#their performances are so rich and exquisitely pitched

[steampunkforever]

Enys Men was such a film. There’s so much you can say about it and so much to discuss. To be reductive, the film is female-centered psychological folk horror, but with that description you could equate it to a certain Ari Aster film. Enys Men is so much more.

It’s about routine. It’s about the passage of time. It’s about connection to your geographical roots and ancestry and the tragedy of ages before you echoing through your bones. It’s about accepting your death. It’s about accepting your birth! It’s about a woman losing her grip on reality as she sits isolated on an island in Cornwall. More importantly, it’s all about a rock.

It’s really unlike anything I’ve seen in a long time. Comparisons pale to just outright watching it. The score is hypnotic, the performances are engaging, and I fell into a trance just watching it as an hour felt like 30 minutes. The movie never tips its hand to what it’s telling you but it’s telling you things and you want to know them. I 100% bought into this film in the first 15 minutes and never looked back, willingly jumping headfirst into the arms of its hypnosis. Nothing compares to what this movie’s doing.

To do it the disservice of comparing it to something, visually I would compare this film to something like if Wes Anderson shot a psychological horror movie. Enys Men, of course, is well beyond that, but to assess the film visually, the framing, the indulgently vibrant film grain, the rich colors, the eclectic unreality, the ultra-16mm film aspect ratio, and the exquisite costuming make that the only similar visual style I can pitch it with and make any sense. Enys Men is much more sophisticated than that, and certainly isn’t imitating anything, but I want to stress that stylistically the film has kept its grip on my heart from the moment I walked into the theater.

I’m not an expert on the genre, but I’ve never seen folk horror like it. Enys Men is ballet and Midsommar is breaking its ribs over and over slipping on the same banana peel for hours in some sort of unpracticed slapstick routine. No one’s doing it like Enys Men is.

Enys Men is a vibey film. it’s a gorgeous film. Its a horror film where no one dies and everyone dies, with no monster and yet such a monster. In interviews the director has espoused his love for films that “take you into the middle of the woods and then leave you there” and all I can say is I love these woods, I love a storm-blasted island in Cornwall, and I love Enys Men with my whole heart. Go watch it. I’m gonna turn into a Menhir.

[musicinsurancecompany]

All You Need to Know About Pianos

The musicality reflects the instrument and portrays the evolution of different cultures and traditions. In the 1700s, an Italian musician, Bartolomeo Cristofori, gave birth to one of the finest instruments known today as the piano. Originally Cristofori called his instrument "clavicembalo col piano e forte," which, when translated, means a harpsichord that can play both soft and loud noises. Later he renamed it the piano.

The piano existed for a long period in Italy. Still, it was introduced to the United States of America by its founding father, Thomas Jefferson, who was also a patron of musical instruments. For the first time in American history, the piano was brought in 1771. Jefferson fell for the instrument when he set his eyes on it. Since then, playing the piano has become a part of American culture, and people still cherish listening to it or playing it themselves. However, this instrument needs proper care and maintenance, and therefore people across the globe also opt for piano insurance.

Types of Pianos

Primarily pianos are categorized into three groups: Grand, Upright, and Electric.

The grand piano is the most sumptuous and expensive form of piano. It comes with the standard 88 keys made with wood-coated or pure ivory, which gives it an exquisite finish and aristocratic outlook. It has a long soundboard and longer strings for greater sound exposure. This provides more control over the tone and dynamics, maintaining a rich overall tone. They produce the purest acoustic performance.

Upright pianos are the most customary acoustic pianos. It is very affordable and has a compact soundboard that offers a heartwarming sound. In some cases, these forms of pianos can outclass the grand piano in terms of tonal quality and loudness. It mainly finds its applications in houses or music schools.

Electric pianos are the most affordable of all the pianos, though they lack the sound quality of an acoustic piano. These also come with a wide range of sound settings like organ, guitar, choir, and percussion, and this feature makes it a portable virtual band. It also has the added advantage of allowing the pianist to practice silently by connecting headphones. They use a digital audio sampling technique to enhance the overall tonal quality. The only flaw of this form remains in technological infancy and the necessity of a stable power supply.

Reasons to Fall in Love with the Piano

The piano is the easiest instrument to play. One can start playing it right away and get satisfactory results. The melody and the accompaniment can be played simultaneously on the piano.

Fundamental concepts of music are more straightforward to see and pick up than any other musical instrument. Reading music in the treble and bass clef can be made swiftly via piano.

For piano students, it is very convenient to shift to a different musical instrument of their choice because of the training in reading music in both treble and bass clef.

Playing the piano also has intellectual benefits. Piano sharpens our concentration as the pianist focuses on rhythm and tempo, pitch and volume, melody and harmony, and finger positions.

Insurance of Piano

Pianos are extremely exquisite instruments prone to damage due to fragile casing. They also need regular tuning for pitch correction to prevent voice compensation. Refrain from paying attention to all this to avoid losing value, as pianos are expensive instruments. Thus, it is suggestive that the users must avail of piano insurance to handle unforeseen situations. It is also advisable to leave it out of the homeowner's insurance policy as they provide coverage for only a part of the total valuation of the piano.

Conclusion

According to a survey, over 21 million Americans play the piano. It has become so popular that over 150 piano companies in the USA are struggling to meet the rising demands of the people. Indeed, it became a part of American culture. Besides this, America's technological and inventive contribution remains undenied in the development of the modern-day piano.

[kaysayshey]

les preludes || d. sawamura

i was thinking about daichi, go figure. a big virtual hug to anyone who can guess what i play based on this.

thinking about sitting in a concert hall for a piano recital, surrounded by others who appreciate the arts just as much as you do. how the stage is lit by an incredibly ornate chandelier of gold and bronze, the lights reflecting off of the polished black lid of the fazioli sitting center stage.

how the pantsuit you had dressed in suddenly seemed too simple when surrounded by the exquisite gowns of high-class concert-goers, those who could recite the board of directors' phone numbers by name. the ones relishing in the luxury of incredible seats per their season tickets, a luxury that you would potentially sell your soul for. after all, years of classical training only made you yearn for more.

a high-pitched giggle has you rolling your eyes before the lights dim. another socialite in a powder blue gown, the fakest grin you've ever seen plastered on a picture-perfect face. stifling the urge to groan, you plop your head into your palm, one elbow resting lazily on the armrest.

you had taught as many lessons as possible for the last month, filling in for any accompanist that would let you, just to afford these seats. there was no way you'd let this opportunity to see a soloist perform go to waste. no, never.

as you waited patiently, a cough interrupted the scarlatti running its da capo through your mind. a delightful interruption, to be honest. working on the same sonata for the past week with no reprieve? absolute madness.

the cougher in question was standing at the edge of the aisle, his navy suit a beautiful contrast to the brilliant red of the carpet and the dazzling gold of, well, everything else. dark brown hair and coffee-colored eyes with a polite smile to tie the boy-next-door look together. plastering a smile of your own onto your face was the task of the evening - after all, the chatty cathy's surrounding you had the potential to ruin this performance. as a result, you were feeling less than pleasant.

"might i set your bag down? i believe this is my seat," the man asked, his baritone voice as comforting as a a glass of wine after a long day in the studio. what you would give to hear him more was merely a quick thought as you placed the offending bag beneath your feet, gesturing for the man to sit beside you. with a nod, he did, all the while you thumbed through the program with the best of intentions. which, of course, was to avoid staring at the man you were now stuck next to for the next hour and a half.

what a time to be alive.

"what brought you tonight?" he asked in that same rich voice, smoother than any brandy you'd ever sipped. a cello player? french horn? vocalist? your head rushed at the possibilities, but with all the self-control you could muster, you smiled to answer his question.

"just needed some inspiration of my own. hard to practice the same thing over and over without hearing something new, you know?"

he nodded at that, his brow slightly furrowed, a gesture that only made him more attractive. like he was truly listening to what you had said, not just a mere pleasantry before silence.

"i can only imagine. a friend of mine suggested i come, so i guess i don't really know what it's like to understand it."

at that, you cocked your head. to... understand it. as a performer, there was more than just understanding. the headspace, the rush of applause, the tingle of anxiety from behind the curtain. the hours spent with your best friend, the metronome. the dull throb in your joints after hours with the piano.

"i don't think you need to necessarily understand it to appreciate it," you began absent-mindedly, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. "sure, knowing the theory and history is important. but that's not as important as how it makes you feel."

as you spoke, he nodded along with you, eyes as bright as when he had asked to sit beside you. almost a silent thank you. for what?

"and besides, you picked a good night to come. a solo transcription of one of liszt's tone poems? the perfect introduction," you prattled on, glancing to the stage in anticipation. "it's a beautiful work. who cares about the theory from the seats?"

at that, a dazzling grin flashed across his face, bright enough to put the chicago skyline to shame. enough that just temporarily, the stage didn't matter, the socialite crowd didn't matter. all that had been or could ever be was that smile.

"sounds like you know what you're talking about, miss-" he drawled off, suddenly sheepish.

"y/n. y/n l/n. and you?"

"sawamura daichi, but just daichi is fine, miss l/n."

before you could stop it, a girlish giggle escaped you. who are you, and what have you done with y/n l/n?

"just y/n is fine, thanks. i don't even have my students call me miss," you replied with another chuckle, the lightest blush on his cheeks sending butterflies from chest to stomach.

"you're a teacher?"

a nod, and yet another ramble to which daichi listened intently. your beginning piano studio, working with kids as young as three on their motor-skills and note recognition. older kids with the drive to perform, a pulse in their veins begging them to compete. recitals and accompanying and more well-tempered clavier than you were willing to admit. and love. it was always based on a simple love for music.

"well," he spoke slowly, as though the words were heavy on his tongue, "maybe you could teach me a thing or two sometime. over coffee?"

the lights began to dim as you opened your mouth to speak, the most unwelcome silence you'd ever experienced. in place of words, you gently took his calloused hand in your own, a light squeeze speaking where you couldn't.

yes.

[rollhistory]

Many Fine Blades

‘They sent me here to kill you,’ said the boy.

The Dragon spread its wings and arose from its hoard, gold and gemstones falling from its scales like dust from a comet. ‘They sent you here to die.’

Its claws were longer than the boy was tall; brutal and sharp and deadly. Its jaws were strong enough to rend steel. When it breathed, the flames were of such heat as to turn the earth to glass.

A single beat of its mighty wings and it was upon him, and the boy knew this was the end of him.

He held up his sword in a futile attempt to protect himself and his town. It had been three months. Three months, the Dragon had been raiding his people. Two months since it had been tracked here, to the mountains. One month since the others had placed the sword in his hand and sent him on his quest.

And now he’d be eaten without so much as a glancing blow to the Dragon’s hide.

He opened one eye. He hadn’t even realised he’d closed them.

The Dragon had halted its advance, though its massive form still surrounded him, its tail cutting off any potential escape. ‘What… is that?’ it asked, green-orange eyes transfixed upon his blade.

Could it be? thought the boy. Is there more to this weapon? Could this sword be a Dragon-slayer? The craftsmen in town were adamant I take this one. They rarely tell me anything; what if it’s ensorcelled?

‘You fear my blade, wyrm?’ he tried, with false bravado. Dragons could perform magic innately, influencing their surroundings or changing shape to play tricks on their victims. Could it sense the power he’d been given?

‘What?’ said the Dragon. ‘No. Look at that piece of shit. Who gave you this?’

The boy didn’t move, still holding up the sword as more a talisman than a weapon. But his eyes, staring at his adversary until now, strayed to the blade itself.

It wasn’t much to look at. The steel was shoddy and rusted in places, and the edge was pocked and nicked in so many places the thing was practically a saw.

‘Hold it up,’ said the Dragon. It sounded like it was in shock. ‘Turn it over, could you? See that crack on both sides? Ugh, you’d have a better chance coming at me with bronze. What’s your name, child?’

‘My name is Petri and I am no child. I came from Kotska to slay you, and save my people.’

‘Well, boy, I see you’re no warrior. It would be unsporting to kill you. Take your stick and be on your way.’

Petri gripped the hilt of his stick. His sword. ‘No. I am here to save my people. To prove myself.’

Something close to humour flashed in the Dragon’s eyes. ‘You wish to prove yourself to a people that can’t even forge a decent sword for their questing hero?’

‘My people are the greatest weapon-smiths in the land.’

‘Oh, are they?’ said the Dragon. It paused when it caught the boy’s expression. ‘Wait. Are they?’

Its tail had moved from the lair’s entrance now. Perhaps the boy could escape, and then sneak back in and slay the wyrm while it slumbered? Perhaps he could persuade the others in town to help him? But they’d already voted that he go alone, and it was a month’s journey, and if he came back alive without proof…

‘Boy!’

He snapped out of his rumination.

‘I asked you a question,’ said the Dragon, its voice in calm contrast to the spears of flame coming from its nostrils. The humour had melted from its words.

‘They are,’ said Petri, trying not to sound too proud. The blades produced by Kotska apprentices were issued to armies. The blades produced by Kotska masters were coveted by kings. And Dragons. Petri could see several such blades in the Dragon’s accumulated hoard.

‘And they sent you, a boy with no training or experience in combat, to face me with this… tent pole?’ The Dragon’s wings folded and it slunk back to its pile of riches. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, boy.’

Petri shouted at its retreat. ‘You’re dismissing me?!’ As well? he didn’t say. ‘What, am I not man enough for you to kill? Is this pity?’

The Dragon opened one eye. Petri hadn’t realised it had closed them. ‘Yes,’ it said.

‘I will not leave, wyrm. They sent me here to–’

‘They sent you here to die.’

‘Your threats are–’

A gout of flame wider than any river Petri had seen rolled across the ceiling of the Dragon’s lair, causing him to stumble back in alarm, dropping his sword. Metal struck stone, and the blade snapped.

‘It’s not a threat, boy!’ the Dragon roared. ‘I understand what led you here. You aren’t on some noble quest. They sent you to die, be it here or dashed upon the rocks below.’

‘I know! Don’t you think I know that?!’ Petri’s voice was strained, the pitch too high in his ears. His eyes swam. ‘Yes, they wanted rid of me! I admit it! I accept it! It doesn’t matter. This is my chance to prove I’m one of them.’

‘One of them?’

‘The men fight and work the forges.’ He glared at the broken sword on the floor. ‘Had I been allowed to forge a blade myself, your body would already be cold.’

A pause. Then the Dragon laughed, filling the valley below with its booming voice. ‘Fucking hell,’ it said, after regaining some of its composure. ‘You’re brave, boy. Your heart is fierce. You only lack experience.’

Petri stuck out his jaw, and moved to retrieve his weapon, preparing to charge. Better to die fighting than be mocked like this.

‘But we can remedy that,’ finished the Dragon. And it changed.

Its form blurred and shrank in on itself. Petri scrambled with his half-sword. Its reach was next to nothing now, but if he didn’t care to live through this, he could perhaps get a few strikes in before he died.

The Dragon shrank further and further, stepping from its glittering bed, and Petri realised – just as its features coalesced into perfect beauty – that it had shifted to the form of a man.

He was more than a head taller than Petri was, wearing gleaming plate armor of the same shade as his scales. Gods, he looks like royalty, thought Petri.

The Dragon’s wings had become a long cloak. His claws were perfectly manicured fingernails. His eyes, still green and orange with the same slitted pupils, held a curiosity that Petri hadn’t seen until they were seated in a human face.

He also held a sword, selected from his pile of treasures; a blade of such exquisite craftsmanship that Kotska’s forges would go cold forever should any of the townsfolk see it.

‘My name is of less importance to me than your own is to you,’ said the Dragon. ‘I did not choose it for myself. I am called Valnir.’ He held up his sword, and in its mirrored edge Petri saw the setting sun beyond the mouth of the lair.

‘If you can strike me, even once, I will leave this place and my wings shall never again darken Kotska’s skies,’ said Valnir. ‘On this I give my word.’

Petri said nothing.

‘You’re supposed to, uh, accept my oath,’ said the Dragon.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Petri, his voice less than a whisper.

‘You think they won’t believe you? I’ll sweeten the deal. If you strike me, I’ll never again raid your town, and I’ll give you one of my scales. Think of the blade you could craft with that.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Petri again, louder this time.

Valnir sheathed his blade and came closer. ‘It mattered very much just a moment ago,’ he said. ‘Are, uh, you okay? Look, don’t be scared, this isn’t like a duel to the death, it’s only–‘

Petri slugged him in the face. Valnir didn’t see it coming, and the blow landed squarely on the bridge of his nose – but he was a Dragon, even if at this moment he was shaped like a man. It didn’t even move his head back.

Petri had slumped down to the floor now, the broken sword discarded and forgotten. Tears were rolling down his cheeks in fat, briny drops.

He hated crying. He hated how easily the tears came. ‘I already told you it doesn’t matter!’ he said, furiously wiping at his eyes. ‘They don’t want you gone, they want me gone. So, they sent me here, even if I can’t fight. And then you just change your shape like it’s nothing and you offer me a pity duel?! How am I supposed to go home after that?’

‘I thought you wanted to prove yourself,’ said Valnir, sitting at Petri’s side. ‘To your townsfolk.’

There was silence. They watched the last light of the sun vanish behind the mountains.

‘I do want to prove myself,’ said Petri, after a long while. Unsteadily, he rose to his feet, kicking the sword to one side as he moved toward the entrance. ‘Just not to them.’

‘Wait, boy,’ said Valnir. ‘I still owe you a scale.’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘You struck me!’ Valnir pointed to his nose. ‘So, as agreed, I–‘

‘I never accepted your oath.’

‘Then let us strike a new one!’ Valnir skidded into Petri’s path, blocking the exit once again. He kept himself in the human shape. ‘I’ll teach you to wield a sword, if you’ll teach me to forge one.’

‘You already have many fine blades, Valnir.’

‘Other craftsmen’s blades. You know full well that others’ work is meaningless. I want to make something for myself. I want us both to do that, Petri.’

Petri held his eyes for an endless breath. ‘Okay,’ he said.

[ameliajessicawilliamspond]

*TRIGGER WARNING* this story contains elements of non-con and blood. Please consider this before reading.

"Ba baaaaaaaaa Ba!" Jaskier finished his set with the peppy standard and the court room erupted in laughter and cheers. Well, everyone besides a brooding white hair Witcher who looked around the room, seemingly bored to anyone else, but the bard spotted the smallest pull of a smirk on his lips.

Jaskier looked around the room with his biggest performance smile and took a bow, eyeing an older man who hadn't taken his eyes off him the entire time lifted a drink his way. Jaskier couldn't place the look in his eye, but he nodded back at him.

As the bard packed his lute up, two women ran up behind him, one latching onto his arm, the other handed him a tankard of mead.

"You were wonderful, Jaskier, absolutely wonderful!" Said the slight woman on his arm with freckles sprinkled on her nose and cheeks, highlighting her sparkling dark brown eyes, her face framed by dark tight curls. Oh wow. Jaskier was in love.

"You've ruined music for me! All I ever want to hear is your voice." Said the shapely woman who handed him his drink. She had rosy cheeks and long red curls. Her nose was pink and she stumbled slightly from drinking herself. Oh dear. Jaskier was in love again.

"Trust me, you may regret that request" Came a deep voice from behind him laced with sarcasm in every word. Jaskier turned to see Geralt standing there in a nice jacket he had forced him to wear, his long white hair combed back and his golden eyes boring down with forced civility and a charming smirk on his face. Uh oh. Jaskier was.... -best not entertain that thought- Jaskier thought to himself.

"Your voice IS incomparable." Came a new voice. The man from earlier with the indescribable look. He was slightly shorter than Jaskier with a round stomach wrapped in expensive beautiful clothing adorned with exquisite jewelry. "I certainly loved your performance."

Jaskier wiggled an arm free from one of his new true loves and shook the man's hand. "Always a pleasure to serve men of stature such as yourself." He said smoothly, all bravado and charm.

"That's good to hear." The man smiled, that mysterious look in his eye back. What was that look? "It's such a shame my wife missed this amazing performance."

"Oh dear, I hope she's alright." Jaskier said. The loves of his lives began to lose interest as they realized he was no longer focused on them and pealed off towards two of the other performers.

"Oh, she was feeling a little faint and didn't want to disturb the evening's proceedings. I'm headed back there now."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I'll have to catch her another time. Whenever you need music for an event, you know who to ask for!" Jaskier said. Geralt stepped closer to him, nose wrinkling and eyebrows pitching down.

"Actually, she usually gets over these spells by now, would you be interested in a private show?" He asked. "My wife would be so grateful and it may earn me a few husband points as well."

"Oh say no more, I quite understand. But we'd have to discuss time and pay and that's not court room chatter--"

"Twenty minutes, twice the pay of this little charade." He said cutting the bard off, already grabbing a bag of coins from his purse.

Jaskier paused, catching the deep 'hmm' from behind his shoulder. "Wow, that is very generous of you."

"What did you do to her that you must overpay for such entertainment?" Geralt ask bluntly. Jaskier had to admit, he was thinking that too, but he wasn't going to say it. Jaskier shot him an incredulous look.

The man let out a forced, civil laugh. "You've never been married, have you Witcher?" Jaskier, actually curious, watched as Geralt shook his head no. "Then it would be hard to describe. Besides, with his talent I don't think I'm overpaying for anything."

Jaskier excused himself for a moment, dragging Geralt with him. "Do not ruin this for me!" He whispered, frustrated.

"I don't like this." Geralt said simply.

"It's nothing out of the ordinary, I've done house calls for husband's who are sleeping in the barn and want to earn back their wife's forgiveness with some light entertainment. I play a little music, flirt a bit, sometimes maybe a bit more, then the happy couple reconciles."

"Sometimes maybe a bit more?" Geralt sighed.

Jaskier shushed the Witcher, checking over his shoulder to make sure the man hadn't heard them. "Best not let the husband's know about my, um...finale." The Witcher rolled his eyes. "It's fine, Geralt, I promise."

Geralt let out a harsh breath through his nose, staring down the man for a moment before looking back at Jaskier. "Twenty minutes?"

"Twice the coin." Jaskier replied.

"Twenty minutes." Geralt confirmed.

Jaskier nodded and shoo'd the Witcher away.

"Lead the way, Sir..." Jaskier started.

"Count DeBoar. Patrick." He confirmed.

"Count Patrick DeBoar." Jaskier responded, scooping up his lute and following the man out of the court room and away from Geralt, whose gold eyes followed them out the door.

ππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππ

Jaskier settled into the couch as the Count went to fetch his wife and grab them some drinks.

"My wife is getting ready, she'll join us soon." He said, handing Jaskier a drink. "Women." He said, voice almost jaded.

"Women, the best of us." Jaskier said, keeping the tone light as he clinked their drinks together.

The man laughed a little as they both took a sip. It was a deep red wine, stronger than anything Jaskier had tried before. The rich always got the best he supposed.

"So tell me, Jaskier, how long have you been playing?" He asked, taking a seat next to the bard.

"Oh, since I was barely a man. Sometimes it feels like centuries ago, sometimes it feels like yesterday." He responded, taking another sip.

"And that Witcher with you. He's the one from the songs?"

"Yes, Geralt of Rivia. I've accompanied him on many adventures. I never run out of interesting things to write about with him."

"Yes, yes, must be very exciting." He mused. "You seem to live an exciting life..." He paused. Jaskier's head was pounding. Perhaps the wine was too rich for him. "You are exciting." The man said, placing a hand on the bard's thigh.

"...You know, I really should be getting tuned up for the performance." Jaskier said, trying to change the subject and pull away from the unwanted attention without embarrassing the Count. It's not the first time a man of his stature tried to come on to him, and Jaskier wasn't always uninterested, but he wasn't interested in DeBoar. He pulled himself from the couch and got his lute out of it's case, head beginning to swim. Being this buzzed while performing was not going to get a him a tip. Jaskier placed his wine glass on the table and noticed something strange. Something missing.

"You're wife doesn't drink, Count?"

"What?"

"You only brought two wine glasses."

"Oh. So I did."

Jaskier stood, his fingers dancing nervously over the neck of the lute. "Count DeBoar, what was your wife's name, again?" He asked. His jaw was starting to feel odd, the last word slurring slightly.

"I didn't give it." He said, standing, placing his glass down too. "Please, call me Patrick."

Jaskier's limbs started feeling numb and tingly as he nearly dropped his lute. The Count grabbed it before it could crack and laid it back half-hazardly in it's case. "Patrick..." Jaskier began before the words escaped him. He tried the name again and was shocked when no sound came out.

It felt as if his legs completely dissapeared under him as he began to slide to the floor. The Count caught him and placed sitting back on the couch. "I do like the way you say my name, but this is so much easier when you can say nothing at all." The man whispered in his ear. Jaskier's eyes went wide. His struggled to hold his head up as he looked around the room. His lame foot tried to gain purchase and ended up knocking the table and spilling the wine to the floor. Jaskier attempted to point at the glass and ask what was in his drink but only a struggled whisper of "wha...?"

The Count shushed him, running two fingers over his slack lips. "You are truly beautiful, songbird. Just as beautiful silent."

Jaskier tried to say something, anything, but nothing came out, making him look like a fish gasping for air. He always relied on his words, and now he couldn't even squeak out a sound. The Count seemed to enjoy the sight and pushed the tips of his fingers into his mouth just slightly. "I do wonder what else this mouth can do."

Jaskier's neck could no longer hold his head up and it lolled onto the back of the couch, his blue eyes blown wide. The Count growled low and leaned down, kissing his neck, then biting it. Jaskier's breath hitched. The man laughed, licking at his jawline.

The man's hand explored his unmoving body, studying every piece of him as Jaskier's breath picked up with every touch. The Count loosened the tie at the base of Jaskier's shirt, tracing the hair on his chest. He grabbed his jaw, turning his face this way and that, studying it.

"Absolutely beautiful."

Jaskier began to shake.

The man climbed on him, straddling his legs and kisses up his neck again, this time his hand wandered to the clasp on his pants. Jaskier's breathing picked up even more.

"Don't worry, kid. You probably won't remember this in the morning." He whispered in his ear, biting at his earlobe as his hands finally figured out how to undo Jaskier's pants. A single tear escaped Jaskier's wide watery eyes as he realized he was well and truly fucked.

A door creaked.

The tall frame of the Witcher entered the room. Geralts eyebrows were knit as he scanned the room, his eyes finally falling on the two on the couch. Jaskier's eyes locked on him, watching him sniff the air, taking in the scent of drugged wine, lust and terror.

It had been exactly twenty minutes.

For a moment the three of them seemed frozen in time. Another tear escaped Jaskier's eye and before it could hit the cushion Geralt had grabbed the man's head and shoved him off Jaskier, through a large expensive vase and hard against the wall with a nasty crack followed by a wail of pain.

Geralt rounded the couch, lifting Jaskier's limp head and studying his face. Jaskier tried to formulate Geralt's name and nothing came out, a gaping fish once more. Geralt's eyes narrowed. He could hear the name Jaskier couldn't say.

"You hire a bard for his voice and then steal it away from him?" He growled over his shoulder at the man. The man muttered off a list of excuses in between cries of pain.

Geralt's eyes dropped down the bard's body, spotting the opened pants. Jaskier shook harder, embarrassed and frightened. Geralt's lip snarled, teeth bared. When the Witcher looked back up, Jaskier's cheeks were stained with tears that wouldn't stop flowing, his lower lip trembling as his eyes darted from the Witcher to the man screaming. Geralt slowly reached down and closed the piece of clothing.

Jaskier's blue eyes locked on the DeBoar as he finally got his feet under him. Geralt didn't see it, but could hear it, his eyes burning with fury. He gently lay Jaskier's head back against the couch.

"Close your eyes." He says, voice so low Jaskier almost missed it golden eyes aflame. He didn't argue and did as he was told.

The sound of ripping flesh and screams filled the room as the smell of blood hit his nose. It lasted for what felt like a lifetime until a hand came down on his shoulder and his eyes snapped open. Geralt stood in front of him, covered in blood, but the furious golden eyes had softened to a gentility he had never seen on the man's face before.

"We're leaving." He said simply. He scooped the bard up, and instead of tossing him over his shoulder like expected, cradled him in his arms, his head lolling against his chest.

As Geralt turned to push Jaskier's lute fully into it's case and pick it up, Jaskier got a glance at the Count. He was unconscious, stabbed through with his own decorative sword by his...well by his personal bits below the belt, his mouth dripping blood from what seemed to be the lack of a tongue.

He closed his eyes again as Geralt carries him out of the home and away from The Count DeBoar.

ππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππ

Jaskier was settled in the local healer's sick bed as he was looked over. The drug took it's full effect on him as the healer got to work on figuring out what he was given. He couldn't make much sense of it as everything around him was blurry and dizzying. At one point Geralt seemed to be leaving the room and Jaskier's breathing picked up so much the healer made him come back in to kneel by his side. A hand ran through his hair, soothing and Jaskier drifted.

Jaskier's wits finally, finally came back to him. He had been moved to a nice bed. He could turn his own head, but that was the limit to his use of his body. It lolled to the right, spotting a door, then to the left. There was a man sitting beside him. Jaskier tried with all his might to move, to yell, but nothing. The man leaned forward into the light, white hair illuminated in the candlelight.

Jaskier tried to say the Witcher's name again, but nothing came out. Teary eyes latched on to steady golden ones. "The drug you were given..." The Witcher began. "It slowed your body down enough to make it as if your body is asleep. Numb, unmoving. This strand also attaches to your throat and attacks your vocal chords, silencing you."

Jaskier looked at the ceiling, taking it all in.

"A side effect can be that you forget everything that happened tonight. The healer thinks DeBoar must have done this before and counted on that as an outcome so no one would know."

Jaskier didn't move.

"He has no wife. Never has."

Jaskier rolled his head away from Geralt.

"He won't be harming anyone ever again, Jaskier. He will never touch you again."

Jaskier shivered.

Geralt turned his head back toward him, ever so gently. "You will regain your movement, Jaskier. This is temporary."

A tear slipped down Jaskier's face and into his hairline and he turned away from The Witcher again.

Geralt paused, trying to think. Something else was bothering the bard, he was missing something obvious.

Oh.

Geralt turned Jaskier's face back toward him once again. "The voice loss is temporary too. You'll be able to speak again by morning. You will sing again."

Jaskier's eyebrows shot up in relief. Geralt saw the smallest of smiles tug at the corner of the bard's lips. Geralt nodded. That's what worried him. The Witcher ran his hand down the bard's jaw, his touch so different then the Count's.

His eyes began to grow heavy and Geralt moved his hand from his cheek and entwines it with the bard's hand. "Rest, Jaskier." He said, pulling his chair up to the side of the bed. He had no intention of leaving.

ππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππ

Sun warmed his cheek, the light waking him. He grumbled, sitting up and stretching. Jaskier felt as if he had just barely dodged a hangover.

The bard was shocked to see the sleeping Witcher next to his bed. He awoke, staring at Jaskier with an unreadable expression.

"Oh dear, how much of a fool did I make of myself last night that I needed a chaperone to watch over my bed?" He looked around the room. "Did I get us kicked out of our inn? Where are we?"

"What do you remember?" The Witcher asked, hesitantly.

Jaskier paused, racking his mind. "A small, pretty little thing, with freckles and deep brown eyes. And someone soft, with rosy cheeks with beautiful red hair."

Geralt snorted a small laugh. Jaskier thought harder.

"And wine..."

Geralt's eyes darted back up.

"And...a terrible nightmare.." Jaskier said, distantly.

"Of what?" Geralt pushed.

Jaskier's eyebrows knit. "I don't know...just images..." He perked up. "Silly things, dreams. Can be so terrible but when I wake I can't remember the details." Jaskier shrugged.

Geralt nodded. Standing, he grabbed his shoulder and pulled the bard into a hug.

Jaskier froze, confused.

"What was that for?" Jaskier asked when Geralt finally released him.

"For forgotten nightmares."

[dustedmagazine]

IST — A More Attractive Way (Confront Recordings)

A More Attractive Way by IST

For whatever reason, we are still, and absolutely, unequipped to discuss timbre. Our homogenized Western European-based vocabulary seems relatively complete where all the rest of what we sloppily label “the musical elements” are concerned, so why the non-attention to what really differentiates one sound from another? In the most fruitful and inclusive senses, the trio IST is both precedent to and consequent of this lapse and the worlds it refuses to acknowledge. The group dances along the trajectories of timbre with the fluency of those still suffering tone tyranny, held prisoner by the note as accepted convention. From the first performances in 1996 to their last two decades later, it would be more than over general, but with a toe in truth and accuracy, to speak of distillation and concentration amidst an increase of space. These Protean characteristics are true but not the totality of what this five-disc set adds to the collaborative discography of the late bassist Simon H. Fell, cellist Mark Wastel and harpist Rhodhri Davies.  

For an overview of IST’s history and importance to the overlapping scenes the trio represents, there is Michael Rosenstein’s superb article on Confront’s site:

Rosenstein’s expert ability to encapsulate historical and musical developments is as comprehensive as his descriptions are rich. Given such context, it seems prudent only to examine moments in time, and through them to come to terms with the varying approaches, densities and totalities achieved by this unique string trio that embodied “chamber music” in its most inclusive guise. It is true, as Rosenstein observes, that the pivotal first performance involved much of the back and forth associated with what might be called Euro-Free improvisation of the atomistic variety. Just as important, however, are the sonic highways and byways, the trails blazed and pastoral paths trod by these intrepid explorers. One of the most fascinating and exciting elements is the way timbre impacts the rest of what we stodgily call musical parameters. In the first of the two miniatures from that formative 1996 concert, rhythm, timbre and pitch transcend their respective narrative boundaries. Like the characters in Joyce’s Nighttown episode from Ulysses, there is a blending of structure, form and purpose that enters the realms of magic, even of phantasmagoria. Melody is inextricably linked with the rhythmic sounds of the three string instruments, but, as with the Diamond Sutra, even to speak of melody, harmony and rhythm is both true and false, tearing away at the illusions on which those binaries are constructed. Be all that as it may, nearly two and a half minutes into the same piece, there is a lengthening of sounds, a decrease in density and an increase in relative space. There’s even some exquisite executed vibrato from Wastell, a harkening back to traditions this trio usually discards. As Wastell and Fell doff their hats toward the vocabulary of the “jazz” solo, Davies joins in, bending piquant pitches in the upper register as what I have no recourse but to call the tempo picks up again. In this way, in the space of a few brief minutes, the group presents its own history in astonishing distillation, dissolving boundaries in favor of new ones soon to be subjected to a similar fate.

At another extreme resides an extension of those flowing seed-moments of near-stasis in the trio’s powerful 1998 rendering of Intensitat, one of Stockhausen’s late 1960s text pieces. Obviously, via the rigors of recording, rehearsal and performance over the intervening two years, interaction is at an even higher level. It can happen in a moment, that communication that fosters elevation, and it’s palpable, as it is in this concert of compositions. Listen at 1:23 of the Stockhausen as Wastell microtonally alters his pitch, a shade separating tyranny from freedom. Similarly, at 2:46, Davies simply cuts off the ratcheting rhythms that had been bolstering the interaction, leaving a glorious bed of sustain and overtone in shifting dynamic planes. Here again and at other strategic points, vibrato is used but to an entirely different end. Is the trio employing it as a rhythmic device? Is Fell responsible for the emergent microtones at 2:22, whose gradual tempo increase eventually births the layering mini-cascades of vibrations in fluctuation we myopically call vibrato? The gorgeous miniature is rife with internal rhythms, imbuing the entire frequency spectrum with warmth, luminosity and, above all, a raw power, a vision of arising and somehow fastidious unity very rare in any chamber music. It is one of the most extraordinary occurrences in a set full of them, showing a group in the flux of development portended by that first concert and realized over the succeeding years. Yet, nothing anticipates, or can follow, the vast architectural drones, the huge swells as primal as ocean waves and as crystalline as spring water. The group’s atoms are elongated, saturated with the energy and life-blood only a shared performance experience affords. Again, pitch is only a consequence stemming from the timbres in vibration and mutation filling and elasticizing each moment. The applause is well deserved.

Rereading the above affirms that it cannot constitute anything close to a comprehensive review. For one thing, so many of this compendium’s wonderful performances are simply neglected. There is the occasion, the only one, of Simon Fell and violinist Phil Durrant performing together in a small group, caught in the Red Rose in February 1998. That beloved venue had a wonderful acoustic, especially evident on the two IST pieces opening the fourth disc. The initially sparse concluding track offers a precis of just how well the improvisers’ aesthetics meshed, matched only by John Butcher’s contributions to another Red Rose performance several months earlier. How one trills multiphonics in microtone I’ll never know, yet another nod to timbral intrigue, but you can hear Butcher doing just that as the combined portion of the concert begins, the trio supporting and leading in turn.  

Ultimately, when confronting music plumbing such sonic depths, nothing can replace first-hand observation. How, after all, does one review the musical equivalent of a thunderstorm, a birth, something as nebulous and inconclusive as a conclusion, especially when the language to discuss it has yet to be invented? It is the substance of those unfolding events as much as their attendant statistics that generate the power and lead toward reflection, and this box rewards that sort of listening. More than that, it pays tribute to a time of exploration, of interactive moments caught in the simple but precious and fleeting acts of presaging others, however distant, and to the environments bearing witness as sound travels between mind, heart and body. Beyond even these relationships, the set honors Fell. Only weeks before his death, a 25th anniversary IST concert was being planned. The box is dedicated to Fell, and his mentorship helped Wastell and Davies to enter the musical scene the trio would go a long way toward defining. The music here somewhat mitigates the harsh reality that they will not perform again, as do the accompanying booklet’s reminiscences, from those involved in the music and from those observing. Insightful, touching and sometimes humorous, they mirror the music’s multifaceted approach in a way many such endeavors fail to do. With mixed emotions channeled through a quiet but definite comprehension of the extraordinary nature of what transpired and is documented, the various accounts celebrate the music and the musicians responsible for it. No more can be asked than that we do the same.

Marc Medwin

[rahelawaters]

Prompt #1: Voracious

For @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast‘s #FFxivWrite2019 challenge.

Ao3 link here!

W'rahela was always a hungy child. But she possessed no strength to swing a sword or draw back a bow; she made for a poor huntress, and thus had to rely on her mother, W'yulhia, to feed her. But even then, W'yulhia had to contend with a great deal of obstacles to feed her family. Her hometown was at the very southernmost part of Thanalan; a pointed mesa known as the Gold Fang. It was one of the few settlements south of the Sagolii that still stood. The harbor at Cape Deadwind had been on the decline from pirate attacks even before the Calamity irrevocably wrecked the place and broke the earth, cutting off the entire region from the rest of Thanalan. The W tribe's rivals of the U did not help matters by competing for what little land prey was left. Most of Rahela's meagre childhood meals consisted of various fish from the sands and seas, and little else. Occasions when the W tribe huntresses were lucky enough to bring down sandworms and sundrakes were her idea of a lavish meal…

"And with that, I bid you enjoy the feast!"

Thus, the now up-and-coming adventurer sitting down for the royal feast held in her honor, could scarce believe her eyes at the sight of the impossibly rich banquet laid before her. More foods than she knew the names of lined the table of the Fragrant Chamber, filling her nose with more scents than she could describe. Steaming, freshly-baked bread rolls, with golden brown and bubbly crusts. Countless kinds of meat, some pink, some white, some dark brown, some in-between, all juicy and glistening. Roasted popotoes cut into bite-sized pieces, made colorful with green and red spices. Sauces and melted cheeses to pour over top of everything…

The anxiety she'd had at rubbing elbows with the Ul'dahn . Any and all reasoning that once resided within her brain was henceforth given to her appetite; she was a stormy vortex and all food within her arms' reach was going to disappear within her mouth. Eyeing the meats, she grabbed the biggest fork in front of her and speared slices of every kind onto her plate. With a spoon, she scooped up the popotoes. While her bare hands were all she needed for snatching the bread from its basket.

Her hand was a blur as she formed a small mountain onto her plate. Once she'd had a satisfactory pile, Rahela dug in. She began by taking a roll and chomping down, savoring the crackling crunch of the crust beneath her teeth, contrasted masterfully with the much softer warmth of the bread. One roll, and then two were quickly devoured, at which point she noticed a miniature plate containing a scoop of butter. The third and last roll was quickly sliced open, and a smattering of half-melted butter was smeared between the split before it closed again; Rahela practically purredat the difference that the addition had made in the flavor.

Next were the popotoes; the skin was crisp and salty, the spices giving mouthwatering flavors to what might otherwise be bland flesh. Even better, their compact size meant Rahela could stab three pieces upon a long-pronged fork and eat all three at once.

And the meats… Gods be good, the meats… The tastes of them defied all description. She could never, ever, ever go back to eating fish after this.

Her reverie abruptly ended mid-chew when she chanced to open her eyes and see a masked lalafell looking right at her. The upturn of his mustache indicated that he was… sneering at her. Rahela stared back, confused, unconsciously swallowing her mouthful.

"Your Grace," the masked lalafell said, leisurely turning his head in Nanamo's direction. "I accept that this banquet is meant to hail this, ah… this 'lady' adventurer as a savior of Ul'dah, and is meant to cater to her limited palate. But I ask you all, must we really watch her gorge herself with such reckless abandon?"

"Wh-- huh?" Rahela froze, her ears folding back. Was she doing something wrong? And did he really use air quotes when he called her a lady? What was he saying? "I-I, I was just, I, I…"

"Lord Lolorito," Nanamo spoke up, her voice even, but icy cold. "I ask that you refrain from mocking our guest of honor at her own banquet."

Lolorito? The man who tried to have Wystan killed for wanting to help the poor? The man who terrified Rahela into hanging up her staff for a week, and nearly forever, for fear that the same would happen to her? THAT Lolorito?!

The monetarist goes on, not reacting to the sudden, visible fear that had gripped the adventurer. "Then I ask that the guest of honor act in a manner that reflects as much. I can hear her chewing from here, and her elbows are on the table. Scrawny as she is, I suppose I could tolerate her simply eating quickly; but honestly, I've seen swine with better table manners."

"I fear that not all of us have been entrenched in etiquette lessons since before we could talk," Nanamo deadpanned. "If the sight of a hero vigorously enjoying a well-earned meal is so unbearable for you to watch, then don't."

It seemed that Lolorito had run out of motivation to argue the point any further, because he said nothing else. Despite the mask covering his face, Rahela could still feel him glowering at her. And now, thanks to the scene he made, she could feel the stares of everyone in the room. She'd made a fool of herself in front of the entire upper class of Ul'dah, just by eating in front of them. By not knowing unspoken rules that nobody told her existed. Just by existing and enjoying a nice meal, she was an embarrassment…

The spiral of anxiety was abruptly ended with the sound of a low belch directly next to her. And immediately all the judgemental stares were drawn away from her, and honed in on the source of the noise.

Rahela blinked, and turned her head to the one sitting at her right. The source of the belch was a young midlander man with slicked-back, snow-white hair; there was something familiar about him, but she couldn't put her finger on it. He held a cloth napkin to his mouth, and then cleared his throat. "Do excuse me; the meal was so exquisite that I forgot myself."

That voice! Rahela felt a warmth in her cheeks; she didn't recognize Thancred with  lowered the napkin from his face, and took the briefest moment to give her a knowing wink.

"But what's a little faux pas between friends?" He punctuated with a shrug, and a disarming laugh. The tension in the air remained, but it passed into simple awkwardness as the dinner guests returned to their meals and conversations amongst themselves.

She'd been eating like a slob in front of Ul'dahn high society, and in front of her crush… Thankfully, he seemed to be on her side; and so did the Sultana. But Nanamo was on the other end of the table and Rahela at least knew enough that yelling her thanks across the table would not help matters. But, her mind digressed. "Thancred, I, uh, I, I didn't…"

With a smile, Thancred crossed his arms in his chair. "I wanted so badly to remind him that it was the Monetarist vote that was prevented the Sultanate from giving aid to Cape Deadwind after the Calamity and accelerating its decline into poverty. But I doubt you would appreciate my telling him where your family lives. So instead I opted for the diversion."

"I…" Rahela wanted to say more, but no words would come to her. Instead, all she could communicate was a simple, "Thank you."

"'Twould be remiss of me to sit by and let that bastard humiliate you," he reassured.

"But, Lo--"

"Don't mind him, or any of them. This is your feast, not theirs."

Rahela knew he was right, but… "Still, I went overboard, and made a slob of myself in front of everyone here…"

"And? So what if you did?" The bard shrugged. "A man of my occupation has seen his fair share of well-to-do social events. Etiquette is important for keeping up appearances and blending in, but it's all performative. No need to be self-conscious, friend. Truly, I understand."

"Understand what?"

"Being excited at the prospect of having access to more food than you've ever had in your life," he explained. "For them, a feast like this is nothing; they eat this well all the time. But for starvelings who've never seen so much food in one place, freely offered to them? It's an experience beyond all our imagination. Don't let the upper crust snobs ruin this for you."

(In the din of the room, Rahela didn't catch onto the meaning of Thancred's use of 'our'.)

"In fact, allow me to make your feast even more indulgent…" Pulling some roast popotoes from the pile and putting them onto a small plate, Thancred poured a thick cheese sauce over them, letting it drape over them, followed closely by another, thinner brown sauce. He then nudged the completed dish towards Rahela. "There we are. Popotoes, combined with cheese and gravy; or to call it by its proper name, poutine. You are welcome."

She looked to him, then back to the dish. Scooping up a spoonful of this new dish, she lifted it to her mouth, and… By the gods, he was right; all the flavors she loved in the popotoes combined with delicious cheese and meaty gravy? Somewhere deep within her throat came a high-pitched squeal as she chewed, the look on her face akin to one who'd just reached the Seventh Heaven.

"The only thing I would advise regarding your eating," Thancred advised, while watching her reactions with a crooked smile, "is that you pace yourself. And save room for dessert, of course."

Rahela's ears perked up and her eyes flew open. "There's dessert?!"

"If I know Her Impetuousness' sweet tooth, most certainly."

[bbclesmis]

Les Miserables, BBC One, review: With a Valjean this good, who needs songs anyway?

For the past 25 years, Andrew Davies has taken some of the greatest works of world literature, including War and Peace and Pride and Prejudice, and whittled them down into sparkling, erudite, sexually charged little bundles of entertainment.

Has the king of costume drama triumphed again with Victor Hugo’s sprawling masterpiece about suffering and redemption in post-Napoleonic France? On the evidence of this first episode, not quite – although his latest adaptation is still an emotionally rich, psychologically satisfying piece of storytelling.

My reservations arise, in part, from Davies’s diligence. He has reclaimed the story from the hit musical and thus remained faithful to Hugo, taking us back to a time in the characters’ lives long before Claude-Michel Schönberg and Alain Boublil stuck hit songs in their mouths. But the effect is of chess pieces being moved slowly into place, and the sense of a teeming cross-section of French society, which the musical brilliantly conjures so quickly, fails to really emerge at all.

The breathtaking opening shots themselves certainly show us massed humanity – with the bodies of French soldiers slain at Waterloo stretching as far as the eye can see – but the inevitable stasis of this scene gives some indication of the leisurely pace at which the rest proceeds.

After presenting that apocalypse of a nation’s defeat in war, the rest of the episode takes up three main storylines.

We are shown a time well before Fantine, the young grisette, ended up in the circumstances the musical first finds her in. We learn how future revolutionary Marius was fed anti-Napoleonic sentiment by his royalist grandfather. And, most importantly, there is the painstaking build-up to the biggest cat-and-mouse chase in literature, as the roots of the antagonistic relationship between the fanatical police inspector Javert and the convict Jean Valjean are explained.

As Javert, David Oyelowo comes across as a little too preening, perhaps even sly, offering little of the twisted virtue necessary for a character who remains obsessively loyal to his own warped moral code. Dominic West as Jean Valjean, however, gives a performance of exquisite power, showing through monosyllabic grunts and short sharp outbursts of anger, a man who has a heart full of bitterness and hatred but who is desperate to change.

His performance is perhaps at its most rivetingly combustible when sparking off Derek Jacobi in a pitch‑perfect cameo as the kindly Bishop of Digne. And the moment of redemption, in which Valjean tries to return the paltry piece of money he has stolen from a helpless young boy, is beautifully done, showing (quite literally) a road to redemption and marking a sea change in the direction of the story. From this moment, you know Valjean is the beating heart of Les Misérables.

Davies’s much-commented-upon obsession with sex is less overt than in previous adaptations. Javert and Jean Valjean are characters seemingly unmotivated by physical desires and naive young Fantine’s attachment to the feckless, higher-born Felix is rooted in a girlish fantasy of romantic love.

The episode ends with Fantine nursing her illegitimate baby daughter Cosette and bleakly contemplating her future. It’s a downbeat conclusion but I couldn’t help but feel stirred by the anticipation that this immense and profound narrative – one of the few that can really qualify as epic – is about to really get going.

Les Misérables begins on BBC One on Sunday Dec 30 at 9pm (x)

[sbknews]

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A new statement in beauty, sophistication and attitude The new Speed Triple 1200 RR delivers a new pinnacle in the style and design of Triumph’s modern roadster icon. With pure and flowing lines and a more sports-focused, nose-down riding position and silhouette, the RR brings a committed and arresting new look. The stunning new cockpit fairing, sculpted to incorporate the signature-RR single round headlight set-up, gives the bike an instantly recognisable look and even more desirable style. Attention to detail is key to this beautiful machine, and so the whole cockpit area has been kept clean and uncluttered through the clever use of hidden cabling and hoses. Premium new carbon fibre infill panels add an extra level of detailing to the tank, fairing and cockpit, and when combined with the new carbon fibre side panels and beautifully made carbon fibre front mudguard, the RR feels exquisitely crafted. This new model comes in two stunning paint schemes – the Red Hopper and Storm Grey scheme which is a really rich and lustrous colour combination, or the equally striking Crystal White and Storm Grey option with premium gold detailing. Both schemes come, as standard, with a colour coded belly pan and colour coded seat cowl, which is supplied alongside the pillion seat and is easily interchangeable.

The most focused and exhilarating Speed Triple ride ever Equipped with a lightweight and compact chassis with a cast aluminium frame, the new Speed Triple RR was designed to deliver all the incredible agility and pinpoint precise handling of a 765 Street Triple RS, with all the performance and attitude of the latest generation Speed. And now the new RR takes the specification to an even higher level with new ergonomics and more advanced track-derived equipment, making it the most exhilarating and sport-focused Speed Triple ride ever. Commanding new rider-ergonomics give the new RR its fully engaging ride, without compromising comfort. Updates include new focused clip-on handlebars, which are 135mm lower and 50mm further forward than the Speed Triple 1200 RS, plus a tailored new foot peg position. When combined with the accessible 830mm seat height, narrow tank and sculpted seat profile, the new RR delivers maximum comfort and control.  The sports edge to the RR is underlined by the premium specification of equipment that comes as standard. Instrumental to this is the new Öhlins Smart EC 2.0 electronically adjustable, semi-active front and rear suspension, which is the most advanced suspension system available from Öhlins. This new system has been specifically tuned to suit the RR’s geometry, to deliver the optimum balance of performance, comfort and control.  It’s fully adjustable, even while riding, via the TFT instruments, and uses a highly-advanced suspension control unit to continually monitor the input received, including riding style, speed and acceleration to automatically adjust both compression and rebound damping in response. The Speed Triple 1200 RR also benefits from lightweight track-spec twin Brembo Stylema® monobloc front calipers and lightweight 320mm floating front discs, providing precise braking performance. These are controlled via a Brembo front brake lever with multi-click system for span and ratio adjustability, to allow the rider to tailor the ergonomics for maximum comfort and control. On the rear, the stopping power is provided by a Brembo twin-piston caliper and 220mm single disc. The 17” cast aluminium wheels are extremely lightweight and are fitted with the new high-performance Pirelli Diablo Supercorsa SP V3 tyres, unique to the RR, delivering incredible response, stability and grip on both racetrack and road. For even more focused track use, there is also an approved track-only specification: the Pirelli Diablo Supercorsa SC2 V3.

All of the latest generation’s triple powered revolution in performance Impressive performance and distinctive character come naturally to the Speed Triple RR’s 1160cc triple engine – the same lightweight, efficient and high performing engine that already powers the RS model. With every component optimised for power, torque and response, the powertrain delivers an impressive 180PS peak power at 10,750rpm, and 125Nm peak torque at 9,000 rpm. And, characteristic of all Triumph triple engines, the torque curve is smooth and strong from low down, right through the mid-range and all the way up to peak revs for incredible punch and acceleration. The low-inertia engine delivers outstanding responsiveness and a beautifully refined and precise feel. The stacked 6-speed gearbox is compact and light weight, with optimised ratio progression to precisely match the power curve, guaranteeing super slick gear changes. The lightweight slip and assist clutch uses ramps in the clutch to force it together when under load, adding to the force of the clutch springs and allowing more power to be transmitted from the engine to the gearbox.  The opposite is also true when downshifting aggressively, where a controlled amount of clutch slip is allowed to maximise rear wheel control. The side-mounted, brushed stainless-steel single silencer with black end cap delivers the Speed Triple’s signature hair-raising and visceral sound for a sporty and engaged riding experience. All of the latest generation’s premium specification technology  As with the Speed Triple 1200 RS, the RR comes with a full suite of state-of-the-art rider aids, electronics and convenience features designed to not only make the ride easier and safer, but also deliver a tailored set-up for different riding scenarios. Key to its premium specification is the full-colour 5” TFT instruments, with the My Triumph connectivity system fitted as standard. Android and IOS compatible, this enables phone call and music operation, turn-by-turn navigation (developed in partnership with Google) and GoPro control. All are accessed and managed via the backlit switch cubes and conveniently displayed on the optically bonded TFT screen, which guarantees minimal reflections for excellent image clarity. The intuitive user interface enables on-the-go adjustment of many settings and incorporates a lap timer for use on track. The RR is also equipped as standard with Triumph’s most-advanced optimised cornering ABS and switchable optimised cornering traction control systems. These use an inertial measurement unit to measure roll, pitch, yaw and acceleration rates, in order to calculate the lean angle and precisely control the ABS and traction control response to match, optimising slip rates and torque control to suit the specific riding mode chosen. Linked to the traction control system is the advanced front wheel lift detection system, which uses advanced algorithms for precise control.

The new RR features five riding modes – Road, Rain, Sport, Rider-configurable, and also a Track mode, which has minimal ABS and traction control intervention. The riding modes have multiple levels of intervention to choose from and are selected and adjusted via the TFT instruments. Another key feature for use on the road and on track is the Triumph Shift Assist up and down quickshifter, which has been developed using the insight Triumph has gained through its involvement in the World Moto2TM championship. It features an advanced sensor that gives the engine control unit a wealth of information, allowing both up and down gear shifts to be fully mapped against a number of parameters, exactly as the Moto2TM race teams do. When up-shifting, the Triumph Shift Assist adjusts factors such as ignition, fuel, and throttle angle, to momentarily relieve the pressure on the gears and allow them to slide. This is a much more sophisticated system than a traditional quickshifter, which would simply cut the ignition. When down-shifting, again the system monitors and adjusts various parameters and precisely controls the throttle blips, guaranteeing a smooth shift. Lighting is LED throughout for maximum durability and efficiency. There’s a daytime running light incorporated into the new single round headlight (where market legislation permits) and a distinctive rear light integrated into the tail unit with unique light signature, plus LED self-cancelling indicators. The new Speed Triple 1200 RR is also equipped with additional ride-enhancing technology including a full keyless system (incorporating keyless ignition, steering lock and fuel filler cap) and fully adjustable cruise control. Ready to personalise As with all Triumph motorcycles, personalisation is at the heart of the new RR, with a range of over 30 genuine accessories, all of which have been developed alongside the motorcycle itself for perfect integration. These have all been tested to the same exacting quality and durability standards and all come with Triumph’s two-year unlimited mileage warranty. Accessories include machined front and rear brake reservoirs, scrolling indicators, heated grips and even luggage, with a water-resistant tail pack and tank bag, both with quick release mounting – all of which are available to view on the online configurator.

Ownership benefits Reflecting Triumph’s excellent standards of quality and reliability, the new Speed Triple 1200 RR has high service intervals of 10,000 miles (16,000 kilometres) or 12 months, whichever comes first. The new Speed Triple 1200 RR also comes with Triumph’s two-year unlimited mileage warranty, which can be extended by one or two years for additional peace of mind.  SPECIFICATIONS  ENGINE & TRANSMISSION   Type Liquid-cooled, 12 valve, DOHC, inline 3-cylinder Capacity 1160 cc Bore 90.0 mm Stroke 60.8 mm Compression 13.2:1 Maximum Power 180 PS / 177.6 bhp (132.4 kW) @ 10,750 rpm Maximum Torque 125 Nm @ 9,000 rpm Fuel System Multipoint sequential electronic fuel injection with electronic throttle control Exhaust Stainless steel 3 into 1 header system with underslung primary silencer and side mounted secondary silencer Final Drive X-ring chain Clutch Wet, multi-plate, slip & assist Gearbox 6 speed CHASSIS Frame Aluminium twin spar frame, bolt-on aluminium rear subframe Swingarm Aluminium, single-sided Front Wheel Cast aluminium, 17 x 3.5 in Rear Wheel Cast aluminium, 17 x 6.0 in Front Tyre 120/70 ZR 17 (58W) Rear Tyre 190/55 ZR 17 (75W) Front Suspension Öhlins 43mm fully adjustable USD forks, 120mm travel.  Öhlins S-EC 2.0 OBTi system electronic compression / rebound damping Rear Suspension Öhlins monoshock RSU with linkage, 120mm rear wheel travel. Öhlins S-EC 2.0 OBTi system electronic compression / rebound damping Front Brakes Twin 320mm floating discs. Brembo Stylema monobloc calipers, OC-ABS, radial master cylinder with separate reservoir, span & ratio adjustable Rear Brakes Single 220mm disc.  Brembo twin piston caliper, OC-ABS. Rear master cylinder with separate reservoir Instruments Full-colour 5" TFT instruments DIMENSIONS & WEIGHTS Length 2085 mm Width (Handlebars) 758 mm Height Without Mirrors 1120 mm Seat Height 830 mm Wheelbase 1439 mm Rake 23.9º Trail 104.7 mm Wet weight 199 kg Fuel Tank Capacity 15.5 litres FUEL CONSUMPTION Fuel Consumption 6.3 litres / 100 km CO2 Figures 144 g/km Standard EURO 5 CO2 emissions and fuel consumption data are measured according to regulation 168/2013/EC. Figures for fuel consumption are derived from specific test conditions and are for comparative purposes only. They may not reflect real driving results. SERVICE Service interval 10,000 miles (16,000km)/12 months

Checkout our dedicated Triumph Motorcycles News page Triumph Motorcycles News/ or head to the official Triumph Motorcycles website triumphmotorcycles.co.uk Follow us on social media: Instagram: @superbikenews Twitter: @sbknews Facebook: @superbikenews

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[atultyarajasthan]

Baneshwar Fair Dungarpur 2020 – A Fusion of 2 Festivals

Rajasthan is home to a wide array of resplendent events that showcase the rich culture & legacy of Rajasthan. Baneshwar Fair Dungarpur 2020 is one such grand event that exhibits the heritage of tribal people, Bhil tribes in particular.

Bhil tribes are not limited to Rajashthan. They are also located in Gujarat & Madhya Pradesh. People from these states & tourists will be attending the Dungarpur Baneshwar fair 2020. This record attendance every year shows that Bhil tribes inhabitants honor their traditions & rituals and are very particular about them.

You can take a holy dip in the water, enjoy folklore performances, discover & buy artefacts and much more. You can also relish exquisite Rajasthani Gastronomical delights from the different stalls set up during the Baneshwar Fair Dungarpur 2020. So prepare your itinerary & visit Rajasthan to make memories for life.

History of Baneshwar Fair Dungarpur 2020:

The Baneshwar fair is actually an amalgamation of 2 fairs that are:

a. One fair that venerates BaneshwarMahadevi.e Lord Shiva

b. A fair that has its origins after the completion of Vishnu Temple by the daughter-in-law of a highly regarded saint – Jankunwari.

· Furthermore, two devoted followers of Mavji – Aje&Vaje built the Lakshmi Narain Temple. This grand temple is situated at the conflux of Mahi &Som rivers.

· The Pran-Pratistha ritual used to be conducted during the Magh Shukla Ekadashi & thus Baneshwar Fair Rajasthancame into being.

Highlights of Baneshwar Fair in Rajasthan

1.  Rasleela – One of the major attractions of this Religious festivalis Rasleela. It includes devotees singing folklores in high-pitched voices.

2.  Traditional Entertainment – This popular Fair and festival of Rajasthan boast of folk dances, magic shows, puppet shows & many more.

3.  Shopping – Visitors can explore a plethora of artefacts & memorabilia. They can also purchase other items such as bangles, glass items, puppets & marble works at affordable prices.

4.  Rajasthan Cuisine -  Various stalls in Baneshwar Fair Dungarpur 2020will offer mouth-watering Rajasthani delicacies such as Gatta curry, ghewar, daalbaati, churma& many other delectable dishes.

5.  Hunting Equipment – Rajasthan is home to brave warriors from different clans which include Rajputs&Bhil Tribes. They primarily used shooting & hunting equipment which will be showcased in the Baneshwar Fair Dungarpur 2020.

6.  Performances by Bhil Tribes – The Natives of thistribewill perform their traditional dance Ghoomer& exhibit their alluring customary paintings –Pithora. Tourists & visitors can savor this rich display of hand-made paintings & also buy them. Read more

  Book Tickets For Baneshwar Fair Dungarpur 2020

[americanahighways]

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photos by Glenn Cook

James McMurtry was one of the most important lessons I learned in graduate school.  Having arrived in Boston, fresh from the revelatory oasis of my UC Berkeley undergraduate years, I was pretty certain the world had shown me what it could.  Intellectual prowess, philosophical abandon, and mindful debauchery had been fused into a fledgling, yet purposeful, identity.

Boston was cold and dreary, classes were grey and unforgiving, a startling contrast to the communal spirit and raised consciousness housed on Ward street.  We cooked vegetarian, loved freely, and protested fully; Donald Trump’s America was an Orwellian fable, a cautionary tale of hyperbolic proportion, its malignant intent foreshadowed but not yet fathomed in the relative predictability of the Bush years.

Too Long in the Wasteland, James McMurtry’s brilliant inaugural album (1989), rooted in a geography far removed from the rarefied and fractured Fenway landscape I now called home, was a courting gift that Dan, soon to be my graduate school boyfriend, offered as a way to cheer me up.  He was determined to posit the existence of a quieter more authentic world outside both heady idealism and acerbic academia.  Along with Peter Taylor’s rich stories of everyday life in the South and Charles Wright’s bucolic meditations, Dan proffered James McMurty’s genius, channeled through rich guitar riffs and carefully crafted wry observations of American experience, as his proofs.

I have been an unabashed devotee of James McMurty ever since.  He is one of what I call my DNA musicians, referring to the small group of artists who help me through and lift me up, and provide at times perspective and vision.  If neither happens to be within my reach, at least McMurtry suggests the certainty that someone somewhere is playing a mean 12-string guitar, and without pomp or circumstance, speaking “the truth.”

Both backstory and full disclosure, the above acknowledges what I brought to The Birchmere Thursday night for James McMurtry’s solo performance. Unpretentious, not a bell or a whistle within spitting distance, The Birchmere is my favorite DC area venue in which to see McMurtry.  He just makes sense there, with his dry humor and no bullshit demeanor, surrounded by his die-hard fans,who—and I will stand by this statement until I am proven wrong—are a damn special group of people.

“How’s everyone doing,?” McMurtry asks, and without further adieu, we are off.   His opener, the stunning “Saint Mary of the Woods” (2002), from his sixth album of the same name, reaffirms what was famously stated by suspense writer, Stephen King, and is understood by everyone lucky enough to be in attendance Thursday night:  “The simple fact is that James McMurtry may be the truest, fiercest songwriter of his generation.”

Saint Mary is typical of those about whom McMurtry writes.  But it is not enough to say that his characters are “sad” or “down on their luck.”  His particular genius is in capturing incarnate a certain quality that speaks to what it means to be human.  His ability to create the ineffable, existential, and, ultimately, inescapable space we all are destined to occupy, no matter how great are our efforts to anesthetize and/or flee.

Perhaps McMurtry’s did learn a thing or two from his Pulitzer Prize winning father, the writer, Larry McMurtry, as is evident in the song’s exquisite imagery:

Sunrise off the lake shining in your eyes Shining on the wasted and the wise All you hear ringing in your ears are Boldfaced lies That scream like the gulls in that smoke stained amber sky

And, several lines later, in typical McMurtury songwriting fashion, a small detail regarding Saint Mary’s stance emerges to suggest an almost palpable despair:

Where you goin’ Brandy on your breath Bottle’s open spilled across the desk Snifter’s broken, smashed against the wall Just the way you’re standin’ says it all

A crowd favorite, “Red Dress,” came next which highlights the humor McMurtry often weaves into his narratives:

Yes I’m drunk but damn you’re ugly Tell you one thing yes I will Tomorrow morning I’ll be sober You’ll be just as ugly still

Recalling an insult, which may or may not have been used by Winston Churchill (depends on which source you believe) against a female politician, who accused him of being “disgustingly drunk” at a party, McMurtry makes the sentiment his own in this jilted lover’s tale of suspicion and reprisal.

Because James McMurtry’s songwriting puts him in the company of such greats as Townes Van Zandt, John Prine, and Bob Dylan (yes, Bob Dylan), his accomplished guitar playing at times does not get the attention it deserves.  Seeing him solo, even while recognizing the rocking greatness that the Heartless Bastards bring to his shows, allows the sheer force of his guitar playing talent to take center stage.  Mostly self-taught, he played first a 6-string guitar and then a 12-string Thursday night, both with a virtuosity and speed that produced so dense a sound it seemed as if there were two other guitars behind him.

A soul searing guitar solo during the heartbreak of “Rachel’s Song,” another startling track from Saint Mary of the Woods, illuminates the collective impact of McMurtry’s talent.  A “lyrically perfect song….one of my favorite things anybody has ever written,” as Jason Isbell has commented on Twitter– sung through the signature clenched delivery of his voice–and combined with his alternate tuning techniques and a partial capo, create that singular sound that is James McMurtry’s.

Another pleasant fact of Thursday night’s performance was Bonnie Whitmore, the confident in your face vocal dynamite that opened for McMurtry.  I had never listened to Whitmore’s music before and found her stage presence and candor to be a fitting warm-up for what was to follow.

“I have 45 minutes to make you like or hate me.” Whitmore quipped before her first song.  “I am not going to be gentle. Here’s a little song about masochism.”  “Wash It Away,” from her 2016 album, F*@k with Sad Girls, began her set and pretty much set the tone for both the songs she would play and the banter she would deliver.

Originally Whitmore, who hails from one of Americana music’s second homes, Austin, Texas, rocked a country vibe, but lately, with titles like, “She’s a Hurricane” and “F*@k with Sad Girls,” punctuated with cathartic wails and melodic rage, her genre defies a simple definition.  “She reminds me of Hole’s Courtney Love,” one member of our group suggested, and I could see what he meant.

Bluesy, Jazzy, and current, Whitmore’s music is imbued with an intelligence and fierceness that complements the lovely range and pitch of her voice.  Her presence struck me as the opposite of James Mcmurtry on that stage. I remember thinking that she offered the audience a glimpse of what an antidote to the anxiety and resignation some of James McMurtry’s characters exhibit; I also remember thinking that in many ways Bonnie Whitmore exudes the entire package of power, beauty, talent, and presence.

Finally, a highlight of Thursday night’s show was when James McMurtry played one of my favorite songs, Hurricane Party, from his album, Just Us Kids (2008).   The quiet nostalgia of its lines might be typical of McMurtry, but the visceral longing he conveys is what gets me right in the gut:

My one great love, my God, I can feel her still She ran off to California and now she’s living in those Hollywood hills With some bullfrog prince, I’ve not seen her since Though she calls when he’s out of town

There’s just no one to talk to when the lines go down

Open up your back screen door Let me in your space once more I was looking for an easy score But it just don’t work that way

Perhaps the reason I identify so strongly with such nostalgic desire can be understood through how I was introduced to McMurtry’s music in the first place.   My relationship with Dan ended after about two years, but not before I had fully digested the things I would learn from him. Dan’s quiet persistence and self-assuredness in showing me a way of being in the world that was more honest and more sustainable than I had allowed myself in the past proved just as important as the graduate degree I would earn while we were together.

As did, of course, the take-aways, one of which became an almost 30 year love affair with the music of James McMurtry.  http://www.jamesmcmurtry.com/

Show Review: James McMurtry and Bonnie Whitmore @jamesmcmurtry @bonniewhitmore @conqueroo1 @thebirchmere @leannetankel #americanamusic #JamesMcMurtry photos by Glenn Cook James McMurtry was one of the most important lessons I learned in graduate school.  

[recentnews18-blog]

New Post has been published on https://shovelnews.com/the-31-best-dance-scenes-in-movies/

The 31 best dance scenes in movies

Updated 4 hours ago

What do dance scenes add to a movie? Unspeakable bliss, for starters. Dancing starts when dialogue fails. When lovers need to move beyond conversation, when conflicts boil past negotiation, when joy can’t be expressed in any other way than by leaping into the air on a trumpeter’s high note.

With the rise of movie musicals in the early part of the 20th century, dancing moved easily from stage to screen, becoming bigger, more potent, ever more spectacular — and a lasting love affair with the moviegoing public was born. It’s still going on: Witness the mainstream success of “La La Land,” a film in the golden age mold.

Taking stock of film’s dance treasury to pick the paragons was an irresistible challenge. In making my choices for the best dance scenes, I looked at several factors: mastery of technique, imaginative choreography, quality of the music — this is very important — and design and storytelling. I value authentic expression more than dance doubles and tricky editing. But, in the final analysis, transcendence won out. Does the dancing carry me away, give me chills, distill some truth about the human experience? Whether it’s a masterpiece of steps and skill, or an intentionally funny, hot mess, or a dreamscape that’s intriguingly weird — dancing that moves you is great dancing.

I also had to set some rules for this list: I considered specific dance scenes, not the quality of entire movies. I didn’t include documentaries or foreign films; no “Pina,” no “Mad Hot Ballroom.” With matchless artists in movement, music and choreography, the 1940s and ’50s dominate my choices, but even those aren’t exhaustive. I settled on the era’s best and moved on. I handicapped Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, limiting them to just one dance (it’s my No. 1, the best of the best) from all the jewels in their 10 films together, because if I didn’t, they’d eat the list. Our vast cinematic history is studded with marvelous dancing, but one has to draw the line somewhere.

1. ‘Swing Time’ (1936), ‘Never Gonna Dance’ scene

There are no greater dance musicals than the ones Fred and Ginger made together, because they accomplished so much, so beautifully. Their dances are artistic, emotional and inventive; the music is superb (Cole Porter, Irving Berlin, Jerome Kern, George Gershwin); the costuming and set design create a stylistic whole. And they aren’t mere interludes. What Astaire and Rogers communicate through dance deepens the story. To pick the pinnacle among their 10 films isn’t easy, but my choice is their final waltz in “Swing Time.” Why? Because we’ll think of Astaire and Rogers forever as a unit, falling in love on the dance floor, and this dance expresses something profound about their bond. It’s about the perils of breaking it. They begin by simply walking together; their mood is blue, but the sexual tension is red hot. Through a precise mirroring of movements, Rogers shows Astaire the kind of intimate soul mate he’ll lose if he doesn’t ‘fess up about his feelings. Astaire senses this and grows desperate. He spins her around dizzily, her dress whipping like a flag at sea. Then the cliffhanger: She whirls out the door, leaving him, and us, bereft – and dying to see how the movie ends.

2. ‘Stormy Weather’ (1943), ‘Jumpin’ Jive’

Fayard and Harold Nicholas, aka the Nicholas Brothers, were a pair of miracles in tap shoes. They hoofed their way from the Cotton Club to Hollywood, where their fans included Astaire, Gene Kelly and other dance greats who marveled at their skill, daring and sheer brilliance. This scene is the consummate joy-fest: They dart through Cab Calloway’s orchestra, skate atop the drums and piano, and end it all by plunging down a flight of stairs, leapfrogging buoyantly over each other to land in the splits, and then springing up to do it all again. They shot it all in one take.

3. ‘Singin’ in the Rain’ (1952), title number

Is there any more beloved dance scene on film than Gene Kelly’s inspired splashfest? This is the dance anthem for that inescapable experience of a thorough cosmic drenching. The answer: Enjoy it! Spin through puddles, gambol in the gutters, play a brass band in your head, and soak up every drop. Kelly was constantly experimenting, and although he whipped up more technically dazzling numbers in other movies, none is more uplifting or enduring than this one.

4. ‘An American in Paris’ (1951), final ballet

Kelly lured Leslie Caron from France especially for this movie and its climactic, 17-minute dreamscape of a ballet. The scene took a month to film. Its lush, Technicolor intensity has never been matched, and the dancing, which sweeps through paintings come to life, Parisian flower markets and moonlit fountains, feels like the very embodiment of postwar optimism. But the chemistry between its stars, accompanied by Gershwin’s sexy jazz: explosif.

5. ‘Ship Ahoy’ (1942), ‘I’ll Take Tallulah’

I once asked Fayard Nicholas (see No. 2) to name his favorite female dancer. His answer: Eleanor Powell. It’s easy to see why. Powell is arguably the greatest tap dancer on film, male or female, and in this number, she has the spotlight all to herself (after Bert Lahr serenades her). Three things distinguish this scene: Powell’s punchy, rascally athleticism, the musical star power of Tommy Dorsey and his orchestra, and the imaginative way Powell taps around the poolside set. She trades drum licks with jazz virtuoso Buddy Rich, hops on tables, swan-dives into an ocean of men, swings on a rope, cartwheels and catches flying rings and, still spinning, seizes airborne drumsticks and rejoins Rich to hammer out a scintillating flourish.

6. ‘Broadway Melody of 1940’ (1940), ‘Begin the Beguine’

Cole Porter, Fred Astaire and Eleanor Powell: the holy trinity of tap. I love the full-body, freewheeling spirit of this amazing duet – it’s a marvel of precision, with hints of friendly competition. Astaire and Powell chase, tease and one-up each other, ending in a synchronized storm of turns that sends them spiraling around each other like crazy spinning nickels in a tilted universe. How can two humans move so fast, in perfect time, with such giddy ease?

7. ‘Seven Brides for Seven Brothers’ (1954), ‘Barn Dance’

Michael Kidd’s exceptional choreography is full of earthy vigor and references to reels, logging and barn-raising. High-pitched and unusually athletic, the dancing moves from an outdoor stage to picnic tables to wood beams. There are backflips and diving somersaults, along with polka steps and lifts. The dancers include Tommy Rall, one of cinema’s greats, ballet star Jacques d’Amboise and Russ Tamblyn, the former gymnast about seven years shy of stardom as Riff in the movie of “West Side Story.”

8. ‘Small Town Girl’ (1953), ‘I’ve Gotta Hear That Beat’

Ann Miller was considered the queen of Hollywood tap dancers: She was tall, gorgeous and insanely fast. Her taps were like machine-gun fire. This scene, directed by Busby Berkeley and choreographed by Willie Covan, is her most famous. Miller, sequined and sparkly, whirls through an assortment of disembodied musical instruments; violins and trumpets in the hands of unseen players pop up through the floor. Spinning madly, she somehow avoids ricocheting off the trombones. It’s a tribute to Miller as the consummate musician – her tapping is a symphony unto itself – and the scene’s ingenious design, while visually striking, allows nothing to distract from her brilliance.

9. ‘West Side Story’ (1961), ‘America’

Rita Moreno and George Chakiris are a combustible couple, taunting and teasing each other through Stephen Sondheim’s lyrics and Leonard Bernstein’s music. But once they start dancing, their sexual energy could light up the city. Great dance fills this entire movie, but this scene stands out for the neat layering of Latin motifs – bullfighting, flamenco, mambo – and the exuberant staging of a gender war. There’s also well-earned fury: In lyrics and physical expression, the characters directly engage with the clash of cultures and racism that will undo them all.

10. ‘Saturday Night Fever’ (1977), ‘More Than a Woman’

This is not the trickiest dance from a technical point of view. You and I could pick it up in a snap. (Simple is good.) But John Travolta turns it into erotic gold. This scene rates among the greats for the spell it casts, far surpassing its modest mechanics. Plenty of other movies’ dance scenes are more complicated, more expertly executed, but this one is unusually immersive ­— I’m swept into a fever dream of feeling. Strutting like a show pony in his polyester suit and platform shoes, Travolta communicates the intent behind his smoothly syncopated steps and slow dips with co-star Karen Lynn Gorney; they’re a disco-driven lead-in to lovemaking. The dynamic tension is perfect – he revels in his own charisma, she looks at him in misty disbelief, like he’s her fantasy come to life. (For many of us, he was.) Filming wasn’t easy. So much heat and smoke filled that Brooklyn nightclub that at one point, Travolta was on oxygen. Installing lights in the floor, to flash along with the Bee Gees’ music, cost a fortune. It was worth it.

11. ‘All That Jazz’ (1979), ‘Take Off With Us’

Of course, Bob Fosse’s semi-autobiographical film contains his own snappy, sultry choreography. In this scene, cast members rehearse a flight-attendant-themed number for a Broadway show. What I love about it is not only the dancing — full of Fosse hallmarks, the tight little steps, the hats, the tense sexiness and exquisite control — but also the spot-on depiction of what rehearsals are like. The nearly naked performers sing and shimmy their hearts out, while the creative team watches impassively, smoking, frowning, scribbling criticisms. It’s show business, baby.

12. ‘Gentlemen Prefer Blondes’ (1953), ‘Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend’

That hot-pink dress, that cherry-red backdrop, those long, long gloves. Marilyn Monroe is glamorous perfection in this scene, choreographed by the great Jack Cole. He brilliantly played up her strengths, focusing on those beautiful bare shoulders with a shimmy here, an arm extension there, a lot of shaking and — whoopee! — a well-timed gesture to her back porch. Restrained in vocabulary and uninhibited in style and spirit, this witty dance is an exuberant celebration of the female assets, performed by one of the most vibrant bodies in cinematic history.

13. ‘The Band Wagon’ (1953), ‘Dancing in the Dark’

Cyd Charisse was tall for Fred Astaire, so she’s wearing flats here, the perfect footwear for a waltz of seduction that begins with these two extraordinary movers simply strolling through Central Park. Michael Kidd’s choreography is fascinating; it unspools in an expanding array of spirals, zigzagging lines and sharp changes of direction, sending the couple over benches, up steps and, finally, into a horse-drawn carriage. Astaire and Charisse sail through the complex geometry, each move flowing into the next, as though it were all just a walk in the park.

14. ‘Sweet Charity’ (1969), ‘The Aloof, the Heavyweight, the Big Finish’

“We don’t dance,” snarls one of the partners-for-hire in this film’s sleazy ballroom. “We defend ourselves to music.” You feel that bite in an irresistible, decadent floor-show extravaganza of ’60s go-go, choreographed by Fosse, the master of sinister sexiness. The starring attractions: dancers Suzanne Charney and a young Ben Vereen. Also, loads of eyeliner, minidresses and those Fosse-licious broken-doll struts, isolated joints and hips, hips, hips.

15. ‘The Red Shoes,’ (1948), ballet sequence

Within this masterful film, about the flaming passions of artists, lies a complete ballet that echoes the theme and foreshadows its tragic conclusion. The ballet tells the Hans Christian Andersen tale of enchanted shoes that dance their wearer to death; redhead ballerina Moira Shearer is their beguiling victim. Beautifully lighted and designed, this dark, wordless drama is by turns hallucinatory and Hitchcockian.

16. ‘Dirty Dancing’ (1987), final dance

For many of us of a certain age, this is the defining movie dance scene, as Patrick Swayze struts onto that Borscht Belt stage, and Jennifer Grey melts in his arms. It’s a singularly potent concoction: Swayze’s erotic beauty, Grey’s coming-of-age right before our eyes, the lusty grace of their moves, the crowd’s collective swoon. Because it happens in a middle-class family setting, with actors who weren’t yet icons, we can see ourselves in them, and fly along with them, at least in our minds. It’s a vicarious rush.

17. ‘Damn Yankees’ (1958), ‘Whatever Lola Wants’

Gwen Verdon as a leggy demon sent by Satan to seduce a ballplayer – OK, I’m in. Verdon, a singing, dancing, acting wizard of stage and screen, had a unique, commanding presence; although delicately built, she vibrated exactitude and authority. She’s funny, sexy and gleefully impish in this scene, choreographed by Fosse, who was soon to be her husband. Every step conveys that she’s a nonhuman in a new role and loving it. Verdon stays in this complicated character throughout her awkward-on-purpose striptease and a manic romp touched with flamenco, burlesque and quasi-Indian fillips. “I’m irresistible, you fool,” she taunts. Um, yes.

18. ‘All of Me’ (1984), closing scene

In this sparkling screwball comedy, Lily Tomlin’s soul transmigrates into Steve Martin’s body. Result: a high-pitched tug of war – she controls one side of his body, he’s got the other. (We see Tomlin’s reflection whenever Martin passes a mirror.) This internal mayhem smoothly resolves in the end, when we see the two whirling in a let-it-all-hang-out dance of pure joy, captured in a mirror, that grows goofier and giddier, accompanied by a swinging rendition of the jazz standard of the title. Before, the body had been a prison for Martin and Tomlin; here it’s a vehicle of spectacular release, and the display of rapture between well-tuned spirits is utterly contagious.

19. ‘Stepmom’ (1998), ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough’

This makes me cry, because it captures the very essence of living, and love. Susan Sarandon, dying of cancer, carouses in her pajamas with her kids, belting out the Marvin Gaye/Tammi Terrell anthem into a curling iron. They jump on the bed. They prance down the hallway. They give Death a big, fat, life-affirming kick in the caboose.

20. ‘La La Land’ (2016), opening sequence

The dance numbers in this loving nod to Hollywood’s musical history are so physically rapturous and vicariously thrilling that they almost lift you out of your seat. Attitude adjustment starts with the opening sequence, which turns a traffic jam on an L.A. highway into a full-throttle celebration of life, as folks sing, spin and stomp on the roofs of their cars, while a BMX biker and a freewheeling skateboarder surf the concrete barriers.

21. ‘White Nights’ (1985), the duet

Mikhail Baryshnikov and Gregory Hines, two of the greatest male dancers of the late 20th century, united on the dance floor: How can you beat that? This scene offers a side-by-side view of their styles – the tapper’s heavy-hitting power and connection to the floor, the ballet maestro’s elegance, airborne ease and elasticity. Watch how Baryshnikov sinks into his knees, while the lankier Hines stays more upright. In other ways, though, Hines is looser and jazzier, while Baryshnikov is knife-sharp.

22. ‘You Got Served’ (2004), dance battle

Dance contests come and go, but this one boasts muscular grace, jaw-dropping execution and incomparable street style. The most spectacular street moves require immense (that is, male) upper-body strength — the head-spinning and upside-down windmilling — and we get to revel in that here. But the ladies also have their moments to shine. Although the editing tends to get in the way of the best view of the dancing, the displays of raw, rhythmic power matched with impeccable precision and daring don’t get much better than this.

23. ‘Silver Linings Playbook’ (2012), dance rehearsal

Cute couple awkwardly learns to dance with the help of their cool friend. Bradley Cooper is the odd man out in this threesome, while Jennifer Lawrence and Chris Tucker offer up the dancing thrills. OK, so they’re modest — this is not showstopping material — but it’s so adorable. Tucker knows just how to womp up Lawrence’s uncooperative hips: “Girl, you gotta move your junk.”

24. ‘Center Stage’ (2000), ‘The Way You Make Me Feel’

Tutus and motorcycles: a match made in dance heaven. These white-frocked ballerinas are dutifully dull until Ethan Stiefel roars onstage on his bike. At the time, Stiefel was a star at American Ballet Theatre, and this scene offers a terrific look at his virtuosic technique (those pirouettes, those airy leaps – pure gold), as well as his heartthrob appeal. Accompanied by Michael Jackson’s bouncy pop song, this is simply tremendous fun. Classical ballet steps, beautifully performed, get funkified.

25. ‘Bye Bye Birdie’ (1963), ‘Got a Lotta Livin to Do’

Ann-Margret’s “torrid dancing almost replaces the central heating in the theater,” Life magazine declared in its cover story about “Bye Bye Birdie” and its young heroine. This is the movie that made her a star. She’s also a sensational dancer, in a vamped-up display of seduction aided by belly-baring ruffles and the sexiest pink capris you’ve ever seen. With all of her slinky allure, she also twists, hully-gullies and Watusis with the ensemble to the soundtrack’s brisk jazz. This frisky production is a great mood-booster.

26. ‘White Chicks’ (2004), dance-off

The premise: Two African-American FBI agents — Keenan Ivory Wayans and Shawn Wayans —disguise themselves as white women to lure a kidnapper out of hiding. It sounds so wrong, but it’s so funny, especially when miniskirted squads of frenemies shake off their frustrations on the dance floor. The undercover agents jump into the mix, in their low-rise jeans and pastel leathers (the girl clothes are craptastically horrendous). They’ve done such a good job of being female, and now their true, testosterone-fueled selves come out in aggressive, head-spinning moves that are just plain out of reach for most of us ladies. That should blow their cover. No one seems to notice this.

27. ‘House Party’ (1990), dance scene

Teens want to hang out together, have fun and party — this hasn’t changed since forever — but it’s the partying here that’s extraordinary. We see it on their terms, in the close, crowded quarters of a living room, with just enough space for explosive moves, sassy personal expression, all kinds of style and exhilarating, good-natured fun. It’s an instantly immersive experience; you feel like you’re on the dance floor with them, bopping along as hip-hop duo Kid n Play show off their swiveling, sliding, twisting footwork.

28. ‘Pulp Fiction’ (1994), twist contest

“I wanna dance, I wanna win, I want that trophy. So dance good.” A menacing Uma Thurman and a game John Travolta shed their shoes for an intense go-go scene that comes out of nowhere, in the middle of a bloody crime film. Director Quentin Tarantino has said he was inspired by New Wave master Jean-Luc Godard, known to drop an incongruous dance into his work. Note how the actors draw our focus to their fingers and toes. Of course, we’re also thinking back on the younger, disco-dancing Travolta, so the scene is poignant as well as darkly funny. And very, very odd.

29. ‘The Cotton Club’ (1984), ‘Crazy Rhythm’

Brothers Maurice and Gregory Hines were estranged for 10 years in real life, and this scene re-creates the emotional reunion on the dance floor of the siblings who had been childhood tap partners. Francis Ford Coppola’s film brought veteran hoofers such as Charles “Honi” Coles back to the spotlight, and these scenes are priceless. But the Hines duet is infused with palpable warmth and bone-deep sympathy.

30. ‘A Chorus Line’ (1985), ‘Next’

In some ways, the dancing life is like the military, especially here. This film about Broadway opens with auditions, where the dance captain is a drill sergeant and the chorines are uber-disciplined grunts firing off a battery of moves. A lot of movie dancing shows us the slippery ease and glory of moving to music, but here we see the opposite: the punishing work, humiliations and stoicism behind it. And after all that, the four cruelest words a dancer will ever hear: “Thank you very much.”

31. ‘Pennies From Heaven’ (1981), ‘Let’s Face the Music and Dance’

Talk about nerve: In this tribute to Depression-era musicals, Steve Martin and Bernadette Peters take on one of Astaire and Rogers’s greatest numbers. And they do it justice. They’re a well-matched pair —Martin, light-footed and quick; Peters, all soft edges. The black-and-white design, complete with a tuxedoed ensemble, is timeless.

Sarah L. Kaufman is The Washington Post’s dance critic.

Source: https://triblive.com/aande/adminpage/14292371-74/the-31-best-dance-scenes-in-movies

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A Thousand Thoughts

…in anticipation of the Kronos Quartet concert, February 15

By Kerstin Lange, Burlington Writers Workshop

Tusen Tankar (“A Thousand Thoughts” in Swedish) is the name of a traditional Scandinavian folk song. While the thousand thoughts in the song refer to the experience of unrequited longing for a loved one, the title is also an apt description of the situation in my mind as I try to contemplate the music of the Kronos Quartet. Strings…unique-sounding strings…how do they make these sounds?  Rhythm, percussion, sometimes voices… amazingly diverse…How can they be so diverse and still sound recognizable? Achingly beautiful sounds...and then dissonant and stark ones…painfully raw…glimpses of the abyss…These people are masters of precision, subtlety and clarity…This music is alive.

I suspect that at the Kronos’s upcoming show at the Flynn, Tusen Tankar will stand as an example of the “achingly beautiful” end of the quartet’s mindboggling spectrum.  At the other end of the spectrum – the “abyss” end – I imagine George Crumb’s Black Angels, the musical response to the Vietnam War that inspired the formation of the Kronos Quartet in 1973. To go by the titles of two of the pieces that are new to me, Bombs of Beirut (Mary Kouyoumdjian) and WTC 9/11 (Steve Reich) are equally likely to provide visceral encounters with catastrophe and grief.  Chances are that just about every other emotion in the landscape of human experience will also be evoked.

Kouyoumdjian and Reich are only two of a long list of composers from whom Kronos has commissioned works.  Others are Terry Riley, Philip Glass, the Finnish composer Kaija Saariaho, and Homayun Sakhi from Afghanistan.  Collaborations with performers, poets, and thinkers are equally wide-ranging:  Mexican rockers Café Tacvba, Bollywood playback singer Asha Bhosle, and Inuit throat singer Tanya Tagaq; Allen Ginsberg, Noam Chomsky, and Björk have all shared the stage or, in the case of Nine Inch Nails, Joan Armatrading and the Dave Matthews Band, the recording studio with the Kronos Quartet.  I won’t even mention the Quartet’s involvement in film music (a quick web search will yield rich results), but I will mention that in 2011, Kronos was the recipient of two of the most prestigious awards in the world of music, the Polar Music Prize and the Avery Fisher Prize.  Among the group’s other awards are a Grammy for Best Chamber Music Performance in 2004 and Musicians of the Year from Musical America.

With such a list of accomplishments, it is tempting to presume that the quartet burst on the scene fully fledged at some point in time, and simply continued to do more of what it does so exquisitely.  But at least the beginning of the story sounds quite serendipitous, with the 22-year-old David Harrington returning from a Vietnam War-induced hiatus in Canada and hearing a performance of George Crumb’s Black Angels on the radio.  “I’m starting a group,” he told a composer friend, “because I have to play that music.” That was in 1973.  For the first few years, while the quartet operated out of Harrington’s one-room apartment in Seattle, there was a fluid cast of players who sometimes performed at weddings or in the street to scrape by.  Even in this early period, though, the mission of the quartet to perform contemporary music began to crystallize.  An auspicious development occurred during this time when Margaret Lyon, the chair of the Mills College music department, attended one of their concerts and subsequently secured funding from Chamber Music America.  

It was during this period that the longest-running combination of musicians came together (David Harrington, Hank Dutt, Joan Jeanrenaud, and John Sherba), and that the quartet’s long-standing and very rich association with the composer Terry Riley began.  Joan Jeanrenaud once described the work with Riley as the “foundation of how we work together”, an organic, open-ended process of the composer creating modular bars and the musicians trying them out in different combinations, sometimes creating their own parts.  It seems that in this period may lie an answer to one of my thousand thoughts (“How can they be so diverse and still sound recognizable?”): Harrington recalls how Riley pushed the quartet into new realms of experimentation with pitch and expression, how he didn’t want vibrato, and how “there was a magical moment when the bow, rather than vibrato, became the major expression of color.”  

Harrington (violin), Sherba (violin), and Dutt (viola) are still with the quartet and will be in Burlington on February 15.  They were joined last year by Sunny Yang (cello).  The complete program is accessible here.  Incidentally, anyone who wants to mentally prepare for Black Angels can join a book discussion of Philip Caputo’s A Rumor of War (considered the classic Vietnam War Memoir) at the Fletcher Free Library on Wednesday evening, February 5. The discussion will be led by Burlington-based author and cellist Marc Estrin.  Participants in the book discussion receive discounted tickets to the Kronos Quartet concert.

[linssikeittomies]

VR Chapter 3 - 17 hours

Masterpost <-Chapter 2 Chapter 4->

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The next morning I woke up at 7. Not because I wanted to, but because some arse wouldn’t stop banging on the door.

Of course it was that grumbling tailor from last night. Accompanied by the overly gleeful servant beaming at me like I was his sole reason for living. Jesus.

“Emahem”, they said, and I mumbled back something resembling “morning”, but I’m not too sure how it turned out.

Anyway, that tailor had with him a high stool and the most exquisite dress my bleary eyes had ever seen, even in pictures of renaissance royalty. The base was turquoise silk, like, imagine the smoothest kind you possibly can, and then make it even smoother, really go overboard with the smoothness and it won’t even come close. Okay, well, maybe close, but what I’m saying is “baby butt smooth” did not do right by this cloth. Just that base alone would have made the most wonderful dress, but it was also embroidered all over, with the tiniest damn stitches of the finest thread in existence. The whole piece from the high collar to floor-dragging hem was decorated in flowers and songbirds. Well, at least there weren’t gemstones. The thing must have cost a year’s worth of salary as it was. I can admit liking nice clothes, but this thing could have fed a family in Africa for God knows how long.

Oh, right, they probably wanted me to put it on, that’s why he was pushing it towards me. Right. So I took it. The men didn’t turn around. So I glared at them and shooed them out. They didn’t get why, but at least didn’t try to come back in. I ran the fabric through my fingers, it was heavy but slippery, like trying to hold water. The thing must drape like a dream. Not that there much to drape, it was a figure hugging piece, thanks probably to extraterrestrial price. Wonder where you could even get fabric like this. Bet you have to order it straight from the spiders and have it blessed by a priestess of the moon or something. I’d like a pillow case made from this. So soft…

Oh, right, put it on. Had they been taking the measures for this? Obviously it was pre-made, stuff like this doesn’t get made overnight even in fictional 24/7 tailor shops. They probably meant to fine-tune it to fit me. Why was beyond me, but – oh damnit, again I just stared at it instead of dressing. God, I need more sleep.

Okay, so this was why they had stayed in the room. The buttons were in the back. I could only do the three lowest on my own. Why not put the damn things on the side, like in qipaos? It already looked qipao enough, this one little change would let you get dressed by yourself and not feel like a baby.

“Okay guys, you can come in now”, I called. They did, and the servant was again overjoyed from seeing me. The tailor was less than impressed and grumbled again, circled behind me to get the rest of the buttons and then gesturing me to climb on the stool. A struggle in and of itself in this dress. There was barely room to walk! Yeah, it saved a fortune to use as little fabric as possible, but a fat lot of good that would do if I ripped it! I couldn’t even hike it up properly so I had to perform some very awkward moves the get up there. I looked ridiculous.

The hem was a bit long, but it also wasn’t heavily embroidered so it shouldn’t be too difficult to shorten. The top was more of a problem, as my boobs were a little too big. They pondered for a long time, and finally decided to just pop open some of the top buttons, get some string in there to hold it together and cover the back with a vest held closed with a wide sash. What it couldn’t hide was the fact that my hips were too wide and stretched the fabric dangerously. The tailor pondered about this even longer, grumbling to himself and tapping his feet. He did come to some kind of solution at long last, as he gestured for me to come down and opened my buttons. Again I had to shoo them out. Once dressed, I got out the door and saw Ritideea talking animatedly with the tailor. She, too, said “Emahem”, and I tried mimicking her. I doubt I was very successful, but she smiled and clapped anyway. Her servant was with her today, too, I guess they worked around the clock. So they lived somewhere in the manor? Wonder where their quarters were. Could be in the locked wing? That was the only place I hadn’t gotten a look at yesterday.

I didn’t even know their names. I turned to my servant, ever smiling, pointed at myself and said “Mimi. Name Mimi”, then pointed at him and asked “Name?”.

His face lit up like I had just gifted him a million pounds.

“Asahana!” he shout-whispered and bowed deep. I bowed too, to be polite, and I swear he almost started crying. What was up with these people? Would the girl servant be better?

She was. She smiled widely too, and bowed, but nowhere near as deep and didn’t get teary-eyed. Her name was Keeka. They separated from us again to go do their work.

When Ritideea finished her talk with the tailor, we all went down for breakfast. Just as much greens as in the evening, but more bread. There was also omelette and something that resembled the gross cabbage soup they serve in Chinese restaurants. I didn’t taste it to make sure. I stuffed myself with bread and fruit juice.

Breakfast was much less noisy than dinner, possibly because of whatever decision had been made last evening. Everyone looked either worried or determined. Ritideea was among the determined ones, and talked with me. Well, at me, mostly. She talked slower than yesterday, maybe she thought I would be staying long enough to learn her language.

...would I be staying long enough to learn it? I had no way of returning home. Humans hadn’t made it to Mars, they wouldn’t make it to Jupiter during my lifetime. And where was I? Somewhere astronomically far away from the Milky way, possibly. At least one would assume so. Was I even in space? Maybe this was a different dimension altogether. I’d read enough sci-fi and fantasy to consider that a possibility. Could I get back the way I came? How had I come here? I had just walked into town, and then the forest was gone. There had been no portal, or star gate. Just air. How would I even explain that? Was it a common occurrence here? Hopefully not unheard of. But in that case wouldn’t the man from yesterday have considered that when he tried to find out where I was from? He was a mage, right, he should be the expert in these things. A rich family like this wouldn’t hire a third-rate mage who didn’t know his stuff.

What did this family deal in, anyway? Jewels? That should generate enough money for a super fancy manor like this. And all these paintings and murals. Last night I had concentrated on the table because I had been hungry, but now that my belly was full I took a closer look at the walls. They were absolutely filled to the brim with portraits of several sizes. There were an equal amount of women and men and indeterminates. Skin colours of every imaginable hue – white, yellow, brown, black, pink, green, blue, violet, rainbow – but everyone’s features were Caucasian. Except in the more stylized or abstract ones, of course. Who were all these people? And who were the ones dominating the ceiling? The paper-white woman with white hair in a clear blue dress, the faintly yellow fat woman with long curls and the pitch-black ladyboy?

Ritideea noticed my stare and smiled brightly. She started pointing at each figure.

“Alimagotsat”, the white woman, “Umube”, the fat woman, “Sibaja”, the black man. Didn’t tell me anything. Then she got up and started pointing out the portraits. “Kao, Sooi, Ailum, Kiolo, Linten, Suginak, Daslej, Kanun, Heliko, Tunuhe, Naumuok, Reksee, Anesan, Kahokisa...” she just went on and on and on and on and on, for an eternity. Frankly, I was impressed that she could remember them all by heart. There had to be well more than a hundred in all.

And then she pointed to the floor. I hadn’t even noticed that was painted, too. The green-blue woman with a mermaid dress taking up most of the floor was Klipikt(try saying that fast three times in a row), the boring, tan brunette was Bellekrig, and the brown woman with green hair was Malisale. Then Ritideea went back to the wall to tell more about “Mede”, of inditerminate gender. It didn’t matter to her I didn’t catch a word of it, she just liked talking about them. The rest of the family made themselves scarce about five minutes into the speech, and one of the maids reminded Ritideea that she had some things to do as well. The two of us went back to the third floor, where Ritideea dragged me into her room, the one next to the guest room I was staying in. Keeka and Asahana were already waiting for us in the big room, and they came in, too.

Ritideea was a painter. There was an easel with an unfinished work on it next to the window, a shelf filled with pencils, paints and brushes, and a stained apron hanging on the dresser door. Her walls were almost as crammed with artwork as the dining room, but at least their subjects were more varied. Only a few portraits(one of her mother, and two others of the same unknown young lady), mostly landscapes(one of a night sky with the moon shining behind a deer of some sort, it was very pretty), some still-lifes(flowers and fruit were as popular in this place as they were on Earth). She was good, I had to admit, she had probably started painting at a very young age. I was never a creative person, I only liked camping. I really envied the people who could pour untold hours into drawing something lifelike. Dancers, too, they can make movement look so easy and light. I don’t have the patience to endure practice.

But Ritideea hadn’t brought me there to show her paintings, she pulled out something from her dresser. A bright yellow gown, like the one her favourite painting subject was wearing. Loose and billowing, probably made from super fine tulle. She started talking excitedly, then suddenly soured and turned serious. Without any warning she started pulling her clothes off, and appeared just as confused by my reaction as the two men. I think she asked if I was okay. So I said yeah, turned a bit to reassure her, and noticed she had been wearing a tight, black top under her cream tunic. Her trousers came up almost to her armpits and were secured with laces. She didn’t shy in the least, evidenced by how she pulled them off with me standing right there, revealing black boxer briefs. She slipped on the yellow gown, and nearly drowned in it. If it hadn’t been tulle, I would have wagered the dress weighed more than the girl. She just looked so funny! I was sorry I offended her, but she looked so much like a little kid playing with her mum’s clothes! Just throw some oversized shoes in there while you’re at it!

She started on some lecture where the name Mede was repeated often. Again, I don’t speak your language, girl. I don’t know, maybe she just wanted me to get used to it. She at least was expecting me to stay a long time. In any case, I could respect her ability to keep up a lengthy conversation by herself.

While she talked, I checked out her bookshelf. Everything was in an alphabet I had never run into before, of course. They used letters, the characters repeated often. Mostly curved lines, every now and then a straight one. I picked out one book at random, and it turned out to be art history or something. At least there were a lot of pictures of paintings and a bunch of text in tiny font. Looked a little advanced for a 14-year-old. Then again, she was nearly a professional artist already. Ritideea smiled wide and shoved another book in my hands. That one was about a single artist, it looked like. Their style was very… airy, I suppose would describe it pretty well. Mostly watercolours and light hues, impressionistic. Not like Ritideea’s, who did realistic oils. She had bookmarked several pages with colourful paperclips. Good to see some inventions made it to other dimensions, would make adapting a lot easier.

What the hell was I talking about? I wasn’t staying! No need to adapt when I’m just going to leave soon.

Asahana suddenly piped up, and the atmosphere in the room turned nervous. Both looked at me with pitying eyes as Asahana guided me to the bathroom. For some reason the guestroom shared its bathroom with Ritideea. At least it looked fairly normal – a modest bath against the wall, faucet, toilet paper… although the toilet itself was the traditional hole-in-the-floor model. What kind of manor doesn’t have toilet seats? Was I supposed to throw the toilet paper in the hole or the bin? How was it flushed? Asahana fiddled with the bath’s faucets, then called me to come look how to work them. He left me in peace, to figure out the mysteries of plumbing by myself. I took a quick bath, using most of the toiletries I found in the rack on the wall, not knowing which of them was shampoo and which was soap. Then I realized I had no clothes to change in to. Hopefully the dresser would have something. I looked for a towel, but could only find a large square cloth that wasn’t terrycloth or cotton. At least it absorbed water well, despite being pretty coarse. Wrapping that around me I walked out to -

“GODDAMN, get out!”

Asahana and the grumbling tailor were standing there like they belonged! What the hell!? And they had the guts to look confused! I had to practically push them out! The one thing that lifted my spirits somewhat was getting new underwear – this would have been the third day with these panties. The only option was the same type of black boxer briefs as Ritideea’s but I wasn’t about to complain. I did opt to leave my own bra on rather than brave the t-shirt without underwires. As for clothes, pickings were slim – one dark green bathrobe dress, one cream tunic, one pair of cream pants. Ritideea’s outfit from earlier. Well, better than my sweaty button-up and jeans. And I could go without socks inside the house. No one else was wearing anything on their feet, after all.

I opened the door to glare at the two men, who still couldn’t understand why I was mad. Hopeless! They came back in and showed the gorgeous dress from this morning. I had to shoo them out again to put it on. I don’t know what kind of magic the tailor had worked on it, because it fit almost perfectly on the hips now. He had also substituted the vest with another, deep green one with some basic embroidery running along the neckline, must have been to match it better with the elaborate and extensive decoration of the dress. But the sash was still the same solid, banana peel yellow piece as earlier. What was it with these people and bright yellow? Ritideea looked like a huge ball of cheese in her dress. Who in their right mind makes a whole dress from bright yellow tulle? It might work as a detail, but jeez, no one looks good in banana.

And the dress wasn’t even enough. After they made me throw it on Asahana braided my hair around my head, like that one Russian politician lady, can’t remember her name right now. Except of course he had to make it a French version, since my hair was nowhere near long enough. Once he was done, he led me all the way downstairs to the front door, where he gave me white sandals to wear, and creaked the huge double doors open to let us out.

At the gate there was a horse buggy looking carriage, but without the horses. Three people were standing in front of it – Ritideea, a young woman with two braids carrying a long metal bar, and a tall man in his mid-thirties with a long ponytail. Long hair was most apparently in fashion. Both the woman and the man bowed to me, and Ritideea introduced them. The woman, Famfarrah, looked like she wouldn’t recognize a joke if it slipped on a banana peel right in front of her.

Again with the bananas, I swear. Must have been Ritideea’s dress, it was just so in-your-face-yellow.

The man, Yotiry, was a bit more laid back. He even smiled a little. We all got in the buggy(me with considerable difficulty, thank to that gods-damned tight dress), and somehow it started moving. The buggy had windows, but they were covered with curtains, and Ritideea drew me back when I tried to peek out. I wondered why we had to keep this a secret, but I wasn’t about to anger her. Wouldn’t do to get kicked out on the street before learning how to say “alms for the poor”.

The new faces whispered nervously with each other while Ritideea tried to meditate, I think. She was doing those breathing exercise thingies, in the mouth out the nose, and mumbled to herself. Bit by bit her back straightened further and her chin lifted. She started looking scarily much like her mother. Impressive how such a gleeful and innocent-looking little girl can turn so regal. I just wondered why she needed to steel herself like that. Was she really that nervous about wherever we were going? The other two sure were. The longer we rode the more fidgety they got. When Ritideea drew back the curtain on her side, they didn’t calm down at all.

We were outside the city, on the countryside. Fields almost far as the eye could see, a grand forest in the distance, and mountains in the horizon. Such a pretty view, but Yotirry in particular avoided looking at it. Though as we went further, his worry was replaced with anger. Ritideea tried to calm him, first with reason, then with sympathy, and finally with authority. That last one worked the best, surprisingly. That little girl could really demand respect when she wanted to.

Eventually the road turned towards the forest, and the fields were only things visible. It must have been spring or early summer, since everything was still green. I only saw a few cows, or maybe horses, difficult to say from this far away. Too big to be sheep, in any case. Very few trees. Five in total could be seen on my side, and Ritideea’s side had even fewer. You could easily see the undulation of the ground, plus really far. There wasn’t much even ground, mostly slight hills.

I hadn’t taken my watch, so I couldn’t say how long we rode. It felt like it had been an hour, give or take some, when we got off the road and maybe half an hour after that. The only thing I could say for sure was that my butt was numb. This dress wasn’t exactly helping my circulation, and I was scared it would rip if I tried to fix my position. The first thing I did after getting out of the buggy was wiggle my toes vigorously, as if that would have helped. Famfarrah got a large, decorated wooden chest from a compartment on the back of the buggy. The chest itself must have weighed over 5 kilos, but whatever was inside was light since she carried it like it was nothing, then set it down on the ground by the treeline. Yotiry laid a blanket behind it, and Ritideea kneeled down on it. I wasn’t going to follow her, but Yotiry set his hand on my shoulder and firmly guided me next to her. Booooring. First sitting on my arse in the buggy, and now sitting in the ground? I needed to stretch my legs. Famfarrah and Yotiry got to stand, why not me? I looked over at Ritideea, and she could have been mistaken for a statue. She was so majestic and still, with her hands folded on her lap and looking proudly straight ahead. So damn regal. Even in that ludicrous dress.

For a while I did try to copy her, but got bored quickly. The fields weren’t very interesting, so I looked at the forest instead. It wasn’t that much more interesting… although, the more I looked at it, the more it felt like something was off about it. It was difficult to see what exactly, since it was so dark in there – oooh, well that for starters, it was too dark in there. It was a sunny day outside the forest, and the inside of the forest was like twilight. The foliage was so thick very little light could come through. And the reason the foliage was so thick was because every single tree was an ancient giant with a trunk as thick a small house, with an unbelievable amount of beard moss hanging from the branches. There wasn’t one sapling or youngling. There wasn’t any fallen down trees, either… How did this forest renew? Where were the animals? You’d think you’d see one bird or hear a little rustle now and then, but it was silent. Yeah, you read that right, silent, not quiet. Was this one of those cursed forests the fantasy genre loved? It didn’t feel cursed, a bit foreboding maybe now that I thought about it, but cursed? Hmm, maybe a tiny bit cursed, just subtly, like you wouldn’t die if you set foot in there, but get hurt a little, or be struck by minor bad luck. Were we here to see a witch? Was that what everyone was so worried about? Was this the decision no one had liked? Ask help from a witch since they couldn’t figure me out by themselves? What kind of an idiot makes deals with witches, those never turn out well! We’d all be lucky if we walked out of here with all our organs and firstborns intact. What do witches even do with all those firstborns? Eat them? Take them as apprentices? Or do you become a witch solely by selling your soul to the Devil? In this world, was the Devil real? Were we here to meet Devil? Who makes deals with the Devil? White people! Who were we? White people! We were so here to make a deal with the Devil. Well, not if I had anything do with it.

The Devil let us wait a good while. Still, Ritideea never made a move. If anything, she only looked more aloof. She barely stirred when a figure slowly emerged from the shadows and made a beeline for us. She only got up to bow once the two-meter figure was stood in front of right behind the foremost trees.

I… didn’t really know what to make of the figure. I would definitely call it a person, and male, but he had hyena ears on his head, furry paws for feet, and a long, fluffy tale. The others were scared shitless of him, but all I saw was anime cat person. Even his eyes fit the bill. Bloody huge hazel eyes, way too big for a real human, even bigger than Anne Hathaway’s. I wanted to shake my head at the display, even though he didn’t how he looked, anime probably didn’t even exist in this world. He couldn’t help how cringe-worthy he looked.

His voice was higher than his height had led me to believe, and had an odd growling quality to it despite the high pitch. Every word came out slow and forced. Sounded like talking was difficult for him. Still, he was laid-back and joking, leaned against a tree, as a total opposite to my companions, who all sat ramrod straight and kept their faces perfectly neutral. Ritideea considered her every word carefully and kept her voice even and respectful. It then hit me that the furry man hadn’t so much as acknowledged anyone else in the company. As far as he was concerned, Ritideea and him were the only ones here. Can you believe this guy?! How rude can you get?

Unfortunately I’m not the type to explode with righteous fury. Ritideea and the man talked for a while, then Ritideea asked Famfarrah to push the chest forward so the man could reach, and at that point he stopped pretending to care even about Ritideea. He opened the chest with glee and dug in. For the most part he didn’t care about the contents – he set the bundle of geometrically patterned fabric to the side, took one whiff of the perfume before flicking it over his shoulder, only looked at the musical instruments for a moment, but he did like the hairbrush. A real piece of work, that one, seemed to be made of red amber. He wasted no time in opening his thigh-length braid and trying it out, and was not disappointed. He kept lazily brushing his mane the whole time we stayed there.

So now that the bribe was out of the way, Ritideea brought me up. Finally, finally, the rude cat boy turned his goddamn eyes at someo

Oh, sorry, it just felt like the whole world stopped for a while, not in a good way. The instant his eyes met mine it was like being dunked into ice water. The shock made my heart skip several beats and breathing feel painful. The afterwaves of the hit still had me trembling.

I suddenly understood why everyone had been so reluctant to do this. He might have seemed harmless, but he damn near killed me with just a careless look. Wouldn’t have regretted it, either. The bastard smirked, supposedly subtly, but everyone could see he was howling with laughter. I was the weakest thing he had ever encountered.

He exchanged a few words with Ritideea again, letting me catch my breath. Dear God how I hated this guy! What a dickhead!

I would have given almost anything to never have him look at me again, but something Ritideea said raised his interest. He stared at me hard in disbelief, so hard it almost felt physical. Then he barked a laugh and called out to the forest, pointing at me and even forgetting about his stupid hair for a while. He was looking deeper into the forest, the darkness, like someone was there and he wanted them to come stare at the freak, too.

I didn’t want to die for disrespecting this douchebag so I stayed put.

There was someone in the forest. Almost noiseless rustles and cracks of branches breaking under feet started coming closer, until I could see some kind of black hyena. The man’s pet? Even for an animal with no facial expressions it managed to look annoyed. Its long tail twitched like a disturbed cat’s. It’s bright emerald eyes shone brilliantly against its coal black, sleek fur. A beautiful specimen, really… Such intelligent eyes, it was clearly no run of the mill beast. It sat down next to the dickhead, quickly glanced at the other humans and then set its gaze on me. Its nose twitched, it was sniffing me from the distance. As though reluctantly its head twisted sideways, like a confused dog’s, and it quickly acted like I was nothing special and turned its nose up. I couldn’t help the snort. The man barked to the hyena, actually sounding like a real animal, and made some other animal noises too – and he got a similar response. Like they were actually conversing. Just how intelligent was this animal? Was it magic?

I really shouldn’t be this surprised by magical animals, I had already met a wizard and an anime cat person. Fantasy is full of magic animals. Though they’re usually more horse-like. Sometimes big cats. Don’t think I ever ran into a magic hyena. Associated too heavily with carrion, not glamorous enough.

Jesus Christ, another one of those ice-water dunks! Cool it with the torture already! I’d rather not have a heart attack at sixteen! He didn’t care, yeah, but I did! I did my best to glare at him, but I… sort of got lost in his eyes, to my great shame. They were so pretty… Earlier I said they were hazel, but looking closer, it was more like maple syrup with fine gold glitter swirling in the mix…

He laughed, and I snapped out of it. My head was such a mess the only thing he could figure out was that I liked what I saw. What? Bullshit! Why would I even think that?

So there I sat, mortified, while Ritideea and the vile man talked some more. I’d look at anywhere but them, examine my nails, study the forest, twist around the check the expressions on Famfarrah and Yotiry(suspicious and containedly angry, respectively), fiddle with the edge of the blanket, shift my weight from one knee to the other… The hyena would shoot glances at me and then turn up his nose at me when I answered the look. So cute.

What was I doing here? Just playing with the hyena, it was like a proud cat, so cute. I wanted to pet it, but I guessed it would just run. Or maybe bite my hand off. How did I come here? What a weird question to answer myself, where did that come from? I knew how I came here. And I’m not one of those philosopher types who uses that question as a metaphor for something bigger. I’m a pretty literal gal. I was hopeless.

The vile man was looking at me again, aloof amusement all over his smug face. He was no help when I took zero interest in him. Hell yeah I took zero interest in him! I took negative interest in him! Maybe Marsohu would have better luck.

...the hell? Who was Marsohu? I don’t typically just come up with random names in my thoughts. Also I was way past imaginary friends.

There was a lull in the negotiations, Ritideea looking pleading, the man looking bored, and the hyena looking cautiously interested. Don’t ask me how an animal looks cautiously interested, there was very little in the situation that I understood. The man and the hyena  had another one of those animal conversations, and it ended with the hyena obviously grumbling to himself. It looked me straight in the eye, making me wax poetic about gemstones and crap. They were so pure green, you couldn’t get that kind of green with even photoshop. There was almost an inner glow to them. That’s not what I was here for, why was I here? What, again with the philosophy? Okay, brain, I came here by that buggy thing. Satisfied? I came because the family decided to ask help from a witch. Who turned out to be a dickhead anime cat person.

I swear the hyena snickered and said something catty to the dickhead. He responded with a faintly amused smirk. Where was my home?

What was with these thoughts? Usually they followed some kind of logic, but today they just transfer, ever heard of it?

What the heeeeellll. Now my thoughts were interrupting themselves. No, it was me. No wonder I was a mess.

…

Where was my home? Sheffield, of course, I knew that. Nether Edge Road. Not the nicest house on the road, but not the smallest, either. Just enough to fit me, Marie, mum and dad. More about Sheffield. Well, it was a big city, pretty far from London, uhh…  Yorkshire, middle England. England. A country in Europe. Great Britain here, France under there, all the other countries. Connected to Asia, cross the pacific and there’s North America, South America, keep going and you get to Africa. Oh And Australia’s in there somewhere, too. There, to be exact. My mental world map might have been less than spectacular, but I think I got most of it right. At least it showed enough to confirm that I wasn’t from around here. Uh-huh, it did – hold on a minute, I already knew I wasn’t from around here. There was nothing I needed to confirm to myself. That’s because I wasn’t confirming to myself, idiot.

Was someone screwing with my brain? A certain black hyena, mayhaps?

“Hey, you! Are you doing this?”

The hyena nodded.

Welp, that settled that. It was a telepathic magic animal. What an unorthodox kind of telepathy, just putting thoughts into my head like that. It could’ve at least made it sound like speech, like a normal telepath. This way was just too confusing.

Wait! Now that I knew it was telepathic, I could ask it to help me home! That was why the family had brought me here! They knew that the animal, and possibly the dickhead, were telepaths and could get around the language barrier by communicating directly by thought.

“Can you help me get home?”

Can you help me get home can you help me get home can you help me get home can you help me get home can you help me get home. That’s beyond me, even beyond Joyjaa. The dickhead is Joyjaa.

The hyena snickered again.

“So you’re Marsohu, I’m thinking?”

The hyena nodded, although my pronunciation fucking sucked.

“Sorry, I haven’t exactly had a lot of time to practice”, I complained. Seemed like I would have nothing but time to practice from here on out. If humans couldn’t help me home, and these people couldn’t help me home, I was stuck here for good.

“Can you at least contact my family? I need to tell them I’m fine.” How would I do that, I can barely talk with me.

Or would that be “How would I, Marsohu, do that, when I can barely communicate with you, Mimi”?

“Oh. That makes sense.”

My family would never know what had happened to me. Went for a walk, never came back, never answered her phone. Survived the woods as a baby but not as a teen. Couldn’t have been a bear, those tend to be pretty rare close to highways. No ravines, either. They’d think I had just walked out of their lives. Mum would be heartbroken. She was a self-blamer, she would be convinced she had done something wrong and I hated her for that. Nothing could be further from the truth, my mum was basically the greatest living person on the planet. Poor mum, first her sister and now her daughter. Seems our branch just kept abandoning her. Dad might suspect murder, but I had wandered off in the middle of the day in a place where not a lot of people congregated, no murderer would be searching for victims in there. Marie, I suspect, would fluctuate between feeling betrayed and hopeful. She was bratty enough to believe it was all about her, that I had walked out on her specifically, but also optimistic enough to believe I’d return regretful some day.

Ritideea called the meeting to an end, Yotiry bundled up the blanket, and we boarded the buggy. As it turned around, I took one last glance at the forest – the dickhead was nowhere to be seen, but the hyena was still sat on the ground before the treeline, looking intently at our buggy. As we headed back towards the road, the numbness wore off and I started crying.

[unconsciousk-blog]

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