.

As a child, Strowger was quite the discoverer, whipping up complicated gizmoes to get out of doing chores. So he decided that the telecommunications industry certainly required a road for callers to immediately connect to one another, thereby eliminating the middleman( and pitching any particular asshole hustler straight out onto the street ), and got to work.

With some help from his nephew, and backing from a few business partners, Strowger developed a operating prototype of the Strowger switch. He patented the fabrication in 1891. In 1892, he built his very own phone company in La Porte, Indiana. Though Strowger was ultimately return to the undertaking biz in 1902, his invention would change telecommunications eternally. And that, boys and girls, is how the minds of the retaliation developed your iPhone.

John Corcoran Was A College Graduate, A Beloved High School Teacher, And A Real Estate Wizard( All While Totally Illiterate )

After breezing through both college and grad school, John Corcoran became a highly regarded teacher, before eventually transitioning to the field of real estate, where, by the age of 48, he applied 200 parties, was a multimillionaire, and lived in the lap of luxury in a $ 600,000 villa overlooking the Pacific.

John Corcoran Foundation via NPR “I’m carrying this book exclusively for self-defense! ”

John’s inability to read was clear in elementary school. In his paroles, trying to read characters was like “looking at Chinese, at scribbles.” Of trend, this being 1940 s America, his schoolteachers simply called him lazy and encouraged him to “smart harder.” Left to his own designs, John became a genuinely colossal crook. He convinced others to do his work for him and, in high school, even dated the valedictorian — so she could do his homework for him.

He chiselled his way into a teaching gig, where he was well-loved by his high school students — for them, social-studies class meant tossing the textbook aside and participating in an impromptu debate, what’s suspicious about that ?! — and he generally “re going away” with it. Then one darknes, the jig was up. As John “read” a children’s story to his minors, his wife listened in. She realized he was just stimulating shit up as he went along, and announced him out on it. He has since haunted tutoring, and acted through his illiteracy. Hell, he’s even authored two books on the subject. Truly, it’s an inspiring narrative. You can cheat your behavior through anything!

It’s Happiness Week here at Cracked, so make sure to check back every day for content that’ll concede you respite from a hard period. And don’t annoy, if you missed a period, they are able to check out everything we’ve done here . For more heroes missing their capes, check out The 20 Most Amazing Beings You’ve Ever heard Of and 18 Beings Who Are Incredible At Everyday Jobs . Subscribe to our YouTube path, and check out 5 Beings Who Are Way Too Good At Crappy Jobs, and other videos you won’t witness on the locate !

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rememberthattime · 8 years ago

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Chapter 23. Ireland

Not that long ago…

In a country not far far away…

Two travelers from the bustling Planet London heard tales of the nearby land of Eire, a wild, rugged, and beautiful world known to be home of the Last Jedi. …For almost two years though, the travelers had resisted the Eire’s gravity, generally opting for warmer planets with better food.

Then, with only a few months left in London, the neighboring planet’s pull became too strong. The travelers had no choice but to follow the Eire’s adventurous call.

After all the Game of Thrones references in the Croatia post, I have to reiterate that Chelsay and I have not planned our trips based on filming locations. …Proof of that should actually come from the fact that these trips were so late in our rotation. We’d held off for almost two years, but you can only resist Ireland’s charm for so long. For one of our final adventures, Chelsay and I set out on a four-day road trip through the wild landscapes of West Ireland, from Shannon on the Atlantic coast down to Cork on the country’s southern tip.

Our first stop of the journey was just a short drive from Shannon Airport: the Cliffs of Moher.

Before visiting, I was worried our recent weekend in Cornwall might steal some of Ireland’s “wow” factor. I thought they’d have similar landscapes, so maybe the Irish coastline would just feel like a repeat of a vacation we’d already taken.

That worry was immediately put to rest. Whereas Cornwall’s beach-y shoreline gently descends into the sea (e.g. St Ives or St Michael’s Mount), Ireland’s coast is a 45 degree field rising up 700 feet before an absolutely vertical drop down to the battering Atlantic Ocean. It looked like a chart of GBP value after Brexit.

Although the forecast read sun, the clear skies hadn’t quite arrived. I’m actually convinced the weather app works on a relative basis - that is, a “rainy day” in Texas and “sunny day” in Ireland are the same thing to the app. Regardless, the dark clouds and heavy winds added to the cliffside’s rugged mood.

Our next stop was just an hour further south: the Bridges of Ross, a land bridges spanning across a small sea cove. The drive would have been faster, but we hit some traffic.

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The Bridges of Ross are known for their natural land bridge, but what Chelsay and I found more interesting was the jagged, rocky coastline. It’s probably similar to most of the Irish coast, but it really reminded me of Shapes Beach in Iceland: an alien shore marked by unique black rock formations, pink-hued tide pools, and bizarre species (star fish, strange anenomies, Chelsay, etc).

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Also similar to Shapes Beach in Iceland, our next stop was a lighthouse located high atop a nearby cliffside. In Iceland, we referred to the mysterious lighthouse hidden in the fog as Shutter Island… The sun had come out in Ireland though, so Paradise Falls from Up felt like a more fitting reference.

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We spent that evening in a town called Ballybunion, Though this town is home to just a few thousand people, it was noteworthy for a few reasons.

First, there was a gorgeous sunset.

Second, there is a seemingly random statue of Bill Clinton sitting in the middle of Ballybunnion. Was the town just a big fan of the former President? I took a closer look at the statue and realized it shows him about to tee off - we were later told that the town is home to his favorite golf course, which ranks among the Top 10 in the world. How we were told is actually a very authentic Irish experience.

It’s common knowledge that the Irish have three traditions: potatoes, singing in pubs, and the gift of gab. Chelsay and I experienced all three that evening. The potatoes point is a given: they’re served with every meal. I’ll get to point two about the singing later, but point three, the gift of gab, is how we learned about the Bill Clinton thing.

There is a stereotype that the Irish like to talk, and I have a theory on where this comes from. Lore would say that kissing the Blarney Stone gave the Irish this gift. Historians would say that this stereotype arose from generations of early Irish passing stories only through spoken word, rather than in writing. My theory is that the Irish “gift of gab” is a relative statement based on who was judging… the English! It makes perfect sense. Imagine a prim, proper, and private Brit: the same type that avoids small talk and eye contact on the tube. Imagine him crossing the small channel before stumbling into a society that, unlike his own, actually speaks to one another. Annoyed but in the most civil manner, the Brit tuts and sarcastically pronounces that the Irish “must have been given the gift of gab.” This is definitely what happened. I’ve solved it.

Anyway, our experience with this “gift” came when we were grabbing an Irish whisky and pint of Guinness from Ballybunnion’s pub: McMunn’s. As we were sitting there, an Irish couple pulled their chairs up and unsolicitedly started filling us in on the Bill Clinton thing. They were nice and seemed to be fun, but I could not understand a single word they were saying. I smiled and laughed when it felt appropriate, but had no idea what we were talking about… Chelsay (who speaks non-American) later shared that they were asking if I was deaf.

Through the couple, Chelsay learned that a legendary Irish singer, Mickey McConnell, lived in Ballybunnion and often stopped at the pub to play a few songs. His fame was launched by one song, Only Our Rivers Run Free, which became an anthem for the Northern Irish civil rights fight in the 1960s (a time simply known as “The Troubles” over here).

We were lucky that night because Mickey indeed came to play, and included his famous song on the set list. Again, I couldn’t understand a word as the bar sang along with him.

The next morning, we set out to drive around Dingle Peninsula, regarded as one of the prettiest and most dramatic regions in Ireland. We’d heard of two scenic drives: Connor Pass, which provided the best panoramic views of Dingle, and then Slea Head, which wraps around the peninsula’s Atlantic coastline.

We started with the Pass, which I nearly referred to as a mountain. This really isn’t much of a mountain though: at 1,500 ft, it’s only about 1/3 the height of Mt. Si. That said, from the top of this tall-ish hill, we took in a pretty view of the green glen below.

We then descended through Connor Pass into Dingle Town (where Chelsay and I stopped at the famous Murphy’s Ice Cream), before heading into the Slea Head drive.

The views along the coastline were as advertised, but I have trouble taking in these landscapes from behind a windshield. I prefer taking in these dramatic views in the elements, but it’s difficult to decide where to pull off. You can’t just pull over every mile, and you also aren’t sure whether the most stunning views are just around the bend. A similar thing happened in Norway, where we hadn’t really researched at all prior to arrival. We just showed up, grabbed a car, and drove the fjords. Don’t get me wrong: the views along each of these drives are stunning, but I need a destination, whether that’s a hiking trail, viewing platform, etc.

I’d actually spent some time researching where to hike along the Dingle Peninsula but found that most treks were all-day commitments. It seemed the drive itself was the destination for most.

After a few hours on the road though, that Norway feeling started to creep in: where should we be pulling over? We also realized Chels had left her jacket at the last hotel (too many Guinnesses at McMunn’s), so we decided it was time to break for lunch.

We’d seen a path off the side of the road just a bit earlier, but in the split second we’re driving by, it’s tough to commit to a potentially long hike when you don’t know the destination. We’re only in Dingle for a day so we can’t afford an hour long trek without a payoff. As we ate, and taking advantage of recent changes to roaming laws in the EU, we pulled out Google Maps. Tracing the path’s route, we found it led to a point called “The Devil’s Horns”. Sold.

We parked just near the path’s entrance, which led across a barbed wire fence and through an open field. As we walked along the coastline, “The Horns” came into sight and our excitement levels jumped. We climbed over rough boulders to land’s end, across spine-y rocks and beside crashing waves. Now out of the car and hiking through the wind and fog and elements, we felt the Dingle drive had been validated.

I mentioned crashing waves because, by our standards, this looked like rough waters. Although the weather app labeled off-and-on sunshine as spectacular weather in Ireland, to Chelsay and me, these sea swells were worrying because of what we’d planned for the next day.

For Day 3 of the road trip, we’d reserved a trip out to Skellig Michael, a craggy island and home to a 1,200 year old Gaelic monastary, thousands of endangered puffins, and Luke Skywalker’s hideaway in The Force Awakens and The Last Jedi.

Given the crag’s fragile state, only a limited number of tour boats are able to make the trip each day. Tickets go on sale months in advance, and given its popularity after the Star Wars movies, they typically sell out in half an hour.

I happened to be looking for tickets in March, but didn’t see an option for on-island tours. I emailed the boat company directly and found that tickets were actually going on sale the next day! I cancelled all meetings and made sure we got those tickets… but having tickets won’t guarantee you’ll make it out to the island…

When we were standing out at The Devil’s Horns in Dingle, the obstacle was clear: the sea is rarely calm enough for boats to dock on the Skellig island. This was supposedly a peaceful day, and the swells still looked like the one from Interstellar. To give you a better idea of the odds: Boat companies only offer tickets from May to October, and even half of those days end up having to be canceled. I read that some LOCALS have tried to make the trip four or five times without success.

Well, despite blindly booking months in advance, we apparently picked the right day. The boat company emailed the night before to confirm our trip was going ahead.

We arrived at the port the next morning, and were a bit surprised to see a total of 12 boats heading out that day, holding 12 passengers each. With ~150 people on the island, the monastery drew quite the crowd, but I guess this town has to take advantage when the ocean permits. Regardless, we were stoked as we set out on the 50 minute ride to Skellig Michael.

Chels and I’s boat was the second to arrive, but we walked by most of the first group. We made it to the base of the monk’s walk, where 600 pre-historic steps led to a monastery on the island’s peak. A guide was waiting for us at the step’s base and she asked us to stop for a safety briefing. She continued past us to tell the other arrivals as well… Mischievous Mike (who I wrote about in the Vienna post) looked at Chelsay: “Should we go?” Five seconds later we were 20 steps up and out-of-sight from the large group we left behind. Much like La Mezquita outside Seville, we would be able to explore in peace. …once we made it to the top.

I won’t overdramatize the climb: as a New Zealander said to us in Dubrovnik, “Ya must be fit; ya aren’t even puffin’.” That said, it’s still incredible to think of these monks, isolated at literally the end of the world (as far as they knew), having to climb up and down 40 or 50 storeys. …I can’t even leave the couch when Chels and I need to restart the internet.

We passed the craggily green patch where Rey dramatically returned Luke Skywalker’s light saber, before continuing up to the monk’s settlement. Crouching through the especially tiny entrance way, we entered the small stone village.

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It’s incredible that this monastery still stands after 1,000 years. Skellig Michael is a rough 50 minute ride from the mainland, and that’s in a modern engine-powered boat on a calm day. Imagine that trip in a paddle boat… in the 800s. Needless to say, tansporting a crane from the mainland was not an option. Instead, the monk’s used only what was already on the island (rocks), and a primative construction method (stacking rocks) to piece together beehive shaped shelters. The corbel method, as it’s known, is the proccess of dry-stacking (without any cement) flat stone to form a gradual arch, with the collective weight of the stones ensuring structural integrity. Without any bonding agent, you’d think the structure would be too lose to hold. Evidently it worked though. Despite being on an isolated island exposed to wind, rain, powerful sea storms, and Viking attacks, the beehives still stand.

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Chelsay and I explored the settlement to ourselves before the rest of the group caught up. With the tiny village quickly filling, we descended the stairs for a picnic on a quieter perch. Our packed lunch wasn’t exactly private though, as we were joined by thousands of guests: puffins.

Puffins are now an endangered species, so seeing even one is rare. We had a chance in Iceland, but when we didn’t see any, I thought my puffin chances had past. It actually just turns out they were hanging on Skellig Michael though, because these orange-billed cuties were everywhere. I have no idea how they kept these birds out of the Star Wars filming: I’m imagining dozens of crew members frantically shoo-ing them away just off-camera.

We finished up lunch with our new friends before taking one last lap around the small island. Chelsay and I are very lucky to have seen so many incredible places over the past two years – during every trip, we take a minute to remember how fortunate we are to go on all of these adventures. So that’s why I hate myself for saying what I’m about to say, but there are only so many churches or coastlines or castles that you can visit before the excitement starts to fade. It’s the law of diminishing returns, but for travel. We’ve always found a way to avoid these diminishing returns and get the most out of our trips, but Skellig Michael stands apart. Its isolation, ruggedness, history, and fame all blended together to make one of the most unique and memorable experiences we’ve had while abroad. And the puffins were just an added bonus.

After Skellig Michael alone, Ireland had reached the “house money” stage: the point at which a trip has accomplished everything you’d hoped it could be. It’s not a break-even point, because we’ve always gotten more out of our trips than we put in. The “house money” stage is way beyond that. It’s the point where a trip has passed what you’d imagined as perfect. You’ve already ensured memories beyond any expectation, and no decision you make from there could change that. It’s like going to a casino and playing with the house’s money.

There’s a certain feeling that comes once a trip has reached house money stage. It’s a mix of elation and relief, mixed with a permanant smile. For some vacations, house money comes early in the trip (e.g. Neuschwanstein was the first place we stopped in Munich). For others, it might come later in the trip (e.g. Plitvice in Croatia). Either way, you could essentially hole up in the hotel for the remainder of the vacation and still be happy (e.g. Split, which was the place we went immediately after Plitvice).

So it was with this feeling that we completed the remaining 24 hours of our trip. After arriving back on the mainland, Chelsay and I drove the stunning Ring of Kerry, stopping in the charming Irish town of Kenmare for a house money celebratory dinner on our way to that night’s hotel.

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I think I’ve only written about our hotels once before ( <3 Effi in Crete), but I have to remember our B&B in Schull. The bed wasn’t comfortable at all, but the view and the host more than made up for it. The owner is a former creative director from Frankfurt, so she had all of the artistic musings of someone in her profession mixed with the dry bluntness of a German. Before an early bedtime that evening, we learned about her lifetime of travels while enjoying a beautiful view of the nearby bay (I imagine this looks similar to many views in the Northeast).

The next morning, our host had delicious eggs benedict and French toast ready for us (breakfast mention quota: met), but she also had a recommendation. We’d planned to visit Mizen Head, a coastal ridge we suspected might be similar to Loop Head a few days before. Instead, our host told us about a lesser-known point called Three Castle Head.

Although harder to find, Three Castle Head was certainly the better choice. After parking near a peninsula, Chelsay and I walked about 20 minutes up and down several hills. Three Castle Head hasn’t quite caught the tourist crowd yet, so signage wasn’t great. Just as we were starting to wonder whether we were heading the right direction, we reached the top of the highest hill. From our viewpoint, we could see the crumbling remains of the 800 year old Dunlough Castle, resting on the edges of an inter-peninsula lake.

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Without saying a word, Chelsay and I set off to explore. Genuinely, we didn’t even look at each other before embarking. When we eventually met back up, we talked about how strange it was that we both just took off. Anyway, splitting up actually made this experience funnier. We ended up encircling the castle and lake in different directions, but sound traveled especially clearly across the open space. While I was taking pictures of the castle from one side, I heard “Ohmpf” from the other. I turned and, from about 100 yards away, I could just make out Chelsay picking herself up before hearing her yell, “I fell!”

Luckily the tumble hadn’t phased her too badly (I later saw her running across the hills from “bugs trying to get in my hair”).

After the bug situation, Chelsay was done with Ireland… Just kidding, we had to catch a flight. Driving back to Cork Airport, we reflected on the trip that was. For almost two years, Chelsay and I held off on an Irish adventure. Whether because it might be similar to Scotland or Cornwall, or because I just wasn’t excited about the sites, expectations weren’t that high relative to our other trips. …But Ireland is a place that defies expectations. From its implausibly steep cliffsides to its unearthly shores. From its ancient monastery defying time and its rugged setting, to the SUNBURN I GOT IN IRELAND, this adventure delivered much more than expected. To borrow a line from Obi-wan: this was the trip we were looking for.

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thelastangryman-blog · 8 years ago

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Ah! You Know What I Mean; Write?

A Three Course Meal Regarding the Current State of Converse Today

1. Definition

When it comes to the Star Trek (series) debate; I’d be partial to Voyager. Not because it’s part of the Star Wars franchise. It was just a good show.

I liked Captain Janeway and the crew; their adventures as they tried to get home. The Doctor and 7’s relationship – right in the feels that moment he confessed his love to her before the virus that was eating his programme deleted him forever. After he took his last virtual breath... the Captain asked the computer to run the back-up Doctor programme. #morto. But I digress.

One of the recurring enemies was The Borg Collective. ‘We are Borg. We are many.’

They were a human/machine hybrid with a collective hive mind. Totally badass; really got my 15 year old nihilist going, when I wasn’t masturbating to 7 or Janeway. Though as menacing as The Borg were, Species 8472 had The Borg scared.

Though we haven’t reached The Borg level of ‘resistance is futile’ yet, as if we had none of this Otherkin preferred pronouns triggers warnings would have seen the light of day. But we do have the collective hive mind – Facebook, Twitter and Tumblr: where the individual is problematic.

‘We are The Parroting Collective. We are many. And we have a thousand and one shoeboxes of identity and gender politics.’

Diluting words to the nth degree: peeling a layer off each time we place it in our shoeboxes until there’s literally nothing left of the word. Just like when Hugh Mungus raped Zarna Joshi.Intersectionalising and filibustering them into dust with no substance or taste left. Any wonder people are hesitant to speak their mind when they no longer know what words are now considered micro-aggressions. Everyone wants to start a conversation but no one wants to contribute. Individual comment is smothered by the collective’s blanket of buzzwords that bring nothing to the conversation but only make it more difficult and confusing. Words have to start meaning something again.

Arguments are now made by unlearning and rewording. As long as you submit a tomb of footnotes to confirm what you’re not saying. Predicating every statement; post and thought with a completed-abridged TL;DR A-Z of the things you stand for and don’t. All those pointless labels that first have to be seen and checked off some imaginary list so what you’re saying/asking can be allowed and only after every problematic word has been over-lapped on Venn diagrams into a black hole: finally to consult color-coded reference charts for the appropriate response. Or the more frightening reality of discourse today: being fired, doxed or handed the racist, sexist, misogyny card – a hat-trick with as much validity as the original Holy Trinity – shown so many times it’s blank at this stage; you can write whatever you want on them when their definitions change every half hour.

Language itself is in a serious state dysphoria. And what does language trans into? Emojis and hashtags. Hieroglyphics?

We’ve become so tightly wound, every word is negative-red and we charge-in-positive with hair triggers and its civil war in the comment section over an opinion: a word that is spelt with 2 eyes. I would go even further and say 4, 2 silent ones. We have to stop constructing rebuttals with our feelings. Argue the principle, the point; not the passion. All the facts and figures count for nothing if your passion speaks for you.

Ask any vegan, they’re a funny bunch. They’ve facts and figures for every sort of fact and figure and yet; they’re still a fringe-whinging minority. I sincerely admire their passion but when you share pictures of a child in a baking tray adorned with vegetables and an apple in their mouth… How can you reasonably respond to that?

I do see their point of view. I understand the argument they’re making. But their passion moots their point. Yet, I’d easily debate any meat-eater about the healthy, humane alternatives: though I’m still going to have a chop for dinner. Phss... You know that squirt you get in your mouth when you chomp into a sausage – that blast of hot delicious goodness that, that’s the essence of vegan tears.

And spare me the: you know there’s more potato in McDonald’s chips than meat in a sausage. So. Some people say abortion’s murder. Doesn’t mean they’re wrong. A true reflect of character, the individual as a whole, is not found in an opinion. Or half an argument.

And if you’re wondering what this has to do with Star Trek? Well, I think we can all agree that that prequel of an abomination can fuck right off.

2. The Other R-Word

Rape can be problematic. I’ve thought about it. I suppose a lot of us have at some point. It can be an alternative or at the very least; it can help reduce your meal costs. But you know yourself… F.C.E, %D.M.D and the other factors. And this all depends: are you fattening cattle or is it for pre-lactating ewes? Ha. Ha.

Make sure you know what you looking at before charging because sometimes son, the curtains are just blue. Whatever happened to face value? Will someone please put up some flyers or photos on milk cartons? But would we recognise it; if we saw it again? If postulating landed you in a straight jacket or the wrong side of the law, then where would we be? Still in the cave and not exploring space through the Stargate Universe. Though I think we moved back in, the cave, sometime ago. Did some renovations; got rid of the rock and replaced it with glass.

We have to become familiar again with how to listen to the words that people are using and their context in-relation to the topic been discussed: individually and not interpreted through the tone-deaf shared collective. And learn to ignore the echo-friendly conscious bias sound-byte, a hard thing to do in a cave. I’ve always enjoying climbing trees, that’s not a metaphor but this is.

There’s more to a tree than the bright topical, ignorant, leaves on display. It’s not magic that has them floating there. Look passed the red leaves; see the branches they are connected to. Sometimes that’s where the point is made or found. But leaves tend to blow away with the passing breezes. The branches stay there. If you wanted to extend that metaphor, you could say that the leaves are a result of the roots that anchor the trunk to the ground. But I’m no tree expert. However I do know that timber warms you 7 times.

Of course a words meaning, tone and context can change – I should know; I am literally a bastard, born in a country that used to take them from their mothers (Now, bastard’s the default birth cert setting) – but overtime and naturally. Simply squawking like a hen after laying an egg regarding the term Cis Privilege and how it has to mean something: aren’t you just a delightful little block of wood; Pinocchio. And speaking of intelligent design, my old friends... The Vegans, God love them. They make funny arguments claiming that A.I (Artificial Insemination) is rape because the cow can’t give consent. And please, don’t take my word for it. Look that up. I dare you; I’ve been down that rabbit hole. Which leads me to the conclusion that, in that context, of a vegan narrative, it would allow for some hilarious rape jokes. I said look it up. I’m just mining the gold I see. The gold that it is. Nobody owns the river, Nestle would disagree. But fuck them.

The books of Nietzsche and Kahlil Gibran thought me a lot about the individual but so did #197. She was an auld ewe we had years back. I would say she taught me more because she was real. The Internet doesn’t matter. Real life is more important.

3. Hocus-Pocus

Anyone who’s ever received a rejection letter – or as they are known in the biz; a PFO – will know: all the complaining won’t change a damn thing. You have to be precise with your one shot.

Here’s a classic scene from Cheers.

Sam, the ladies man, was told by one of the barmaids that no matter what her friend asked, he was to say no. And only no! She was worried her friend would be corrupted by Sam and his silver tongue. So Sam eventually agreed. The friend came in and sure enough, she asked Sam this question.

‘Would you mind coming home with me?’

We have to stop blindly building walls with wonky words then we hold everyone accountable for poor construction when they naturally fall down upon us. Meow. And please trust me when I say: trees are a pure hoor for knockin’ walls and Lady Limestone has taken all my fingernails at some point, irregardless of what I wanted.

What we hear will be an echo of what we ask and we have to stop being so outraged over basic math. If your figures don’t add up, may be you need to check your calculations then reword them up again. You’d be surprised.

I originally had ‘afraid’ instead of hesitant. (Part 1, Par 4, line 4)

We have to start taking responsibility for the words we use. They’re all we have to communicate, sincerely and properly. This P.C culture and egregious hyperbole are the 2 current threats to freedom of speech.

P.C for the obvious reasons. Now hyperbole in a piece of work; a character’s narrative – that’s what makes it funny. But everyday interactions with co-workers and strangers; a serious debate; asking out someone you fancy; accusing Hugh Mungus of sexual harassment; a national conversation. No! You have to use proper words. It’s getting to the point where people don’t know what to think, let alone say.

We’re not the Borg. We are individuals. For now, we’re allowed to hold opinions and ideas that are not your own and ask ‘Why the hell not?’ Or ‘What’s going on here?’ As for your personal experience on the subject in question, be it in-depth or non existence, it has no merit in the argument. (Part 1, 1st par, 2nd sentence) You cannot apply conditions to asking questions. I will disagree with others and not assimilate.

Holding the opinion that the term Rape Culture is akin to Cis Privilege in terms of its validity is not the same as saying ‘I condone rape.’ And I abhor the fact I have to tack on, so cheaply, that caveat. That’s how bad it’s got. We can no longer differentiate between this and that. We’ve forgotten how to separate personal from professional – Kim Davis!

Words have to start meaning something again. But for the love of every made up Deity: they’re not magic spells; uttering them won’t make it happen, so until then, and only then will word-policing be relevant, needed and necessary. And I’m so confident that that day will never come *Blesses himself* it will also be the day I become vegan.

Hopefully by then there’ll be an episode of Star Trek where they don’t break the Prime Directive.

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apsbicepstraining · 7 years ago

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5 People Who Ruled At Things They Had No Right to Even Try

A 61 -Year-Old Hillbilly Reigns His Very First Ultramarathon

Nigel Richards Acquires A French Scrabble Tournament Despite Not Expressing A Word Of French

This is Nigel Richards, a Scrabble World Champion and Undefeated Beardmaster.

In 2015, Nigel easily took the French macrocosm title with a tally of 565-434 over the Scrabble-nightmare-named Schelick Ilagou Rekawe, and he did it without knowing a lick of French .

Ray Stanford Finds Just … All Of The Dinosaur Fossils( Where Experts Said There Were None )

Smithsonian Institute Well, besides geology .

Marvin Joseph/ The Washington Post Dr. Alan Grant, however, abode thoroughly unimpressed .

Yep, that’ll do it .

An Undertaker Revolutionized Telecommunications To Spite A Rival

John Corcoran Was A College Graduate, A Beloved High School Teacher, And A Real Estate Wizard( All While Totally Illiterate )

John Corcoran Foundation via NPR “I’m carrying this book exclusively for self-defense! ”

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apsbicepstraining · 7 years ago

Text

5 People Who Ruled At Things They Had No Right to Even Try

A 61 -Year-Old Hillbilly Reigns His Very First Ultramarathon

Nigel Richards Acquires A French Scrabble Tournament Despite Not Expressing A Word Of French

This is Nigel Richards, a Scrabble World Champion and Undefeated Beardmaster.

In 2015, Nigel easily took the French macrocosm title with a tally of 565-434 over the Scrabble-nightmare-named Schelick Ilagou Rekawe, and he did it without knowing a lick of French .

Ray Stanford Finds Just … All Of The Dinosaur Fossils( Where Experts Said There Were None )

Smithsonian Institute Well, besides geology .

Marvin Joseph/ The Washington Post Dr. Alan Grant, however, abode thoroughly unimpressed .

Yep, that’ll do it .

An Undertaker Revolutionized Telecommunications To Spite A Rival

John Corcoran Was A College Graduate, A Beloved High School Teacher, And A Real Estate Wizard( All While Totally Illiterate )

John Corcoran Foundation via NPR “I’m carrying this book exclusively for self-defense! ”

The post 5 People Who Ruled At Things They Had No Right to Even Try appeared first on apsbicepstraining.com.

from WordPress http://ift.tt/2jcR2D5 via IFTTT

#IFTTT #WordPress

0 notes