#timeless ancestor clock | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sheisjustoutofreach · 2 months ago

Text

Whispers of the Forgotten Waltz

I was awakened tonight by glorious yet haunting and beautiful music, beating like the keys of a broken grand piano.

The clock struck midnight, and the soft strains of a distant waltz stirred me from the depths of sleep. My body stirred as though summoned, drawn from sleep by something older than dreams, something timeless. The moon spilled its silver light through the tall, arched windows of my new home, this palace my palace loomed around me, a labyrinth of cold stone and forgotten memories. Its towering spires reached into the starless sky, silhouetted against the night like jagged teeth. Once, this place might have been beautiful, its grandeur untouched by time. It was crumbling, the velvet curtains moth-eaten, the chandeliers hanging like rusted skeletons from ceilings painted with fading celestial scenes.

I slipped out of bed, the ancient wood floor groaning beneath my feet as I moved, drawn irresistibly to the music. Each step echoed through the cavernous halls, where ivy had crept in through shattered windows, twining itself around the railings of a once-glorious staircase. Faint moonlight streamed through the high, arched windows, casting ghostly reflections on the polished marble floor. Dust motes swirled in the air, disturbed by my passing, and the air itself felt heavy, thick with the weight of untold years.

The palace was alive with secrets, each shadow hiding a story long forgotten. The walls were adorned with portraits of my ancestors, men, and women whose faces had blurred with time. Their eyes followed me, filled with something I couldn’t quite place. Was it a warning? Pity? I couldn’t tell. I felt watched, as though the palace knew I was awake and had been waiting for me to stir for this moment.

And then I reached the ballroom.

The doors loomed before me, dark oak carved with intricate designs, roses and thorns intertwined, so lifelike I almost expected them to prick my fingers. They groaned open, revealing a sight that took my breath away. The ballroom was vast, its ceiling arching so high that it disappeared into shadow. What little light there was came from a moon that seemed unnaturally close, shining through broken windows and casting beams across the marble floor. But it was not empty.

They were dancing.

The spirits moved in perfect, unnatural unison, gliding through the air as if gravity had abandoned them long ago. Their tattered gowns—once opulent silks and lace—clung to skeletal frames, the fabric rotting away like flesh long consumed by time. The scent of decay hung in the air, heavy and sweet, as though death lingered on the hems of their skirts. Their bodies were grotesque, ravaged by centuries in the tomb—some danced with limbs missing, a hand or foot severed, the bones exposed and gleaming beneath shredded flesh. One spirit, her face half gone, revealed a cracked skull beneath with hollow, empty eyesockets staring blankly into eternity.

Around them, a dark mist swirled, thick with the scent of old blood and earth, wrapping their bodies in tendrils like a funeral shroud. Their movements were graceful and grotesque—joints creaking, bones grinding silently with every turn, yet they danced as though still alive, oblivious to the horrors they had become. Their faces, twisted in eerie bliss, were blurred and unrecognizable as if time had smudged their features. Hollow smiles were etched permanently onto their decayed lips, their expressions locked in a terrible, eternal ecstasy as they spun forever in that cursed waltz, the echoes of their laughter long drowned in the dark void that carried them. Their faces were soft and blurred as if seen through the mist, yet their expressions were locked in eternal bliss, frozen in that endless waltz.

As I stood there, frozen in place, the music surged—an eerie, haunting melody that coiled around my soul like cold fingers tightening their grip. It consumed me, a slow, suffocating force, filling my head until it drowned out everything else. The violins sang, their notes sharp and sorrowful, threading themselves into the rhythm of my heartbeat, binding me to their ancient song. My pulse quickened, pounding in time with the music as if the waltz had taken hold of my very blood. I wanted to run, to tear my gaze away, but I was powerless. I couldn't move. I couldn't look away.

They circled around me like predators, the spirits moving with ghostly grace, their fingertips barely brushing each other’s hands, their feet hovering above the cold marble floor. Their movements were slow, hypnotic, as if they danced on the edge of time itself, trapped between worlds. Some of them had faces I almost recognized, their hollow eyes and twisted smiles stirring something buried deep within me. I felt a flicker of panic—had I seen them before? In the portraits that lined the halls, or perhaps in dreams that had slipped through my fingers like water?

And then there were the others—figures made of nothing but mist, swirling and formless, their identities stolen by the passage of countless years. They floated past me, one by one, their presence both chilling and magnetic, as though they had been waiting for this moment—waiting for me. Their pale, lifeless faces turned toward me in silent invitation, their empty eyes gleaming with something unspeakable, something that sent ice through my veins.

The room closed around me, the walls shrinking as the spirits tightened their circle, as if they were drawing me into their dance. My breath caught in my throat, the music pressing down on my chest, pulling me into the nightmarish waltz that had no end. They were waiting for me to join them—for me to lose myself in the endless spiral of death and desire to become one of them.

And in that moment, I feared I might.

As the spirits twisted and swayed around me, the air thick with their sorrowful presence, something deeper stirred. My breath caught, the suffocating music pressing down harder, each note a weight on my chest. The room felt as though it were closing in, the endless dance of the dead tightening around me, but then I saw him.

He stood at the very edge of the waltz, untouched by the swirling figures that drifted through the air. The spirits seemed to avoid him, their ghostly forms parting to create a circle of emptiness around where he stood. His eyes—dark, haunting, and impossibly deep—pierced through the gloom, locking onto mine. A sudden, violent shiver ran down my spine. He was beautiful, but not in a way that offered comfort. His beauty was sharp, unsettling, too perfect, like a sculpture chiseled from the deepest shadows of the night. His black hair framed a face that seemed carved from bone and shadow, his pale lips full but unmoving, never smiling. His eyes... they burned with an intensity that frightened me, a hunger trapped just beneath the surface, like a fire long denied its fuel, now desperate to consume.

He stood tall, towering over the ghostly figures that danced around us like forgotten memories. His coat, Victorian in style, was dark and frayed at the edges, the fabric heavy with the weight of centuries. It clung to him, accentuating the broadness of his shoulders, the way he carried himself like a fallen king—a man who had once ruled, now cursed to bear the remnants of his power like a chain. Each movement he made was deliberate, as though he were carrying a burden unseen but always present.

I should have been terrified, but as his gaze held me, I felt an odd pull, something familiar yet distant. His presence stirred something deep within me, something buried beneath layers of forgotten time, a memory that hovered just out of reach. I could feel it, tugging at the edges of my mind, a sense that I had known him before.

I watched as he stepped forward, his movements smooth, each one sending a ripple through the air around him. His hand extended toward me, elegant fingers pale against the dim light, cold as the void. An ornate silver ring adorned his finger, set with a blood-red stone that glinted like fresh blood in the moonlight. It looked ancient, cursed, as though it had seen a thousand lifetimes of misery. I should have hesitated. I should have turned away, recoiled from him, from the darkness that clung to him like a shadow that would never leave.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

There was something in his eyes, something that reached into the deepest parts of me and refused to let go. It was as if those eyes—those cold, hungry eyes—held a piece of my soul. Something mine.

I placed my trembling hand in his. His skin was icy, colder than death, and yet as soon as our hands touched, I felt a warmth bloom deep within me. It wasn’t the warmth of life but something older, darker—like the resurfacing of a memory that had long been buried. His grip tightened, steady and unyielding, as if he had waited lifetimes for this moment, for me.

Without a word, he began to lead me out of the ballroom. The music grew fainter, more distant, as the waltzing spirits parted before us, drifting like fog, their hollow, decayed faces turning toward us as we passed. Their eyes—empty, soulless—watched us, as if they too remembered this moment, as if they knew what fate had in store for me. The air grew colder with every step, a biting wind slipping through the cracks in the walls, whispering warnings I couldn’t understand.

Yet, even as the darkness closed in, as the weight of centuries pressed down on me, I couldn’t resist him. I followed him, my heart pounding, torn between fear and an undeniable, terrible sense of belonging. The shadows of the ballroom stretched behind us, and I knew, deep in my bones, that there was no turning back.

We stepped into the night, the air so cold it wrapped around my skin like a second layer of flesh. The sky was a blanket of black, devoid of stars, pressing down with an oppressive weight, as though it had swallowed the heavens whole. Beyond the palace walls, the gardens stretched out like a forgotten realm, wild and untamed, their once-manicured beauty swallowed by nature's relentless grip. The hedges had grown tall, their twisted branches clawing at the air, leaves sharp and brittle, whispering secrets in a language only the wind could understand. Each gust sent a shiver through the foliage, as if the garden itself was alive, rustling with the ghosts of forgotten lives. I could feel their cold touch, brushing my skin like unseen fingers, trailing up my arms as we moved deeper into the night.

The path beneath my feet had long since disappeared, overtaken by creeping vines that slithered across the ground like serpents, their thorns catching at my dress, pulling, as if trying to draw me deeper into the dark earth. The roses, once vibrant and full of life, were now withered, their petals black as coal, curling inward like secrets too painful to be spoken. As I passed them, I could almost hear the faintest whisper—fragile, like a dying breath—escaping from their wilting forms. They smelled of decay, their sweetness tainted by rot, a sickly fragrance that clung to the back of my throat, bitter and suffocating.

The air was thick with the weight of time, heavy with the scent of earth that had long since forgotten the warmth of the sun. It was damp, cold, each breath I took filling my lungs with the musty odor of soil and stone. Yet beneath the decay, beneath the creeping darkness, there was a beauty so tragic it was almost painful. The garden, even in its death, held onto the echoes of its former grandeur. I could feel it pulsing in the air around me, the sorrow of something once beloved, now left to wither into nothingness.

He led me deeper into the maze, the hedges growing taller and more oppressive with every step. They loomed above us, their branches twisting and tangling like skeletal hands reaching for the sky, their shadows stretching long and dark across the ground. The wind sighed through the leaves, carrying with it a chill that sank into my bones, sharp and biting, like the breath of something long dead. I could feel the cold seeping into my skin, numbing my fingertips, but his hand in mine remained steady, pulling me forward, keeping me grounded even as the garden seemed to close in around us.

We reached the center of the maze, a clearing bathed in the ghostly light of the moon, though no moon hung in the sky. The fountain stood before us, a relic of a forgotten era, its stone figures cracked and crumbling. Their faces, once intricately carved, had been worn smooth by time, their features now nothing more than faint outlines, as though their identities had been stolen by the passing centuries. Water no longer flowed from the fountain, the basin dry and cold, but the air was filled with the hollow sound of wind whistling through the cracks, like a distant, sorrowful song carried on the night.

The earth beneath my feet felt loose and unstable, as though it might give way at any moment, swallowing us whole into its dark depths. The silence pressed in, thick and heavy, broken only by the rustle of the wind and the distant, echoing whispers of something ancient, something buried deep within the garden. His hand tightened around mine, and for a moment, I felt the weight of eternity bearing down on us, the inescapable truth that we were standing in a place where time no longer held meaning, where the living had long since ceased to belong. The garden had become a tomb; we were the only living souls who dared to tread its forgotten paths.

He turned to me, slow and deliberate, like he was battling against an invisible weight, his body heavy with the grief of countless lifetimes. Shadows clung to his face, but his eyes—those dark, haunted eyes—never strayed from mine. They held a storm within them, a torment I could feel pulling me in, drowning me in the depth of his anguish. It wasn’t just sorrow; it was anger, seething beneath the surface, a rage trapped behind centuries of longing and despair. It was the fury of a love that had been stolen, again and again, by fate itself.

When he spoke, his voice trembled, strained with a need so raw it cut through the cold night like a blade. "We are cursed, you and I," he whispered, the words coming out ragged, edged with fury. His jaw tightened as if he were trying to swallow the bitterness, but it seeped through, his voice thick with an anger he could no longer hide. The words dripped with the torment of a love that had been dangled before him only to be ripped away, over and over, and I could hear the desperation, the fierce longing behind every syllable.

“In every life…” His voice cracked, trembling with need, his eyes flashing with something darker, something broken. There was a brief flicker of rage, a flash of what he’d lost, what he could never have. “…we find each other.” His voice shattered on the word find, his breath hitching, as if the very act of finding me was a wound that would never heal. His fists clenched, the anger in him pulsing beneath the surface, though it wasn’t directed at me—it was the fury of someone damned, trapped in a fate that denied him the one thing he could never possess.

His eyes bore into mine, a fire burning behind them that could never be extinguished, an inferno of need, of longing that had been left to fester for lifetimes. “Only to be torn apart.”

His voice cracked on the last words, but this time it was more than just sorrow—it was a bitter, helpless fury, the sound of someone on the edge, desperate to break free from a torment he had no power to end. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling with the force of the emotions that clawed their way out of him. He looked at me as though I were both salvation and damnation, the only thing he could ever need and the one thing he could never have.

The despair in his voice hung in the air like a curse, but beneath it, I could hear the anger, the desperate rage of a soul who had been denied for far too long. His hand tightened around mine, his grip firm, almost possessive, as though holding on to me could somehow keep me here, could somehow change what fate had already decided. But the fury in his eyes was mixed with something else—a longing so deep, so desperate, that it left him raw, trembling with the need to fulfill a love that had always been just out of reach.

And in that moment, I felt the weight of his curse, the rage, the longing, and the despair, all twisted together into a torment that could never be soothed.

His words sank into me like stones, heavy and unyielding. I knew them, felt their truth resonating deep within my soul, even before he spoke. Memories, long buried beneath the weight of despair, began to stir—vivid glimpses of lives we had lived before, moments stolen in the dark, always followed by the icy grip of fate pulling us apart. Each life we had cherished, each time it had ended in unbearable anguish.

I trembled, the chill of his presence mingling with the warmth of our shared past. “What did we do?” The question escaped me like a whispered prayer, laden with desperation.

His face was mere inches from mine now, the distance between us electric, his breath cold and tantalizing against my lips. “We defied the gods themselves,” he replied, the gravity of his words settling like a shroud over us.

In that moment, as I closed my eyes, I could see it—us, standing defiant before the heavens, daring to love where love was forbidden. The vivid tableau unfurled in my mind: our hands intertwined, hearts racing, as we challenged the cosmos, blissfully unaware of the storm we were summoning. I felt the weight of our sin, the enormity of the curse that followed—a punishment etched into the fabric of our very beings.

His hands cupped my face, his touch both a balm and a torment, sending shivers down my spine. It was as if he were trying to hold all the lost moments of our past, every heartbeat we had shared, within the delicate cradle of his palms. “I love you,” he whispered, the words strained and breaking, heavy with centuries of longing. “I have always loved you. And I always will.”

Tears stung my eyes, the truth of it suffocating me. “But it’s never enough,” I breathed, feeling the unbearable weight of our fate pressing in around us.

He leaned closer, his lips brushing against mine softly, as if terrified that even the gentlest touch might shatter the fragile connection between us. The kiss was a whisper of a promise, yet it felt like a farewell, a last attempt to grasp what had always eluded us. As our lips met, the world around us shifted, and a chill seeped into my bones, as if the earth itself had come alive with a hunger for our love.

Suddenly, dark hands reached up from the ground, grotesque and decayed, grasping at him with a desperate fury. They clawed at his ankles, rotting fingers intertwined with weeds and earth, pulling him downward into the cold, unyielding soil. I gasped, horror coursing through me as I felt him begin to be dragged into the darkness, the very ground reclaiming what it believed was its own.

“I’ll find you again!” I shouted, my voice breaking as I reached out, my fingers brushing against his, but the grip of the earth was relentless. His form shimmered, but now it felt more like a fading shadow, a wraith caught between this world and the next.

His eyes locked onto mine, filled with a desperate intensity, a fire flickering against the encroaching darkness. “Please... let go,” he whispered, the words dripping with sadness, a haunting resignation. It was a plea, a sorrowful attempt to free me from the burden of his inevitable fate. My heart ached at his request, the weight of it pressing down on me like a leaden shroud.

“Don’t say that!” I cried, feeling the cold bite of despair wrap around my heart. I could see the truth in his gaze, a painful acceptance that tore at my soul. The dark hands clawed at him, dragging him deeper, their rotting fingers clutching greedily, the sound of their grasping a sinister echo in the night.

“I love you!” I screamed, but it was swallowed by the void as the ground consumed him, pulling him down, down, into the cold embrace of the earth. His form flickered, the shadows closing in around him as he slipped further away, the air thickening with loss.

“Please… let go,” he repeated, his voice barely a whisper now, an echo of a heart breaking under the weight of eternity. Each word was a dagger, a desperate resignation, as the hands of the dead pulled him further into the depths.

With one last gasp, he slipped from my grasp, disappearing into the dark abyss, leaving me alone in the darkened garden. The air grew heavy with despair, the realization settling in like a weight on my chest: I was left with the bitter memory of a love that could never be fully grasped, the ache of what could have been pressing against my heart like a vice.

I was alone, and the garden whispered the tales of our doomed love, a reminder of the price we had paid for defying fate.

#writing community #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing #writers and poets

1 note · View note

xasha777 · 7 months ago

Text

In the year 2450, the remnants of Earth's civilizations had formed a new society, one where technology and tradition coexisted in a delicate balance. On the once-divided Korean Peninsula, now united under a single banner, the people celebrated National Foundation Day with fervor, honoring their rich history while embracing a futuristic ethos. This day was more than a commemoration; it was a bridge between the past and the future.

In the heart of New Seoul, a towering spire known as the Chrono Tower stood as a testament to the nation's advancement. At its pinnacle resided an enigmatic figure known only as the Keeper of Time. Her image was immortalized in a painting that hung in the Grand Hall of History—an ethereal woman with serene eyes, adorned in ancient garb, her hair styled in intricate coils that seemed to defy gravity. She was a symbol of timeless beauty and wisdom, embodying the convergence of past traditions and future possibilities.

As the city buzzed with the celebrations of National Foundation Day, an unexpected event unfolded. A temporal rift, a phenomenon thought to be purely theoretical, appeared in the sky above Chrono Tower. The air crackled with energy, and a series of bizarre anomalies began to manifest throughout the city. Clocks stopped, then ran backward. Holographic billboards displayed scenes from centuries past. People found themselves momentarily frozen in place or transported short distances instantaneously.

In the midst of this chaos, a young scientist named Dr. Min-Jae Kim was summoned to the Chrono Tower. Dr. Kim, an expert in quantum mechanics and temporal physics, had long studied the mysterious energies that occasionally rippled through their advanced society. With urgency, she climbed the spiraling staircase of the tower, her mind racing with possibilities and theories.

At the top, she was greeted by the Keeper of Time herself. Though she appeared as young as the painting depicted, her eyes held an ageless wisdom. "Dr. Kim, thank you for coming," she said in a voice that resonated with both authority and kindness. "The temporal rift you see is a consequence of our tampering with the fabric of time. It was inevitable, given our advancements."

Dr. Kim bowed respectfully. "Keeper, how can we stabilize the rift? Our city—our people—are in danger."

The Keeper motioned for Dr. Kim to follow her to a large, ornate device in the center of the room. It was an ancient artifact known as the Timekeeper's Core, a relic passed down through generations. "This device," the Keeper explained, "is the key to balancing the temporal energies. It has the power to weave time back into harmony, but it requires a precise alignment—a knowledge of both ancient rituals and modern science."

Dr. Kim examined the artifact, her analytical mind racing to decipher its complexities. "I understand," she said, a plan forming in her mind. "We must use the core in conjunction with our current technology. By synchronizing it with our quantum stabilizers, we can close the rift and restore balance."

With the Keeper's guidance, Dr. Kim worked tirelessly, integrating the ancient and the modern. As they initiated the procedure, the city below watched in awe. The temporal anomalies began to fade, the rift in the sky slowly mending. A wave of relief washed over the citizens as their world returned to normalcy.

When the process was complete, Dr. Kim and the Keeper of Time stood together, gazing out over New Seoul. "You have done well, Dr. Kim," the Keeper said. "Today, we have not only saved our city but also honored the legacy of our ancestors by embracing both their wisdom and our innovations."

Dr. Kim smiled, feeling a profound connection to her heritage and the future they were building. "Thank you, Keeper. It is an honor to serve our people and safeguard our history."

As the sun set on National Foundation Day, the people of New Seoul celebrated not just their past, but the promise of a future where the lessons of history and the advancements of tomorrow coexisted in harmony. And high in the Chrono Tower, the Keeper of Time watched over them, a guardian of their legacy and a beacon of their hope.

0 notes

clocksaroundthisworld · 6 years ago

Photo

Timeless Ancestor

Heidelberg, Germany

13 notes · View notes

namjoonchronicles · 4 years ago

Text

tumble | yg

↳ genre fluff, established relationship, slight smut at the end

↳ words 5k ↳ summary preparing for close friend’s wedding gifts is a given for young married couple. an unexpected encounter with an old flame led to an unwanted rekindled feelings but karma reminds you who your heart truly belongs to, because it’s all about the actions, not words. ↳ notes this i wrote during first week of university of my final year, trying to run away from responsibility. midway, my friend @hellotherehoneybee was having a difficult week at hers too, so i wrote this extra fluff for her, i hope she noticed. thank you for working so hard! (i wish someone would comment on the work i put on the banners of each of my stories, but nevermind) ↳ warning attempts of infidelity (not by you) ↳ song ‘happiness is a butterfly’ lana del rey

Nimble fingers punched the numbers on the passcode pad, just outside the door. Crumpled papers on the floor. Supreme skateboards stacked on the wall. Yoongi walked in, greeted by a line of guitars at the corner of his studio. His attention was on the phone, preferring to text over calling. His face was shone by the light from it. His feet kicked away the crumpled papers on the floor to get to his computer. There’s a frame of baby breath on his table next to his stationery. A picture of you next to his desktop. Bothered by the melody he endlessly replayed in his head, he plans to record the notes in digital form. He hasn’t decided which work of his he wanted them in, but any of it would be just fine. Today, he is expecting a guest that will contribute to the guide. Jimin springs in first, as usual.

“Why do you lock the door knowing that I’m coming?!” Jimin groaned outside the door. He is leaning against the frames, knocking repeatedly.

This is exactly why he had those locks put up. Several young producers lined up. Yoongi is teaching them how to make music. With a wry look and dry greetings, Yoongi invited them in and started the meeting. The project is rather simple. Yoongi has provided a raw sample to the aspiring producers who will try to make lyrics. These melodies are then sung by Jimin. Yoongi whipped out his sample from his computer and he will give exactly 30 minute for the producers to think of ways to make the music a song. The young producers wrote down notes given by Yoongi. They write and they erase. They wrote and erased. Write. Scratch. Write. Scratch.

Noticing this, Yoongi gave a soft smile. It reminded him of himself when he was just starting. The uncertainty, the overwhelming feeling of not knowing if the lyrics are good enough, or just plain dumb. As an underground rapper with social anxiety, he was afraid to be ridiculed the most, and he is pretty sure that these producers have the same fear. What he is about to say is nothing new. In fact, he advises it frequently in his lectures. Clearing his throat and with the aura of a seasoned lyricist, he said,

“Go with your gut feelings. Understand the feel of the sample and what you could derive from it. Let your mind run wild. First rule of writing music is that there are no rules.”

He emphasizes on creativity. Jimin was trying to write the lyrics too. He wanted to learn to write faster. “Jimin, your problem is that you’re a perfectionist…” Yoongi spat, ��Your mind goes haywire at the possibility of writing everything, you have no clear direction. That’s why it’s so hard. You select a theme, and you stay on it…”

“But Namjoon…” Jimin began.

“Namjoon is a genius. His diction is out of this world, and he has been writing lyrics for years. Don’t compare yourself to him or rather, learn with him rather than coming to me, uninvited,” Yoongi swivels in his chair as the three other producers hang their head low.

Jimin puckered his lips and muttered curses under his breath.

Yoongi reaches for the journal he kept by the book rack. When he opened them, a warranty card fell out. He crouches down to get them. It was from the phone you bought. He caught you buying a phone on an online store when he returns to the studio, earnestly picking a good one. You even asked him about these specs and technology terms you don’t know about. Some of it was written down as notes in this journal along with his own scribbles of song lyrics. You wanted to buy a phone for your mom and pretend that it was from your dad. Your mom always complains that your dad never gave her gifts and is reluctant to spend money on her. Yoongi didn’t need the extra information but you gave it to him anyway. Yoongi learnt from you that your mother had been using the same phone for a decade, and nothing can be updated anymore. And because your father isn’t doing anything about it but think about himself, you decide to buy your mom a good new phone. Saving your father’s face by pretending it was him who bought it.

You didn’t know this but, Yoongi fell in love with you once more.

That phone comes with a warranty card that is now made its home in his old journal. You know he wouldn’t throw any of his journals away.

Glancing at the digital clock on his shelf, he wondered, just how his favorite person in the world is doing…

Yoongi entertained questions from his students. Explaining the build up, the body, climax and ending. Sharing what is fun and what is not, in writing music. What’s cliché and what’s attention grabbing. But his explanation was cut halfway when his phone vibrated, and swiped his thumb over the caller ID and answered with a small, “Hello?”

Jimin and the students studied his face. At first, Yoongi seemed pretty laxed, and then he stood up, abruptly. Instantly and visibly tensed.

“Where are you?” Pause, “Okay, stay right there, I’ll be right over…” He grabs his coat from the hanger and his tongue glides along his drying lips upon ending the seemingly urgent call. He appears distressed but it is masked by his calm exterior.

“Is something the matter, hyung?” Jimin asked. “I have to leave, I am sorry because I have to cut the classes short. Make sure you email me the verses by noon tomorrow. I will deduct marks for late submissions…” Yoongi said in one breath and yanked the door open, had them leave the studio at once and locked them.

Namjoon was standing outside the hall, watching Yoongi as he trudges through. The older one was putting on his jacket albeit roughly and as quickly as he could. Namjoon couldn’t even get a proper greeting in return. It seems Yoongi is troubled by something.

Troubled by something is indeed accurate.

A few hours ago.

You thought you made a great choice. It’s what you wanted when it was your wedding, and you’re sure that Jungkook would like it too. Knowing just how obsessed he is with having everything the same color code, the sapphire blue kohiki plates would have fit in right into his kitchen like it’s one of the built-in. Yoongi always thought that Jungkook’s gifts are the hardest to choose because he is picky, but also not very picky. He has specified interest but also not very specified. You know more than anything that Jungkook is neither of those things. Ever since you knew the boy, he had always been grateful for any gifts he was given. It didn’t matter how expensive or how rare, it’s the thought that counts. Many years ago, Jungkook came to your house, when you and Yoongi were still dating, and he frequently used the kohiki bowls you have. He said he liked it. That's how you came to decide that his wedding gift would be just that. For his wife, you don’t really know her well, but you had Yoongi book a Swarovski perfume after recognizing that she frequently carries the fun sized bottle around when she’s out.

“Would you like to also see the latest collection of our Kohiki plates, Mdm. Min?” the salesperson politely addresses you and you thought that simply looking wouldn’t hurt. You after all had time to kill today.

Your hands glide over the impressive finishing of the white kohiki plates, truly in awe of the time and the craftsmanship involved in making this. They came in many sizes and as you narrowed down to the end of the gallery, you recognized a collection so similar with the one at home. You turned to the salesperson with a beaming smile, almost child-like. The man bowed at you and explained to you how this particular collection was especially sought after and high in demand, they decided to keep it in collection. Yoongi’s personal family collection had been imitated countless times in the past centuries, they eventually trademarked the design to be named, Empire Min’s timeless collection. It had served countless royalties in the whole world and the tableware was of grand prestige. Sometimes, it dawns over you that you married quite an incredible man with a lineage of such esteem, comparable to those of aristocracy.

Min Yoongi’s family may have stranded far from the royals now, but the traces are there. His delectable face, porcelain skin and honey-succulent voice, are as good as a blue bloods’. His family registrar was kept in the national museum and you had a glimpse of it during Chuseok every year, where they pay homage to his ancestors and it’s quite unbelievable that something from centuries ago was still available today. You didn’t ask a lot about how his family branched off the King, but you do know that the surname Min belonged to four most important Queens in the Joseon dynasty. Is that where his beauty originates from?

You smiled to yourself as you saw his signature underneath the gallery as the last few descendants of the Queen.

“The gifts are wrapped up, we will have it shipped personally to Mr. Jeon Jungkook as per addressed…” the salesman ensured you with an assuring voice.

Kohiki plates aren’t cheap to say the least. But Min Yoongi doesn’t like you worrying about it. Much less, he’d rather have you spend his hard-earned money because he doesn’t always know what you like. One last thing, a visit to the gallery with your trustee art enthusiast, Kim Namjoon.

He stride over as he ended the call. He looks everly dashing in those turtlenecks and grey blazer. His pectorals and buff body looks great in it. He wore those glasses that made him look like he was a postdoctoral student. Only he isn’t. He shoves his phone into his breast-pocket and his face shifted from a serious one to a cheeky expression. He presented his arm for you to take and embraced in a small talk with you.

“You just ended your lecture?” you asked him. “It took a little longer than planned, sorry about that…” he chuckles, handsomely.

“This gallery better be lit…” “You won’t be sorry. I promise.”

Namjoon guides you into an exhibition, guarded by several men in black suits and ear-pieces. The whole way there, you realized that there was no one around. It is only given, because Namjoon owns it. It seems he had it shut down for the day, because the most important painting is arriving from Versailles, and he wants nobody to have a look on it. Except you, of course. And it’s easier to do painting shopping without people hustling in and out trying to catch a glimpse of the ‘Kim Namjoon’. Namjoon talked to you about the randomness of things as he introduces to you his favorite works. He was talking about his sudden trip to Paris and how he regrets it, then talking about a wrong purchase and the books he is currently reading. All in a quiet voice, the kind you give to your lovers.

But you know that’s just Namjoon being flirtatious like it’s his second name.

Suddenly, you stopped in your tracks. This section of the gallery feels like it’s cut off from the rest. It has been endless modern art since the entrance until a few paintings back. This one felt like it was Rome or the Renaissance. The sculptures and dramatic scenes, the skin tones and flesh, it was a whole other world. You turned to Namjoon, questioning him with your eyes. You know him well enough to know that he doesn’t like this type of art.

“I had a change of heart… while trying to understand yours,” he confessed. And it sounded strange because he let those words glide out as if he had no control over it. He stepped back, pressed his lips together for saying more than he thought necessary, dropped his shoulder and turned to the art he loved.

“I understand it now,” he added, speaking to the frames, “Why do you like them so much… There’s so many stories to tell from each of these characters…”

You remember explaining to him about eyes in realistic paintings. How you wonder what they’ve seen, and what they have experienced. These endless thoughts usually trouble Namjoon, up to when he was about to sleep. You look beyond the surface of this painting and put feelings in them. That’s when he realized that emotions can be painted. Namjoon owed it to you, to having understood himself. And as he explained just how your art classes changed his perspective in life, he introduced to you the painting he thinks fit Jungkook the most. When you saw this painting unveiled before your eyes, you couldn’t agree more. It would look best in his spacious living room. Namjoon watched you as you signed the insurance paper to deliver the artwork. Watching you from afar like this felt foreign. With the history you both had, who would have thought that he would spend his life dreading the future he could have had with you.

It is all too late now.

The ring around your finger isn’t his. Maybe it’s for the better. He couldn’t have cared for you better than Yoongi does.

The most difficult thing about this relationship is, getting stuck between caring too much, and not caring at all.

“So you’ll deliver them to Jungkook’s house soon?” your eyes darted up at him as he approached the table.

“Leave it to me…” he said with a broad smile and dire confidence from a seasoned seller. A billion dollar man like him, could get away with anything with that smile.

Namjoon hooks his finger around the flaps of the door handle of your car and watches you climb in. Winding the window down, he rests his elbows and fixes his eyes on you, a coy smile on his pretty lips. You darted at him a look. A look you’d give to your malice doing little brother to warn him.

“Go on dates, go meet people, Namjoon… How long will you live this way?” “How would you know I’m not meeting people?” “You stacked books in my online bookstore, and still use my Netflix account to watch movies…” “Books and movies are better companions.”

You looked at him through your lashes and in those particular moments of silence, glances were exchanged and feeling somehow attempted to rekindle, however, before it could, you looked away.

“I’m going to Yoongi’s office, I’ll tell him you said hi…” “But I didn’t…” “Goodbye, Namjoon.”

The white Mazda CX-3 glides away, seamlessly. Stopped at the junction, and entered the main road. All these while, Namjoon kept watching. And it seems like, all his life, he had been watching. Because that was all what he was courageous enough to do.

“‘She loved him too early, and he loved her too late…” Namjoon muttered to himself.

At the junctions, your car pulls to a stop as the traffic light turns red. The building you were in were kilometers away but the scent of Namjoon’s body lotion hasn’t left. You always refrain from reading too much anything Namjoon does because you’re not who you were anymore. Your loyalty is with Min Yoongi now and it should be. Rather than feeling like you used to feel for Namjoon, it actually narrows more to pity. Namjoon had it all. He had your endless support, you had been his emotional anchor, and he had taken you for granted for many years. Eventually, you pick up your worth and search within yourself what you’ve given him. What you found out when you peel yourself away from everything that is Namjoon, is the fact that he had given you nothing but his concerns. There was no give and take. All he does is take.

Finding yourself, led you to finding Yoongi.

Yoongi was nothing easy to have. So it daunts you that difficult men might have been your type. Yoongi is rash and dry on his best day and even more harsh and unapologetic than anyone you have ever met. It came to a point where you exploded, thinking that even as life swallowed you whole and his arms was the only thing that could save you, you’d rather be swallowed whole. When Yoongi heard such a damning insult to his being, he got even. As harsh as Yoongi appears to be, he was a softie right under the flesh. Under his blank expression and inattentive eyes, he is all soul and bones. The more you know him, the more you realize that you both are strikingly alike. From the way you solve problems to the way he speaks, you both are a lot more common than you are different.

He is so intelligent and witty and blunt. You can ask him about literally anything and he always has an opinion about it. Because of his wide arrays of interest, you can never run out of topics to talk about. He is a great fun, and always adventurous although he prefers to whine about it at first. He said he hates camping but when you forced him to come with you, he looked like he has been camping his whole life. Lit the bonfire within seconds, adapted the forest life and just casually calm. The kind of calmness you hadn’t felt in awhile, you felt in Yoongi’s presence. Camping nights are always so romantic with him playing the guitars and you requesting songs you know he doesn’t know. There will be crinkles around his eyes before he looks down, embarrassed for not knowing that song. Once you give him a listen, he could play by ear.

He is adorable when he is confused or terribly tired. One night, he asked if you would come over his studio’s rooftop to spend time together. He spoke two sentences and fell asleep while you were talking. He unknowingly leaned his head on your shoulder as he dozes off. You brushed his hair away and thumbed his cheeks. His lips pouting cutely as he slept. You sat awfully still for hours, hours that he is still paying off with himself. To this day. It is astonishing how he could look like the cutest little kitty and also looked like he could swallow you whole.

His dangly multi earrings, gorgeous eyes and veiny arms, his multifaceted talents are as endless as his sweet words. Yoongi could make you feel heard without you saying a word.

The pedal planted to the ground, screeching tires and loud crashes. The windows on the driver side shattered and the airbag deployed. Loud ringing in your head as you try to gather your thoughts. What’s happened? You drove ahead a little more, because if you didn’t the road would have been congested. You pressed the hazard light on and parked on the side of the road to avoid other cars.

Hooking your fingers around the car handle, the door was pushed open. The car that collided with you stopped behind you. Your Mazda could continue driving but you don’t want to risk it because the shell of the tire was a little dented. The sharp ends were grazing your tire if you continued. The driver whose car you collided with was eerily quiet but he kept staring at an interval. You gathered your purse and fished for your phone.

“Please don’t get mad…” you huffed, “I got into an accident…” The back of your wrist on your forehead as you looked around in worry.

“I am at a round-a-about pass on Samsung Building 77 street… I’ll send the location,” you breathed, oddly a little calmer than he expected you to be. It all happens too quickly. You weren’t sure who was in the wrong. The last thing you remember was using the signal stick to turn to the right and the car on the right wanted to head to the left, surreptitiously ignoring the signal you gave. It seemed ages for Yoongi to get there, but when he did, he parked a little further and got off the car, jogging to where you are. Your eyes stung and got watery as he came to get you. You were so grateful that he wasn’t angry and in fact, just wanted to know where you were so he could be where you are. He held onto your hand as he went to inspect the car and its damages.

“What are you going to do with my headlight?” the owner of the other car came over, uninvited. Yoongi instinctively pulls you behind him at the forwardness of this man.

“Take it easy, let’s check the dashcam to see who was actually in the wrong, let’s take this to the police station…”

“What police station, it is more than obvious that she was driving recklessly and not paying attention!” The man tried to go over Yoongi to get to you but Yoongi held his palm outward at this rude man.

“Like I said, we will take this to the police station and they’ll decide who is in the wrong and needs to pay for the damages…” Yoongi once again marched against this man and stared dead into his eyes while dialing on his phone. He placed his phone on his ear and continued to warn the man with his body language.

“The insurance company? Yes, I have a car you need to tow. We’re along Samsung 77th Street by the roundabout, how long will you take to get here? 10 minutes, okay…” Yoongi spoke on the phone. You held onto Yoongi’s arm tighter. One hand in his tight grip, the other clawing on his sleeves, slightly below his elbow. Your eyes unfocused. You were biting your lips. Chewing on them.

Yoongi climbed into his car after you. Pressed the car engine on and thumbed your knee. You weren’t as calm now.

“What if it is actually my fault? What if I was the one driving foolishly…?” You stuttered.

“We will let the police decide okay? We hadn’t even seen the footage from the dash cam yet, he could just be manipulating you to think that you were in the wrong, just by the look on his face I know he’s the type to drive like a drunkard and blame people for his mistakes…” Yoongi’s large palm covered your entire knee.

“You want jellies?” he tries to console you. “What about the car?” you looked over the car seat to the view of your stranded Mazda.

“The insurance company will have it towed, don’t worry… It’ll be okay,” he smiles and chuckles lightly, “This isn’t a big deal, accidents happen all the time, honey.”

The car pulled to a stop at the red traffic light, and he extended his arm to gather your hand to kiss your knuckles. You looked at him with watery eyes, full of guilt and despair and you said to him in broken voice,

“I’m so s-sorry… I’ve troubled you,” you bursted into tears, “I just went out to get gifts for Jungkook’s wedding and it all happened so fast…” Yoongi gathered your head in one hand, pulling your face into his nape. He plants kisses on your head and fondly smiles against your hair. . . . .

The police decided to hold the man accountable. He was clearly changing lanes without signals, and he was also ignoring your obvious signals. Not only was he driving past the speed limit at a roundabout in broad daylight, he had the audacity to shift the blames towards you. The dash cam was proof that he was a reckless driver so he had his driving license suspended and he had to pay for damages you faced. Yoongi laced his fingers into the gaps of yours as he turned around from the man. Yoongi smiled smugly and took you out of the police station. With the reports done and you were acquitted from any traffic misconduct, the car insurance company will cater to all the repairing. Yoongi will have to drive you everywhere for now but it wasn’t something he minds doing.

You let go of his hand and proceed to walk to the car, hugging yourself while he watches you from behind. Your steps weren’t hurried, rather they were a bit slow but for some reason you thought it was far better to not hold him. In your head, you are still scolding yourself and knowing you as far as he did, he understood it. He climbs into the car, avoiding eye contact as his index finger sunk into the engine button. You were dazed, looking out the window at everything on the outside. Noticing this, Yoongi stops by your favorite mall. He said he wanted to get some tools and appliances for the sink at home. Every three months, Yoongi would have the sink maintained by pouring cleaning liquid and have it stay there overnight so it won’t clog anytime soon. Usually, when this happens, he would buy dinners outside and take you out for breakfast the next morning.

Both of you once experienced the sink clogging before, and the whole kitchen was flooded with foul-smelling liquid. To make matters worse, Yoongi was away for business in Tokyo, and you had to handle them alone. Some plumbers walked in to help, and even if Yoongi was grateful for their help, he would rather his house be under his maintenance. That's why he keeps a schedule for every heavy duty appliance in the house. This is to avoid unnecessary over spending and inviting unnecessary people inside the house. He has a yearly check for the washing machine, the refrigerator, the electric stove, the air-conditioners and the oven. He is always making sure that everything is safe for you to use.

With the car parked so swiftly, Yoongi joins you in the mall's lobby. There aren’t many people around since it’s weekdays. And as if you remembered that you needed a conversation, you jerked your head up and to the side, at your husband.

“Oh right! You have a class today?” “Sent them home early with an assignment to mark later…”

He pauses, momentarily. Lifting his left wrist for the time, he yanked his sleeve up. He then, out of a sudden let out a sigh,

“Should we have dinner here or…” his voice drawls, “I plan to start on the sink right away when we get home…” “That sounds great, I don’t feel like cooking…”

You lifted your eyes at the elevator door opening before you. Yoongi lets you step in first. You move to the back of the elevator at the corner, by habit and Yoongi joins you. He could see from your face that the accident hadn’t left your mind. So when the elevator arrived at the second floor, instead of the fourth where the hardware stores were, he took your hand and walked out. You didn’t question him right away but you thought it was odd.

“Ice-cream…” he beamed at you.

He ordered your favorite. Waffles, drizzled with chocolate syrup and some fruits. Then you talked about Jungkook’s wedding gifts and plans on that day. He asked you about the venues since you were the one that booked them. You excitedly say that it was in great shape. The venue was a garden, it has this magnificent backdrop of a man-made lake and Jungkook’s fiancé loved the idea of exchanging vows at the view. However, your smile swept away when you spoke about the wedding dress.

“Why?” Yoongi spoke softly. “Because she seemed conflicted to follow what her friends’ recommended instead of what she truly wanted. She texted me yesterday, saying that she hated her wedding dress,” your shoulders dropped. “Why did she hate them?” “Her friends basically forced her to get this dress from a designer they know. From what I heard he was pretty famous, but she originally wanted her old classmate to make one for her. So now she regrets it, because the dress was not her style,” you sighed yet again.

Yoongi looked at you through his bangs and a small smile formed in the corner of his lips. Always taking in other peoples’ problems as your own, always thinking of others and always solving other people’s problems like your own. Yoongi could feel how devastated you were to hear that story first hand, and he is certain, as you were scooping those waffles into your mouth, you are thinking of ways to fix it. Typical. When you make a folded taco, you would take the ugliest one so he could have the prettier sets. When you buy medical supplies, you always make two purchases, one for him. The bigger portion of cake is for him, the larger piece, the better half. Even when you ate something you think is tasty, you would buy one for him at home.

In one ways or another, you are constantly thinking of him. It gives him butterflies. How lucky was he to be able to find you. How can someone look past such a genuinely beautiful person. Inside and out. Whose love is this true and this devoted. Only a dire fool, that is.

From the ways you love him, he is most certain that you haven't changed any part of you.

“Oh!” you exclaimed, “I bought you something… I saw this at the bookstore, it's a moon and star water globe and I thought it would look good on your studio desk…” You rummaged your bag for the item while your husband sat there, staring at you with a fond smile. Literally, a woman’s bag is a wonder. There’s all kinds of things in there. Receipts from 5 years ago, set of cutleries for travelling, hand sanitizer, tissues, a notepad, a glue gun and candies. Coins.

He picks the old receipts up between his index finger and middle finger.

“Why do you keep these things?” he chuckles. You looked over at him and snatched them.

“Are you worried that a cop may come and ask you, where were you, four years ago at 2:53 pm so you can whip out that receipt from your back and be like, ‘I was at the Hunts Restaurant sir, I had a bento and tea. I have receipts to prove it?’ For your alibi?”

“I might…” you dashed. Half of your head disappeared into the bag, still looking for the globe.

Yoongi picks up Band-Aids, some unopened menstrual pads and coupons from your favorite pizza place that expired four months ago.

“Honestly…” he comments.

“Aha!” You exclaimed, “The globe…”

The globe, like its name, has moon and stars on it. His nimble fingers examined it, closely. You were so expectant of what he’ll say.

“It’s pretty…” he said. “Isn’t it…” you gushed.

You return them into your bag because Yoongi don’t have one. Once again, you reminded him to put them on his table later on. He assures you he will, he even kept it in the car’s dashboard, so that when he returns to the office, he’ll make sure to take it with him. On the ride back home, you fell asleep. He made sure that he went over the bumps on the road gently, making his turns like a grandma on the wheel. He parked the car and waited. Fishing out his phone and he took pictures of you sleeping. He scrolls down messages from work, check on items he bought online, read a few emails...

Then you inhaled sharply, awake. Stretching your fingers.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” you mewled sleepily. “Based on experience, you take 10-15 minutes to wake up when the car stops... “ he nonchalantly passed. You smiled at his bluntness. He endured 10-15 minutes of silence with his sleeping wife despite the turmoil he went through today. You couldn’t have married a better man. Even if there was a better man out there, if it isn’t Yoongi, you don’t want him.

Yoongi wasn’t lying when he said he wants to work on the sink immediately. You held the torch while he examined the sink. He wants to change the tap and clean the drainage hole. While he was struggling under the counter, you can’t help thinking that you were so fortunate. From how he handles things, to how he comforted you in times of need, to how he is made of husband material, you are certain, that God made this one, especially for you.

When he rolled out from underneath the sink, he caught you daydreaming. And he threw a sheepish smile at you. His thin white shirt is now drenched with spots of sweats on his chest and along his back. And he snarkily say,

“Wanna shower?”

You bit your lips at his remarks, playing coy at his forwardness. When in all honesty, you were down for it. And all the showers you will have in the future. . . .

Deep in you, knees dug into the mattress, between your thighs. His veiny arms gripping hard on the bed sheet. The sounds of heavy paintings, squelching cascaded in the room. He hovers sloppy kisses along your jaws like he was possessed and he said in his husky voice,

“That guy Namjoon… don’t feel right…” “I’ve been meaning to…” hisses in the delectable pain, “Talk about him…”

You propped your elbows up, leaning against it, brushing sweaty skin with Yoongi, you spoke is rasps,

“He said some strange things, so I am going to… delete him.”

Yoongi bit his smile, his porcelain skin glistening with the sweat that drenched him. His hand glides down your torso, with touches so hungry and starved kisses. He drew out a long deep moan, dove his face into your neck, chanted your name like a mantra--like a man standing on the verge of sanity, licking on the taste of infinity. .

137 notes · View notes

randomandrelaxing · 4 years ago

Text

So many sounds

youtube

From the middle of England, this is the voice of random and relaxing ASMR

Well, hello everybody. I wanted to start a series where I could catch up informally. Something that was a bit more spontaneous than the formal content on this channel and where I could express myself without worrying about how that was presented, or whether it needed anything special to embellish it.

I also wanted somewhere that I could quickly record and publish content, and not worry about sound levels and even sound quality. So you will have noticed that this is a little more lo-fi than my normal content, but I hope you can hear me okay and that the sound quality isn’t a turn-off.

I think there is beauty in all sorts of sound – after all, we wouldn’t be fans of ASMR if there wasn’t a fascination of sorts for us with what we can hear and how that makes us feel.

Of course conceptually, we are animals, and our hearing is part of how we understand the world, and in particular nature. For our distant ancestors back at the start of civilisation, there was nothing but nature to listen to, and in the many years since then our tribes and families and societies have moved around the planet, altering the natural world around us and building settlements and communities and towns and cities. For hundreds of years now we humans have spent much of our lives indoors, away from nature, and now more than ever since the pandemic we have even spent time away from each other.

So what we hear today and nearly every day are the sounds of technology, and progress and modernity, and many of us have to travel to seek the sounds of nature and the planet in their raw and unhindered form. For those of us in houses in cities and towns we are surrounded by noises of the modern world, the sounds of machines designed to make our lives easier. Ticking clocks, humming lights, televisions, radios and traffic in the streets, seas and skies.

Of course it’s often not difficult even for a city dweller to find a green space where the timeless sounds of nature that our ancestors might have experienced can still be heard – the crunching of dead leaves underfoot, or the sound of birds in the trees or water running nearby.

But in our homes we also have the sounds of packaged foods, of doors opening and handles clicking. The sounds of taps running and toilets flushing, of creaking floorboards and feet on deep carpets. Even the clothes we wear and the bedding we sleep in all make sounds. All those sounds are all around us, even before we consider the sounds we choose to listen to – the chatter of the radio announcer or the melodies of our favourite music. The sounds of our friends and family on the telephone or...and it sounds so futuristic still...coming through a video chat app on our phones. The smorgasbord of incidental music and noises and dialogue in the entertainment on our televisions, and of course if we live with others, the voices of other humans and the even the sounds of pets.

Add into this the sounds of work and play – tapping keyboards, machinery, commerce, travel – how is it that amongst the cacophony we can tune out and manage to still consider our own thoughts (which so often take the form of an internal voice – another sound which we don’t even hear)?

So much sound, and so much noise. And if you have got this far, you are still listening to me, talking to you from the middle of England and reaching out via the ones and zeroes of the internet.

Of course I get to know that I am not just talking to myself if you comment on the things I post, or you click the like or thumbs up buttons. I really appreciate it when you do. If you’ve never reached out before or haven’t been sure of what to say, I have a question for you – like I mentioned, I am speaking to you now from the middle of England. Whereabouts are you? Leave me a comment and let me know, because I would love to know.

Until the next time, take care and bye for now.

#sounds #vlog #blog #podcast #audio #chat #chitchat #rambling on

1 note · View note

anettrolikova · 4 years ago

Text

Digital databases are unparalleled memory machines that have radically transformed how information and stories flow between grandparents and children, students and teachers, politicians and voters, journalists and citizens.

Digital media serves up an inhumanly large corpus of data that becomes raw material for new subcultures, ideologies, and alternative histories. In today’s chaotic media environment, not even a global pandemic.

IN THE 19TH AND 20TH CENTURIES, innovations like the telegraph, time zones, radio, and television led to new patterns of mass connectivity and synchronization. Time was subdivided into smaller and smaller units, allowing us to achieve unprecedented levels of coordination at scale.

We had grid-synchronized electric clock time, which was an important move because we went from producing time in clock towers and sun dials to producing time in a central location and distributing it via a grid, so that it was piped into your home like water or electricity. By the 1940s, we were distributing time over the oceans. By the 1980s, we had GPS … This trend has come to its logical conclusion because we all live inside a cage of time made up of 32 satellites orbiting Earth.”

Having trouble with the flow of time? Maybe it’s not just the pandemic. Maybe it's because we live in the Database and in the Database ordinary time is irrelevant.

Before the invention of the telegraph, there was no way to instantaneously synchronize timekeeping devices across long distances. No time zones, no universal standard against which clock towers could be evaluated for accuracy. Timekeeping was more an art than a science.

With nearly all of recorded history at their fingertips, they can cherry-pick interesting scraps of information from the archives and construct new grand narratives with unprecedented ease. And so, digital media has enabled a wave of “deepwater drilling” for obscure texts and long-forgotten histories — fueling an explosion of new political coalitions that bear little resemblance to the party lines of the last century.

If you were a kid looking to get into politics then, you couldn’t find these incredibly fine-grained sub-groupings to become part of and then start meme-ing yourself into a community with.

These memes are extremely dense cultural talismans that accumulate layers and layers of meaning/allusion over time. Like the jargon of academia, memes look like nonsense to outsiders but facilitate deep communication between members of a subculture.

The “gravity” or “current” of social media algorithms pulls people into orbit around ideological sub-groups. Algorithms are the riverbed, and users are the water.

In the early days of the internet, the Web’s surface was relatively smooth and its “gravitational force” was weak. You could random walk without getting sucked into any black holes. During the 2010s, social media platforms “dug into the Web surface, dragging activities down their slopes … As a result of this magnetic-like attraction, caused by the web slope, Internet users slowly slide down the slope in a digital drift.

People who spend a lot of time exploring these subcultures feel like they can see into the future, and for good reason. What happens online often shows up in the headlines weeks, months, or even years later.

Online conversations and mainstream newspapers/TV reveals that 20th century institutions no longer set the pace. They're getting sucked into the subjective time zones of internet subcultures.

As the line between “internet culture” and “Culture” gets increasingly blurry, Old Media gets increasingly confused. Online tribes are basically proto-political coalitions, sprouting in the graveyard of America’s zombiefied corporate media. This is, of course, a huge gravitational shift in the landscape of power.

The conflict between old and new media is in many ways a dispute over who gets to control the “clocks” we live by; who gets to set the pace; who gets access to the technologies that make it easy to synchronize (or de-synchronize) large groups people.

The conversations of internet subcultures often feel substantive and expansive compared to the shallow discourse of presidential debates, op-ed pages, and cable TV shows. Mainstream news cycles rarely last more than a few hours, and their narratives are constantly shifting.

Media and internet subcultures are getting increasingly out of sync, despite attempts by the former to get out ahead of the latter. And the clocks and narratives of 20th century institutions lose influence in a media environment where everyday people can have the kind of reach that was once reserved for elites.

The explosion of alternative histories hasn’t just eroded the influence of 20th century media institutions, it’s also damaged our ability to build collective futures. We’re lost in the garden of forking memes, and the idea of linear progress along a single historical time line seems like a quaint artifact from a much simpler era.

If we want to make sense of how we got here, we have to understand how the vast archive of the internet disrupted the feedback loop between memory & imagination.

Memory is the link between past and future; it allows us to learn from our previous experiences and extend our “narrative runways” beyond the immediate present.

The history of utopias is the history of rear-view mirrors. Every utopia is a picture of the preceding age.”If your memory gets scrambled, your ability to envision a coherent future is severely hampered. When the past feels slippery or shifty, you lose the “footholds” that give you the stability to think a day or even a few hours ahead at a time.

The “perfect memory” of digital media has given rise to a kind of collective dementia that is scrambling our shared memories and messing with our shared imaginations/simulations of the future. The graveyard of data at our fingertips is not really memory as we’ve known it, and it’s not really history — it’s something new and chaotic, something eerily trans-human. The internet is like a time machine that’s bringing back the ghosts of our ancestors.

"We live in post-history in the sense that all pasts that ever were are now present to our consciousness and all futures that will be are here now. In that sense, we are post-history and timeless. Instant awareness of the varieties of human expression re-constitutes the mythic type of consciousness, of once-upon-a-time-ness, which means all-time, out of time."- Marshall McLuhan

The line between present and past is getting increasingly blurry now that we all carry around a miniature Library of Alexandria in our pockets. We can’t agree on where we’re headed because we can’t agree on when we are.

As Ezra Klein noted, there are already so many time travelers that the cultural and political landscape has been permanently transformed. We’ve stirred up old ghosts at Silicon Valley scale and find ourselves re-enacting age-old conflicts along age-old fault lines.

Before television and computers, information about the past felt more inert and static — sometimes literally set in stone. In the digital media environment, history is constantly being re-animated, re-mixed, and re-heated in the extremely molten medium of software.

Digital media has done away with the very thing that created our sense of history: imperfect memory. The process of creating a historical narrative (or any story, for that matter) involves discarding an enormous amount of information. It’s like chipping away at a big block of marble until you’re left with a captivating statue. Forgetting is a feature, not a bug.

Our memories evolved to surface emotions, stories, and information from the past that might help us survive. We don’t have complete control over what we remember and when — there’s a subconscious system that “finds” old memories and “projects” them onto our mind’s eye.

History ends not when the stream of apparently historic events ends,” writes Venkatesh Rao, “but when the world loses a sense of a continuing narrative, and arrives at what psychologists call narrative foreclosure” — a hollowing out of the collective imagination, a sense of the future being cancelled. The ghosts of yesteryear float around the Cloud, hoping we’ll continue to embody their trauma, fight their battles, and live out their dreams and memes.

Back then, television was promoted as “essentially live, as offering a direct connection to an unfolding reality ‘out there. But the multiversal collideorscope of digital media has made us hyper-aware that television does not really broadcast an un-edited view of reality straight into your living room. There’s always a producer and a camera and a frame and a cutting room floor, all of which determine what and how you see.

Just as the early viewers of television sometimes forgot that they weren’t seeing an un-mediated stream of Reality, us early users of digital media sometimes forget that social media algorithms are not showing us the world as it is. A recommendation algo is a “frame” that can be hacked, gamed, and messed with. More than anything, it’s a funhouse mirror that reflects back a warped image of whatever you hold up to it.

We’re transitioning from a world of linear narratives and time lines to a garden of forking memes that we’re free to explore and tend to. The gardening games with the richest soil, the deepest roots, and the most interesting characters will attract the most people.

But if we continue to crop the earth (and the ecological crisis) out of the frame, we’ll soon cut off the very branch we’re sitting on. Without sustainable infrastructure, the digital garden will decay and disappear.

In the past, our timekeeping systems were synchronized with the systems of the earth.

Digital media has warped our subjective sense of time and thrown us into a state of atemporal confusion. Aside from surface-level features like “dark mode,” digital temporality is blind to the natural cycles that shaped us and continue to sustain us.

Our earliest timekeeping devices linked us to the stars and the sun and the moon. Our digital time machines link us to an infinite supply of data and a multiverse of “subjective time zones” that are increasingly out of sync with the old, natural clocks.

Conventional calendars and time lines seem awfully out of date now that we are lost in a multi-temporal garden of forking memes. This dissonance between felt time and measured time gets more confusing by the day, and it’s beginning to feel unsustainable. - Kei Kreutler

1 note · View note

youremyonlyhope · 5 years ago

Text

Ascension of the Cyberman

Saw a slight spoiler because Doctor Who posted the trailer for next week’s episode on YouTube already, and it was a suggested video on my homepage. All I saw was the thumbnail, and it was something I already expected. So it could have been worse. It just sucks that they didn’t wait until after it aired in America to change the thumbnail to the spoiler.

OOOOHHHHH THAT WAS SO COOL. THAT TRANSITION INTO THE OPENING SEQUENCE. I LOVE IT. Also, “hands of a believer” concerns me. This is starting out way too sweet and adorable. I am concerned. Very concerned. This nurse that we caught one little glimpse of also looks familiar... Only 7 humans left!?!?!?!??!! “We’re not soldiers.” See but that’s better since the Doctor hates soldiers. Oh god if any of the fam die in this moment I will kill Chibnall. WHOOSHING??? A TARDIS? Nope not a Tardis. Cyberman heads. Cyberdrones apparently. Welp. Now I just miss Handles. Ok so that’s at least one of the last 7 humans is dead... I think I saw 2 dead bodies though. Oh poor Doctor. No Ryan no don’t get separated. Is this a Tardis??? Ok no it’s flying with an engine so no. Ethan no! No Feekat (who’s name I had forgotten and had to look up later)! “That makes it trickier. Unless you’re me, which I am.” Amazing. I love the Doctor. The dad’s jawline looks like the Lone Cyberman’s... I thought that at the beginning when he first showed up too... and I guess they’re trying to make us think Brendan’s becoming the Cyberman... but Pat’s jawline is much more similar... I do not trust him because of that jawline... Random place in the universe? Welp. Yaz and Graham will be lost forever or at least for a long time while the Doctor searches for them. Nah dude, you were definitely discarded. AKA the opposite of chosen. Yeah ok all of that was very concerning. Nope. Did not need those Owen Harper flashbacks. Never ever say “No, you don’t want to shoot.” in a show that Chibnall is showrunner of (or acting showrunner for Torchwood). You will be shot. UH OH. UH OH. UHHHHHHHH OHHHHHHHHH. BRENDAN’S ALIVE. WHAT THE HELL. IS HE LIKE JACK HARKNESS!?!? OR A TIME LORD?!?!! It’s not dead bodies is it... ok dead Cybermen... I mean, still dead bodies... and still human... but at least they’re not human human. I don’t like that Yaz and Graham are in this much danger of dying.... “Don’t panic.” I can’t even enjoy making a Hitchhiker’s Guide joke. Yep ok yeah they’re not lucky since The Lone Cyberman found them... Ok he looks familiar... Oh Ko Sharmus is a person. (Update: Oh my god he’s Barristan Selmy from Game of Thrones.) Awww Yaz and Graham bonding. One of them is gonna die. Oh ok yeah that’s fun. More Cybermen. Lots of mentions of hope in this episode, I appreciate it. Oh shoot there’s only like 15 minutes left... It’s a new design, but the weird ear covering parts are very old who. I like that. The torso’s a little weird... ....What... is... he... doing... “We’re carrying a Cyberman that makes other Cybermen scream.” Yeah I mean that’s one way to articulate how horrible this is. OK there’s only 6 minutes left now. Someone better not die. A clock... They look... young.... still... but how.... I am so nervous. I am so confused. Wiping Brendan’s memory? Are they making the very very very first Cyberman? Are we like finding out that they made them way back in the old days? That’s a lot of Cyberman. I just remembered that they left the TARDIS on that planet... MASTER! MY BABY! Yes, that was a good entrance. A little cartoony, but I’m just happy to see him.

Ok but like... they were shooting at them in the control room so like... are they ok!??!!

I assume from us seeing some of them in the promo they’re fine but like... the Cyberman got in... so like... how do they get out of that?

And the Brendan thing. WAIT. AM I DUMB? Wow. I am not deleting my stupid question about wiping his memory and making Cybermen. I’m not deleting it because that was a complete stupid moment and it should be documented. That had to have been a chameleon arch. I was too into the whole Cyberman thing so I thought it was a Cyberman conversion, but that was chameleon arch wasn’t it? And the clock too, which I had noticed and though “Hmm.... fob watch...” but then went back to focusing on Cybermen.

At the beginning when he was just a baby I was like “Oh, he was found just like Yana.” but I didn’t write it down because I’m stupid. And even though I questioned the whole surviving a gunshot and fall off a cliff thing and wondered if he was a Time Lord, I didn’t actually go any deeper than that.

So if that was a chameleon arch... does that make Brendan the Timeless Child?

Also, guys. I am SO HAPPY to see the Master again. God. I love Dhawan’s Master more than any of the others I think... which hurts to say since Missy’s my girl... but like... he won me over so quickly and I am so happy to see him.

The Master is the thumbnail of the trailer by the way. So all I saw was the Master, who I already knew would show up since Sacha was supposed to do 4 episodes and there were only 2 episodes left so he had to.

Guys I’m still mad at myself for literally ignoring the chameleon arch in front of my eyes and being like “oh but is it Cyberman conversion?????” They literally zoomed in on them taking his heartbeat multiple times, and I noticed it! And in the back of my mind I kept going “Oh is he a time lord?” and then pushing the thoughts away because this is supposed to be an episode about Cybermen. Because I am dumb.

And what if this is how Time Lords came to be! We’ve theorized for years that they are humans but higher up in the evolutionary tree. I can’t remember if I brought this up in Orphan 55, but I think I did. Guys. Evolution. Humans either become dreggs or time lords. I guess either depending on the timeline or maybe we just branched off and humans are the common ancestor. Either way. If we have canon evidence of humans being the ancestors of time lords, I will be glad. I personally love that theory. But I’m also the type of person who’s been waiting a billion years for the Doctor being half-human in the Movie to become actual canon. I was so sure that that was where the Hybrid story arc was heading...

(Update: I know I definitely theorized about dreggs and time lords at some point, but it was not in my Orphan 55 post. It was probably in the tags of some random post that I will never ever find again.)

Anyway. The Master’s back. I am happy.

#hope watches doctor who #ignore me if you want #doctor who #dw spoilers #doctor who spoilers

4 notes · View notes

deesdiaries · 5 years ago

Link

The 2019 fall equinox—also called the autumn equinox—takes place on Monday, September 23, 2019. |The fall equinox is not on the same day each year, though it always falls between September 21 and September 24. It marks the first day of fall in the Northern Hemisphere. (The reverse is true in the Southern Hemisphere, where the September equinox signals the first day of spring.) People have celebrated the fall equinox for centuries. In the Northern Hemisphere, the September equinox coincides with the fall harvest, and many ancient harvest celebrations take place on or around the fall equinox.

Fall Equinox Definition

Equinox comes from the Latin words “aequi,” which means equal, and “nox,” or night. On the equinox, day and night are of nearly equal length across the planet.

As the Earth orbits the sun, it is tilted at a fixed angle. For half the year, the North Pole is tilted slightly toward the sun, bringing longer days to the Northern Hemisphere, while the South Pole is tilted slightly away from the sun, bringing fewer hours of sunlight to the Southern Hemisphere.

Then, as the Earth continues to move around the sun at its fixed angle, the North Pole is tilted slightly away from the sun. The equinox marks the point of the year where this transition occurs, and on the equinox the part of Earth closest to the sun is the equator, rather than places north or south.

In the Northern Hemisphere, the September equinox marks the first day of fall. The reverse is true in the Southern Hemisphere where the September equinox signals the first day of spring.

Ancient Cultures

Ancient cultures didn’t have clocks to calculate minutes of daytime and nighttime, but they could measure the sun’s position geometrically.

People observed that the sun’s rising and setting points moved slightly each day of the year. The summer solstice would occur when the sun reached its northernmost point, marking the longest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere. The sun’s southernmost point marked the winter solstice, or shortest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere, when the North Pole was tilted the farthest from the sun. The two days of the year when the sun rose exactly due east and set exactly due west marked the equinoxes.

Archaeologists believe a number of prehistoric sites were used by ancient peoples to track the position of the sun and predict equinoxes and solstices. Some of these sites include Stonehenge and Newgrange in the UK and the Majorville Medicine Wheel in Alberta, Canada.

Fall Equinox Customs And Rituals

Greek Mythology: To the ancient Greeks, the September equinox marks the return of the goddess Persephone to the darkness of the underworld, where she is reunited with her husband Hades.

Chinese Harvest Moon Festival: The full moon that falls closest to the autumnal equinox is sometimes called the Harvest Moon. The Chinese began celebrating the fall harvest at the Harvest Moon centuries ago, during the Shang dynasty. Ancient Chinese celebrated the successful harvest of rice and wheat and made offerings to the moon.

Ethnic Chinese and Vietnamese people still celebrate the Harvest Moon or Mid-Autumn Festival. During the Mid-Autumn Festival, lanterns adorn streets and family and friends gather to give thanks, share food and watch the moon. Round pastries, called mooncakes, are often enjoyed at this time.

Japanese Higan: Higan is a holiday celebrated by some Japanese Buddhists. It takes place twice a year, during the fall and spring equinoxes.

During Higan, Japanese Buddhists will return to their hometowns to pay respects to their ancestors. Higan means “from the other shore of the Sanzu River.” In Buddhist tradition, crossing the mythical Sanzu River meant passing into the afterlife.

Harvest Festivals In Great Britain: The people of the British Isles have given thanks at fall harvest festivals since pagan times. Harvest festivals traditionally were held on the Sunday nearest the Harvest Moon.

Early English settlers took the harvest festival tradition with them to America. These tradition festivals, once celebrated around the equinox, formed the basis of American Thanksgiving, which we now celebrate in November.

French Republican Calendar: During the French Revolution, the French government designed and implemented a new yearly calendar.

Each new year would start at midnight on the day of the autumnal equinox. In the revolutionary attempt to rid the calendar of religious or royalist influence, each month was named after a natural element.

The French followed this calendar from 1793 until Napoleon Bonaparte abolished it in 1806.

Modern Paganism: Modern pagans celebrate a feast called Mabon on the autumnal equinox. This harvest festival is a time to celebrate the gifts of the Earth.

Northern Lights Viewing

In the far north, the autumnal equinox signals peak viewing of the aurora borealis, or northern lights.

The celestial display of brilliantly colored lights happens when charged particles from the sun strike atoms in Earth’s atmosphere, causing them to light up. These light displays peak around the fall and spring, or vernal, equinox. That’s because disturbances in Earth’s atmosphere—known as geomagnetic storms—are strongest at these times.

SOURCES

Ancient Observatories—Timeless Knowledge. Stanford Solar Center. Who, What, Why: What is an equinox? BBC. Fall equinox ups chances of seeing Northern Lights. Space.com.

#autumnal equinox

2 notes · View notes

potterandpromises · 6 years ago

Text

Oblivion

Fandom: Timeless

Pairing: Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston

Summary: The kitchen clock reads 2:26 am; Lucy's pretty sure she's lost her nightly battle.

Word count: 1,986

Notes: Takes place between 2x05 and 2x06. Slight canon divergent in that Lucy started sleeping on the couch a day after 2x05 instead of at the beginning of 2x06.

Content warnings: Intrusive thoughts, injury, medical stuff (stitching up of a wound), mild language, references to self-harm, and mentions of alcohol.

Also on AO3.

The kitchen clock reads 2:26 am; Lucy's pretty sure she's lost her nightly battle.

Judging from the sounds that had stopped only a matter of minutes ago; Wyatt and Jessica are very happy together. And she should be happy for the her friend, and she is, really (really!). But it doesn't seem too unreasonable to dislike having to listen to their very loud 'happiness' into the early morning. Not when time for sleep, let alone a mind for sleep, is already an unstable commodity.

But bringing that up to the couple isn't an option. And she has the silence she wanted right now, and she should be taking advantage of it. Except her ancestors created an actual evil cult in order to secretly control America. And her mother groomed her for said cult's purposes. And—

Screw it.

Lucy rolls off the couch and walks to the kitchen. She'd seen Mason undeniably drunk just yesterday. Even if he keeps his stash in his room he must get it from somewhere. So she searches every semi-plausible hiding place the metal pantry has to offer. Even pulling up a chair for a better vantage point.

Nothing.

Maybe she should just watt it out until Mason leaves his room for more than a few minutes at a time. Then she can—

Somehow, she manages to fall on her dissent from the chair in such a way as to hit her recently-stabbed arm on the counter, than catch the entirety of her weight upon landing. Typical, really, can't even stand on a damn chair right.

"Lucy?"

She's too preoccupied writhing in pain to turn to look at him; but notes the concern in his voice.

"I'm fine, go back to bed." she marriages to say, despite searing pain.

Not ready to get up, Lucy clutches her arm, squirms fully onto her back and squeezes her eyes shut. If she ripped open her stitches she'll have to tell Agent Christopher and— Flynn's hand covers her own, tugging slightly at her fingers in a gentle attempt to move them off the offending injury. Peeling her eyes open, she gives him a questioning look.

"I need to see if you ripped out any stitches." He says matter-of-factly.

She considers telling him that she can handle this herself. That he should go back to bed and pretend this never happened. But she's tired and re-bandaging her upper arm is a struggle. (And it does not hurt that his abnormally gentle demeanor makes for a compelling distraction.)

Lucy nods and sits up, nearly flopping backward. Flynn steadies her with a hand between her shoulder blades. "Wash your hands first."

"I'm just looking."

"But you are touching," she points out. He removes his hand Immediately, as if just realizing his mistake. “And I can't risk another infection." she's barely heeled from the last one. She can't deal with another, ever.

He gives a tight-lipped smile, "Fair enough." How much of that ordeal had he been around for? She doesn't remember him being there, but she doesn't remember much of anything.

He washes his hands. She attempts to stand, only to hiss in pain when she puts too much weight on her injured arm. Yup, definitely ripped out some stitches.

Flynn's arm is around her in an instant, lifting her to her feet, done and over with before she can even process it. He then delicately pulls her cardigan off her shoulder, just enough to reveal the freshly bleeding wound. His gaze flickers briefly to her other, newer bandage, courtesy of Emma; which mercifully doesn't show any blood— unlike it’s predecessor. He removes the covering from her stab wound and carefully probes the area with a wet cloth.

He's always like that, she realizes, purposeful in his touch. Ever since he came to the bunker; when he had to touch her it was always careful, practical, never lasting longer than necessary.

Why? (She has the absurd thought that she would not mind his touch in very different circumstances, if it wasn't for the possibility of having to live and work with multiple one-night stands.)

Slouching, he visibly takes a moment to choose his next words. "You might be able to get away with butterfly stitches, but I think it would be best if you got replacements." Lucy cringes inwardly at the idea of attempting to explain the predicament she got herself in to Agent Christopher. What happened was silly; would she judge Lucy for it? And her injury couldn't be that bad, did she really—

Flynn licks his lips in that unconscious, thoughtful way. "If you would prefer, I could fix it."

"You know how to do that?" He probably learned during one of the wars he fought in, or his time on the run. But she feels the need to clarify, telling herself she isn't yet at that level of uncaring.

"Learned on the job." He confirms. “You'll let me stitch you up then?" He searches her face for an answer, expression artificially neutral.

"Better you then—" anyone else. She doesn't wish to examine what that means. "Yes."

"Are there medical supplies someplace around here?" She catches a note of criticism. She'd heard from Rufus how he'd insisted they add a first aid kit to the lifeboat after Salem, when she had to use a dirty rag to keep from dripping.

"Maybe in there?" She gestures in the direction of the spare room where they'd kept teenage JFK a few days prior. Flynn nods and leads her toward the space. She stops just outside the doorway.

He rummages around industrial shelving units. "is there a reason you ware— ah," he pulls out the not-so-recently-acquired med kit and gestures to the cot. Lucy doesn't move.

"Having second thoughts?"

"No, just... not in here." It isn't even that small of a space, but her claustrophobia doesn't care; not tonight.

He seems to consider her, before nodding and starting toward the couch.

Lucy sits awkwardly, awaiting farther instruction. Flynn puts the kit on the table and empties some of it's meager contents. Soon making a disgusted, disapproving noise that turns into a sigh. "Looks like I can't numb you." he turns to her, gauging her reaction.

Lucy feels nauseated, momentarily. But she's sure she'd felt worse upon the initial stabbing, and her desire to not have to explain this injury to anyone else is a powerful one. She tries to shrug, but fails on account of needing to hold the cloth over her damaged skin. Instead she mutters "it's fine."

He grabs a pill bottle, shaking a few into his hand. "Swallow these, we'll do it in 15 minutes." She takes the pain killers without comment, and watches him lay out his tools in a neat row on the table. So unlike him, she thinks.

"The supplies in this place are abysmal. How is it that Wyatt and Rufus have both been shot and nobody thought 'hey maybe we should keep a first aid kit in that thing?'" He gestures with vague frustration in the direction of the lifeboat. She can’t be sure if the hints of worry amongst the annoyance in his tone are reel or imagined.

"I think Christopher said something about putting one in the lifeboat."

"About time," he mutters.

Watching him prepare a curved needle with alcohol, she thinks of having an actual conversation with him. Like they're normal human beings, who aren't caught up in a real-world conspiracy, living in a secret government bunker; just two people enjoying each other’s company. But it feels out of reach, like another timeline entirely. (Right next to the one with her sister, across from the one where she and Wyatt had a relationship lasting longer than one night.) And nothing good comes from dwelling on those.

"I think it's been long enough, are you in less pain that you started in?"

it takes her a moment to perceive the question. "Um, yeah, I guess so." A lie, given that over-the-counter hardly works on her anymore (saying so wouldn’t make this any easier).

"Lay on your side, it will help with the bleeding."

And so Lucy gracelessly half falls onto her side, painfully jostling her arm in the process. She takes a moment to psych herself up, and withdraws the damp rag. She trusts him not to hurt her anymore than necessary, but she feels the loss of control anyway.

He begins by wiping away the blood that had begun to pool under the cloth. Then douses the area with hydrogen peroxide; which stings, but is perfectly expected. And she manages to barely react, only wiggling her foot as a distraction—

She stifles a yelp into a sharp intake of breath. He pierces her skin, than quickly pulls her it beck together. The first time this was done to her she’d been numb to the intimacies of digging into and altering flash, first by adrenaline than by lidocaine; now all the details are revealed. Her breathing becomes rigid; it screams for a more severe physical response.

Flynn hesitates only a moment. "It will be over soon.” he reassures. And she wants to tall him to stop, to let it be over now. But the logical part of her brain wins out and she stays excruciatingly still for five more stitches. Reminding herself that this is instead of bothering Agent Christopher and having to deal with a doctor; because, for reasons she doesn't care to examine, he is the best person to do this.

"I'm done with that part, Lucy." He says softly, spreading ointment over his handily work. Than wrapping it.

Her pain, now a dull throb, is replaced by an enveloping calm, one she recognizes from her junior year of high school. It had scared her so much she'd never done it again. But she'd seen more, done more, a few small cuts meant nothing. And It did help, if she just—

It's not a coping mechanism she can afford to adopt. Being semi-undressed in front of her team is inescapable, even if she cut somewhere no one would theoretically have to see— ending up stranded without access to clean water or fresh bandages is always a possibility, and another infection isn't an option.

Flynn is still standing by her couch, his expression unreadable. He cleans up and returns the medical supplies. Than walks away only to come back a minute later, handing her a glass of water and her cardigan.

Lucy accepts the glass. "Hey thinks for—" she gestures to her newly re-stitched arm.

He nods and stays another few moments, watching her drink, than her put her cardigan on. He has no reason to do so— unless he just wants to; or he’s delaying the return to the most intense of his own internal battles. That seems more likely.

"Goodnight, Lucy." He says, voice nearly too soft to hear, it feels all too meaningful. She says it back, even knowing it isn't like that for him either.

People will be up in a few hours, and she will have gotten just as much sleep. But her thoughts aren't as relentless as before, and she's finally tired in a way that will let her rest. - When the alarms sounded for her first mission post-stabbing, Lucy wasn't anticipating her first challenge to be getting out of the lifeboat. She'd done this dozens of times and it wasn't like it was particularly difficult, but the last time she tried to step off of any remotely high surface—

"Care for a lift?" Flynn looks up at her, apparently having seen her dilemma and wanting to help. He always wants to help lately, it's sweet.

Nodding, she gives him a half smile and he lifts her safely and easily — which does not go unnoticed by her — onto the ground.

(And If his hands linger on her side a moment longer than necessary, she does not mind the contact.)

#garcy #garcy ff #timeless #timeless ff #lucy preston #garcia flynn #fanfiction #my fanfic tag #Fic: Oblivion #I have like 10 WIPs in this fandom and this is what I choose to present first

27 notes · View notes

sampleminded · 7 years ago

Text

Wiggs Dannyboy’s Theory of Floral Consciousness

"Humankind is about to enter the floral stage of its evolutionary development. On the mythological level, which is to say, on the psychic/symbolic level (no less real than the physical level), this event is signaled by the death of Pan. Pan, of course, represents animal consciousness. Pan embodies mammalian consciousness, although there are aspects of reptilian consciousness in his personality, as well. Reptilian consciousness did not disappear when our brains entered their mammalian stage. Mammalian consciousness was simply laid over the top of reptilian consciousness, and in many unenlightened—underevolved, underdeveloped—individuals, the mammalian layer was thin and porous, and much reptile energy has continued to seep through. When our remote ancestors crawled out of the sea, they no doubt had the minds of fish. Characteristics of mammal consciousness are warmth, generosity, loyalty, love (romantic, platonic, and familial), joy, grief, humor, pride, competition, intellectual curiosity, and appreciation of art and music. Inlate mammalian times, we evolved a third brain...whose principal part was the neocortex, a dense rind of nerve fibers about an eighth of an inch thick that was simply molded over top of the existing mammal brain. Brain researchers are puzzled by the neocortex. What is its function? Why did it develop in the first place? Moreover, neuromelanin absorbs light and has the capacity to convert light into other forms of energy. So Ely was correct. The neocortex is light-sensitive and can, itself, be lit up by higher forms of mental activity, such as meditation or chanting. The ancients were not being metaphoric when they referred to "illumination." With the emergence of the neocortex, the floral properties of the brain, which had, for millions of years, been biding their time, waiting their turn, began to make their move— the gradual move toward a dominant floral consciousness. When life was a constant struggle between predators, a minute-by-minute battle for survival, reptile consciousness was necessary. When there were seas to be sailed, wild continents to be explored, harsh territory to be settled, agriculture to be mastered, mine shafts to be sunk, civilization to be founded, mammal consciousness was necessary. In its social and familial aspects, it is still necessary, but no longer must it dominate. We need a more relaxed, contemplative, gentle, flexible kind of person, for only he or she can survive (and expedite) this very new system that is upon us. Only he or she can participate in the next evolutionary phase. It has definite spiritual overtones, this floral phase of consciousness. The most intense spiritual experiences all seem to involve the suspension of time. It is the feeling of being outside of time, of being timeless, that is the source of ecstasy in meditation, chanting, hypnosis, and psychedelic drug experiences. Although it is briefer and less lucid, a timeless, egoless state (the ego exists in time, not space) is achieved in sexual orgasm, which is precisely why orgasm feels so good. Even drunks, in their crude, inadequate way, are searching for the timeless time. Alcoholism is an imperfect spiritual longing. In a hundred different ways, we have mastered the art of space. We know a great deal about space. Yet we know pitifully little about time. It seems that only in the mystic state do we master it. The "smell brain"—the memory area of the brain activated by the olfactory nerve—and the "light brain"—the neocortex—are the keys to the mystic state. With immediacy and intensity, smell activates memory, allowing our minds to travel freely in time. The most profound mystical states are ones in which normal mental activity seems suspended in light. In mystic illumination, as at the speed of light, time ceases to exist. With an increased floral consciousness, humans will begin to make full use of their "light brain" and to make more refined and sophisticated use of their "smell brain." We live now in an information technology. Flowers have always lived in an information technology. Flowers gather information all day. At night, they process it. For one thing, information gathered from daily newspapers, soap operas, sales conferences, and coffee Hatches is inferior to information gathered from sunlight. (Since all matter is condensed light, light is the source, the cause of life. Therefore, light is divine. The flowers have a direct line to God. Our own nocturnal processing is part-time work. The information our conscious minds receive during waking hours is processed by our unconscious during so-called "deep sleep." We are in deep sleep only two or three hours a night. For the rest of our sleeping session, the unconscious mind is off duty. It gets bored. It craves recreation. So it plays with the material at hand. In a sense, it plays with itself. It scrambles memories, juggles images, rearranges data, invents scary or titillating stories. This is what we call "dreaming." Some people believe that we process information during dreams. Quite the contrary. A dream is the mind having fun when there is no processing to keep it busy. In the future, when we become more efficient at gathering quality information and when floral consciousness becomes dominant, we will probably sleep longerhours and dream hardly at all. Plants collect odors as well as emit them. The rose may be in an olfactory relationship with the lilac. Another possibility is that between the trees a kind of telepathy is involved. There is also the possibility that all of what we call mental telepathy is olfactory. We don't read another's thoughts, we smell them. We know that schizophrenics can smell antagonism, distrust, desire, etc., on the part of their doctors, visitors, or fellow patients, no matter how well it might be visually or vocally concealed. The olfactory nerve may be small compared to a rabbit's, but it's our largest cranial receptor, nevertheless. Who can guess what "invisible" odors it might detect? As floral consciousness matures, telepathy will no doubt become a common medium of communication. With reptile consciousness, we had hostile confrontation. With mammal consciousness, we had civilized debate. With floral consciousness, we'll have empathetic telepathy. A floral consciousness and a data-based, soft technology are ideally suited for one another. A floral consciousness and a pacifist internationalism are ideally suited for one another. A floral consciousness and an easy, colorful sensuality are ideally suited for one another. (Flowers are more openly sexual than animals. The Tantric concept of converting sensual energy to spiritual energy is a floral ploy.) A floral consciousness and an extraterrestrial exploration program are ideally suited for one another. (Earthlings are blown aloft in silver pods to seed distant planets.) A floral consciousness and an immortalist society are ideally suited suitedfor one another. (Flowers have superior powers of renewal, and thelogevity of trees is celebrated. The floral brain is the organ of eternity.) Lest we fancy that we shall endlesly and effortlessly be as the flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la, let us bear in mind that reptilian and mammalian energies are still very much with us. Externally and internally. Obviously, there are powerful reptilian forces in the Pentagon and the Kremlin; and in the pulpits of churches, mosques, and synagogues, wheredeathist dogmas of judgment, punishment, self-denial, martyrdom, and afterlife supremacy are preached. But there are also reptilian forces within each individual. Myth is neither fiction nor history. Myths are acted out in our own psyches, and they are repetitive and ongoing. Beowulf, Siegfried, and the other dragon slayers are aspects of our own unconscious minds. At the birth of Christ, the cry resounded through the ancient world, "Great Pan is dead." The animal mind was about to be subdued. Christ's mission was to prepare the way for floral consciousness. In the East, Buddha performs an identical function. It should be emphasized that neither significance of their heroics should be apparent. We dispatched them with their symbolic swords and lances to slay reptile consciousness. The reptile brain is the dragon within us. When, in evolutionary process, it became time to subdue mammalian consciousness, a less violent tactic was called for. Instead of Beowulf with his sword and bow, we manifested Jesus Christ with his message and example. Jesus Christ, whose commandment "Love thy enemy" has proven to be too strong a floral medicine for reptilian types to swallow; Jesus Christ, who continues to point out to job-obsessed mammalians that the lilies of the field have never punched time clocks.) At the birth of Christ, the cry resounded through the ancient world, "Great Pan is dead." The animal mind was about to be subdued. Christ's mission was to prepare the way for floral consciousness. In the East, Buddha performs an identical function. It should be emphasized that neither Christ nor Buddha harbored the slightest antipathy toward Pan. They were merely fulfilling their mytho-evolutionary roles. Christ and Buddha came into our psyches not to deliver us from evil but to deliver us from mammal consciousness. The good versus evil plot has always been bogus. The drama unfolding in the universe—in our psyches—is not good against evil but new against old, or, more precisely, destined against obsolete. Just as the grand old dragon of our reptilian past had to be pierced by the hero's sword to make way for Pan and his randy minions, so Pan himself has had to be rendered weak and ineffectual, has had to be shoved into the background of our ongoing psychic progression. Because Pan is closer to our hearts and our genitals, we shall miss him more than we shall miss the dragon. We shall miss his pipes that drew us, trembling, into the dance of lust and confusion. We shall miss his pranksterish overturning of decorum; the way he caused the blood to heat, the cows to bawl, and the wine to flow. Most of all, perhaps, we shall miss the way he mocked us, with his leer and laughter, when we took our blaze of mammal intellect too seriously. But the old playfellow has to go. We've known for two thousand years that Pan must go. There is little place for Pan's great stink amidst the perfumed illumination of the flowers. When Western artists wished to demonstrate that a person was holy, they painted a ring of light around the divine one's head. Eastern artists painted a more diffused aura. The message was the same. The aura or the halo signified that the light was on in the subject's brain. The neocortex was fully operative. Maybe, as Dr. Dannyboy has postulated, all these things, including disease and our relationship with time, are merely bad habits. If so, an ultimate victory is possible. For individuals, if not for the mass. And maybe evolution—playful, adventurous, unpredictable, infuriatingly slow (by our standards of time) evolution—will rescue us eventually, according to a master plan. To physically overcome death—is that not the goal?—we must think unthinkable thoughts and ask unanswerable questions. Yet we must not lose ourselves in abstract vapors of philosophy. Death has his concrete allies, we must enlist ours. Never underestimate how much assistance, how much satisfaction, how much comfort, how much soul and transcendence there might be in a well-made taco and a cold bottle of beer. Thus, thou must vow upon this day that shouldst thou be living still when these events transpire, that thou wiltst battle them and refuseth prosperity to any immortalist thrust that doth not rise from man's soul and heart as well as his mind. Do promise me now." Alas, because they fight with reason only, making no advance in the area of soul and heart, true immortality wiltst be denied them. If I am truly immortal, I am my own grandchild, my own descendant, my own dynasty."

#tom robbins #jitterbug perfume #wiggs dannyboy #tim leary #floral consciousness #poetry #philosophy #magic #literature

12 notes · View notes

her-culture · 4 years ago

Text

On a Quest to Find Meaning in Life: Book Recommendations for Life Reflections

I have a mixed relationship with birthdays. When I was younger, I had eagerly looked forward to blowing the candles on my cake, excited to reach a new milestone. But as I grew older, I realized that these events marked the passing of time, signalling that my childhood was slowly leaving me.

Exploring the concept of aging in different ways, these following three books helped me find meaning in my finite life. Consequently, during a time where time itself seems to be on pause, I recommend these following books for those living in lockdown who are facing an existential crisis. Even though the protagonists are all young adults, their narratives can deeply connect with everyone regardless of age.

Elsewhere by Gabrielle Zevin

Following a fatal car crash, nearly sixteen-year-old Liz finds herself aboard a ship headed off to an unknown destination. When she finally sets foot on land, she learns that she has now arrived at a place called Elsewhere. Considered as the afterlife, everyone who has passed on now lives on this land, a land where people age in reverse, growing younger each day until they are sent back to Earth as a baby. As the book progresses, Liz gradually learns to accept her untimely situation and overcomes obstacles that keep her from experiencing true happiness in this new life.

When I read this story, I found that inside the unfamiliar premise, her struggle to let go of her past life resonated with me, her reluctance not unlike mine; during major milestones in my life such as my recent move to America, I noticed that similar to her, I often dwelled on moments from my past and struggled to focus on my immediate future. Written in a honest and straightforward manner, this somehow relatable and poignant tale is tinged with fleeting moments of happiness and eventually fades into a cloudy haze, allowing the readers to take comfort in the finality of the conclusion.

Every Day by David Levithan

Constantly changing bodies their entire life, A experiences the world through a different lens every day, living in a life that is not theirs for a brief moment and moving on once the clock strikes midnight. Lacking an identity of their own, A adopts the mannerisms of those they possess in order to prevent them from drastically altering the lives of the people they come across. However, this all changes when they come across a girl called Rhiannon, the girlfriend of someone they are posing as for one day. Fascinated with her view on the world, for the first time in their life, they try to show their identity to someone else, attempting to illustrate their true self hidden beneath the surface of their bodies.

Personally, as I am someone who is still discovering who they are, the internal dialogue of the narrator was a welcome perspective because it helped affirm to me that one does not have to know their goals or even their own identity in order to appreciate their interactions with the world. Taking the expression of putting oneself in someone else’s shoes to a whole new level, this book helps readers empathize with the diverse conflicts of each person A lives in, while allowing them to glimpse the challenges of existing without an ability to hold on.

The Giver by Lois Lowry

Set in a society where an emphasis on Sameness is prioritized, the residents of this area seem to live in a utopia where there is no sadness nor conflict. Known by many as a courteous and intelligent young boy, the protagonist Jonas is selected to become the next Receiver of Memory, a position that is highly respected in his community as those chosen have to bear the burden of knowing the true past of the community. Once he begins his training, he learns that the world he grew up in was not as perfect as it had seemed; his mentor tells him that for the sake of a structured society, their ancestors traded in emotions and culture, resulting in an orderly yet bland world.

Even though I was introduced to this work many years ago, every re-read still brings about further ruminations on the themes highlighted in this novel, ideas that can be regarded as quite relevant when examining the debates happening in the highest courts today. Considered a classic read for many students across the world, this well-known piece helps readers question the notion of a perfect existence and enables readers to appreciate the variety in our everyday lives.

Ranging from timeless fantasy tales to thrilling mysteries that ended with a cliffhanger, books from all genres have supported me and helped me grow as an individual. This phenomenon is especially true for the three described above; the protagonists of these stories hold a special place in my heart as they uplifted me during tough times. As a result, I really wanted to share these gems because I truly believe that they can help move people forward on their journey to self-actualization. Thus, when you have some time to spare, please consider picking up one of these books for a brief but thought-provoking read.

0 notes

anelez · 4 years ago

Text

Watches - An Ever Evolving Timepiece

Today's watches are a undying accent that never grows antique, even more so now that there are such a lot of dressmaker watches, guys's diamond watches, and women's diamond watches to choose from. Watches are one of the most timeless artifacts which have ever been invented. From heavy set wood grandfather clocks to dainty diamond watches, the records of timepieces is a certainly a exceptional evolution Jewellery Buyers Perth The first watches evolved from their larger ancestor portable spring-driven clocks which first appeared in the 15th century in Europe. The phrase "watch" is stated to have come from an Old English phrase "recce", that could loosely be translated as "watchman". The reality of the problem is that watches were first invented to assist the city's watchmen hold tune of their shifts and to help sailors time the period of their shipboard watches, or responsibility shifts.

You may want to say, watches began out as a gentleman's realistic pocket knick-knack due to the fact watches had been no longer improved to the identify of "wrist watch" till the 1920s. The first watches frequently had covers and were carried in its proprietor's pocket or connected to an eye fixed chain. As a gentleman's accessory, a pocket watch became the epitome of time, a image that he turned into certainly serious approximately his existence and his time. By the 1920's with equality among ladies and men being a famous debatable problem of interest, the pocket watch discovered itself being transformed to a wristwatch for women referred to as a Wristlet. The populace of male pocket watch bearers revolted the idea by pronouncing they could "faster put on a skirt than wear a wristwatch".

But luck become approximately to exchange that, when World War 1 forced battlefield infantrymen to take a greater sensible approach to "checking the time" than rooting around of their pocket to discover their watch. Soldiers quickly began to strap their pocket watches to their wrists with leather-based straps in a bid to "save time". Legend also has it that the German Imperial Navy attached their pocket watches to their wrists an awful lot in advance in the Eighties while synchronizing naval attacks and firing artillery.

The transition from practicality to fashion for watches got here a good deal later all through the Fifties and reached its last high at some stage in the Nineteen Eighties whilst Hip Hop transformed the culture of the tune enterprise and fashion. One of the greater memorable money owed of the early days of guys's diamond watches changed into while Rock-n-Roll icon, Buddy Holly, died in 1959 sporting his 14 karat white gold Omega watch with forty five single cut diamonds. Fans received the news with a mixture of devastation over his passing and awe at his glamorous life-style. This of direction, despatched fanatics in a frenzy over how they too may want to emulate their icon's stylish flavor. The Omega watch quickly became the maximum famous men's diamond watch in history.

Hip Hop later added a drastic trade in jewelry and style cultures as diamond watches, diamond pendants, and gold chains have become have to-have items for growing iconic "bling". Today watches are not just a realistic accessory, but a image of wealth, a status symbol. Diamond watches have formally developed to lower priced, state-of-the-art, and realistic guys's diamond watches and ladies's diamond watches which can be a little more within reach.

0 notes

aloverof8 · 7 years ago

Text

Every 8th Doctor Appearance brought to you the good people of Tumblr (I didn’t do all this I’ll admit) but ya know what?... i̩͚̭̦̜̅ͤͮͩ̽̀t̢̹͖͈̰̜͌ͮ͑ͯ̏̋̾ͅṡ̯̘̪̮͉͓̟̋ͧ͐ͧ̑̌ s͈̞̼̰ͧ̄͑̆̚t͋͌ͫ͛ͦ̒͐͠ï̥̋ͭ̓͑͌̎ĺ̜̂̈l̯̳̃̄͒̋̍̏ ̝͍̠̣̦̹ͤͪn̳͉͔̖̺̿͑ͫ̽̄̾̋͜o̵̼̘͆ͬͩṯ̙̫͍̦̭̰̔͆̌ͤ̽͠ ȩ͕̹̺͔͐̾ͧ̆͑n̡͇̝͈͉͋̎ͧ͗ͯ̾̅ŏ̰͇̝̔̚u̺̰̪̫͛͑ͬǵ̩̰̳͙͐ḥ̮͔̘̰̩̼ͦ̏ͨ

TV movie Edit

Doctor Who

Series 7 Edit

The Name of the Doctor

2013 specials Edit

The Night of the Doctor

The Day of the Doctor

Webcast Edit

BBCi Edit

Shada

Audio Edit

Earth and Beyond Edit

Bounty

Doctor Who monthly Edit

Storm Warning

Sword of Orion

The Stones of Venice

Minuet in Hell

Invaders from Mars

The Chimes of Midnight

Living Legend

Seasons of Fear

Embrace the Darkness

The Time of the Daleks

Neverland

Zagreus

Scherzo

The Creed of the Kromon

The Natural History of Fear

The Twilight Kingdom

Faith Stealer

The Last

Caerdroia

The Next Life

Terror Firma

Scaredy Cat

Other Lives

Time Works

Something Inside

Memory Lane

Absolution

The Girl Who Never Was

The Company of Friends

Benny's Story

Fitz's Story

Izzy's Story

Mary's Story

The Silver Turk

The Witch from the Well

Army of Death

Specials Edit

Shada

The Light at the End

Classic Doctors, New Monsters Edit

Volume 1 Edit

The Sontaran Ordeal

Volume 2 Edit

Day of the Vashta Nerada

The Companion Chronicles Edit

Series 4 Edit

Solitaire

Series 8 Edit

The Elixir of Doom

Eighth Doctor Adventures Edit

Series 1 Edit

Blood of the Daleks

Horror of Glam Rock

Immortal Beloved

Phobos

No More Lies

Human Resources

Series 2 Edit

Dead London

Max Warp

Brave New Town

The Skull of Sobek

Grand Theft Cosmos

The Zygon Who Fell to Earth

Sisters of the Flame

The Vengeance of Morbius

Series 3 Edit

Orbis

Hothouse

The Beast of Orlok

Wirrn Dawn

The Scapegoat

The Cannibalists

The Eight Truths

Worldwide Web

Series 4 Edit

Death in Blackpool

Situation Vacant

Nevermore

The Book of Kells

Deimos

The Resurrection of Mars

Relative Dimensions

Prisoner of the Sun

Lucie Miller

To the Death

Dark Eyes Edit

The Great War

Fugitives

Tangled Web

X and the Daleks

Dark Eyes 2 Edit

The Traitor

The White Room

Time's Horizon

Eyes of the Master

Dark Eyes 3 Edit

The Death of Hope

The Reviled

Masterplan

Rule of the Eminence

Dark Eyes 4 Edit

A Life in the Day

The Monster of Montmartre

Master of the Daleks

Eye of Darkness

Doom Coalition Edit

Doom Coalition 1 Edit

The Eleven

The Red Lady

The Galileo Trap

The Satanic Mill

Doom Coalition 2 Edit

Beachhead

Scenes From Her Life

The Gift

The Sonomancer

Doom Coalition 3 Edit

Absent Friends

The Eighth Piece

The Doomsday Chronometer

The Crucible of Souls

Doom Coalition 4 Edit

Ship in a Bottle

Songs of Love

The Side of the Angels

Stop the Clock

The Diary of River Song Edit

Series 1 Edit

The Rulers of the Universe

Destiny of the Doctor Edit

Enemy Aliens

Short Trips Edit

Running Out of Time

Letting Go

All the Fun of the Fair

Quantum Heresy

Late Night Shopping

The Young Lions

Foreshadowing

The Caves of Erith

The Curse of the Fugue

The Man Who Wasn't There

The World Beyond the Trees

Flashpoint

BBC New Series Adventures Edit

The Lost Magic

Prose Edit

Novels Edit

BBC novelisations Edit

The Novel of the Film

Virgin New Adventures Edit

Damaged Goods

The Dying Days

BBC Past Doctor Adventures Edit

Wolfsbane

Fear Itself

BBC Eighth Doctor Adventures Edit

The Eight Doctors

Vampire Science

The Bodysnatchers

Genocide

War of the Daleks

Alien Bodies

Kursaal

Option Lock

Longest Day

Legacy of the Daleks

Dreamstone Moon

Seeing I

Placebo Effect

Vanderdeken's Children

The Scarlet Empress

The Janus Conjunction

Beltempest

The Face-Eater

The Taint

Demontage

Revolution Man

Dominion

Unnatural History

Autumn Mist

Interference - Book One

Interference - Book Two

The Blue Angel

The Taking of Planet 5

Frontier Worlds

Parallel 59

The Shadows of Avalon

The Fall of Yquatine

Coldheart

The Space Age

The Banquo Legacy

The Ancestor Cell

The Burning

Casualties of War

The Turing Test

Endgame

Father Time

Escape Velocity

EarthWorld

Vanishing Point

Eater of Wasps

The Year of Intelligent Tigers

The Slow Empire

Dark Progeny

The City of the Dead

Grimm Reality

The Adventuress of Henrietta Street

Mad Dogs and Englishmen

Hope

Anachrophobia

Trading Futures

The Book of the Still

The Crooked World

History 101

Camera Obscura

Time Zero

The Infinity Race

The Domino Effect

Reckless Engineering

The Last Resort

Timeless

Emotional Chemistry

Sometime Never...

Halflife

The Tomorrow Windows

The Sleep of Reason

The Deadstone Memorial

To the Slaughter

The Gallifrey Chronicles

Telos Doctor Who novellas Edit

Rip Tide

Fallen Gods

The Eye of the Tyger

Short stories Edit

Short Trips Edit

Model Train Set

The People's Temple

Totem

Dead Time

Femme Fatale

The Queen of Eros

Growing Higher

Apocrypha Bipedium

Notre Dame du Temps

Gazing Void

Mordieu

The Glass Princess

A Good Life

Reversal of Fortune

Greenaway

Far from Home

Syntax

Jonah

The End

The Time Lord's Story

The Juror's Story

Repercussions...

Best Seller

Categorical Imperative

Thinking Warrior

The Ethereal

...Be Forgot

Evergreen

After Midnight

The Heroine, the Hero and the Megalomaniac

Before Midnight

Venus

Be Good for Goodness's Sake

Not in My Back Yard

The Long Midwinter

The Wickerwork Man

Dear John

Forgotten

Second Contact

DS Al Fine

Museum Peace

War in a Time of Peace

Lady of the Snows

Remain in Light

Osskah

Salva Mea

The Sorrows of Vienna

For the Man Who Has Everything

Faithful Friends: Part 3

They Fell

Decorative Purposes

From Little Acorns

One Fateful Knight

Epilogue

Doctor Who and the Adaptation of Death

Lonely

Nettles

Transmission Ends

Second Chances

Suns and Mothers

Companion

Illumination

Phoenix

Doctor Who Magazine Edit

Bafflement and Devotion

Puffin eshort Edit

Spore

Twelve Doctors of Christmas Edit

Ghost of Christmas Past

The Scientific Secrets of Doctor Who Edit

Natural Regression

Comics Edit

Radio Times Edit

Dreadnought

Descendance

Ascendance

Perceptions

Coda

Doctor Who Magazine Edit

Endgame

The Keep

A Life of Matter and Death

Fire and Brimstone

By Hook or By Crook

Tooth and Claw

The Final Chapter

Wormwood

Happy Deathday

The Fallen

The Road to Hell

TV Action!

The Company of Thieves

The Glorious Dead

The Autonomy Bug

Ophidius

Beautiful Freak

The Way of All Flesh

Children of the Revolution

Uroboros

Oblivion

Where Nobody Knows Your Name

Doctor Who and the Nightmare Game

The Power of Thoueris!

The Curious Tale of Spring-Heeled Jack

The Land of Happy Endings

Bad Blood

Sins of the Fathers

The Flood

Death to the Doctor!

The Stockbridge Child

IDW publishing Edit

Mini-series and one-shots Edit

The Forgotten

Prisoners of Time Edit

The Body Politic

Endgame

Doctor Who (2013) Edit

Dead Man's Hand

Titan Comics Edit

Doctor Who: The Eighth Doctor Edit

The Pictures of Josephine Day

Music of the Spherions

The Silvering

Briarwood

A Matter of Life and Death

Doctor Who: The Ninth Doctor Edit

Weapons of Past Destruction

Doctor Who: The Eleventh Doctor Edit

Year Two Edit

Pull to Open

Running to Stay Still

Supremacy of the Cybermen Edit

Prologue: The Eighth Doctor

#8th Doctor #doctor who #big finish #doctor Who novels #iris wildthyme #faction paradox #charley pollard #c'rizz #oh you know the rest

25 notes · View notes

deziraye · 7 years ago

Text

Number None

Nothin in my life was makin any sense, I was livin in constant distress Life kept leaving but I stayed 'safely' in my own head --- My sanity failing those -dumb- -recycled - -timeless- tests ~~~~~ Competing for color in a world stained black I proved I was 'the best' Then politely filed by way to the back Of the line, A line of robots stalled by Time. My mind wasn't ever mine To force To decide How I should and shouldn't bide Time Time Determined by clocks, Programmed by robots. Time Shouting a number To let you know you're behind You're missing your time to shine But, like, Did you get a chance to watch mine??? I ask the robots as I mosey back to the end of the line. No reply. They must not have the Time. the hands click Tick, tick, tick That beat reminds: You have to act quick; Stay put and stand tall! Or stay put and resist! The outcome will be the same! You're thinking too much and fearing pain As if your past will come back, As a present, The Present, Under your tree, nicely wrapped Tempting you to unwrap The bad memories Make your future your past And blame robots when your battery doesn't last! You've learned a lot about life, What was wrong was never right And you feared running away When you should of feared staying to fight. Winning the war gets you into the history books But they don't write about all the lies it took To cover up the blood on their hands All the way here from France. When we invaded Normandy, It was our ego to expand Across the Netherlands Not our humanity, not our integrity But our desire to relive The Legacy That we are taught to believe; A legacy of fiction, a legacy impossible to achieve But I'll be damned if I stand at the back of the line And watch all the robots in front of me Dab at their chances for The Victory Even though I see that Reality Is not the route we seek As we look to our make-believe Ancestors to take the lead! World, what do you want from me? I could drown in the sea, trying to relive The Odysseus... Get inspiration from the whales that don't actually eat me To share with my peers As they stick a fork in me. Maybe I'll be the next Present, nicely wrapped and under the tree. There I will wait Patiently For the next robot To take that leap. There I will wait Patiently For a new human To become a treat.

2 notes · View notes

drmorbius12 · 8 years ago

Text

Pale Horse

Where I Rat on Death

I've been thinking about Death a lot lately, not morbidly, but more like looking at a row of books, except in this case not just any set of books, however interesting they may be, but rather the books of my life, from beginning to now, filled with chapters recording each and every good and bad thing that's ever happened to me and that I have ever done, some dog-eared from repeated use, and some untouched and pristine. Hah, the story of my life.

I think about how my mother and father died, or how my ancestors died, either from natural causes, or from cancer or some other disease or accident, or from a broken heart. My parents had no siblings. They each had a nickname though. My mother was Dolly (Ardell), and my father was Bud (Wellington), or Buddy when he was little, and Budd when my mother would sometimes sign their names to letters, Christmas cards, or favored books they owned.

When I think of all the friends I've ever had whose parents I knew, I can't remember any that had a book collection like Bud and Ardell. They had a first edition Gone With the Wind, also an early edition of Alice in Wonderland, the Collected Works of Shakespeare, as well as a large collection of '40s and '50s Golden Age of Science Fiction, to name just a few I can still remember. I still have GWTW and The Foundation Trilogy in hardback. Others have long since gone into the aether. Funny in a way, books have their own life story too, with a beginning and an end, within and without, as well as in our minds. Unlike the simple books on my shelf however, the great books live on independently of you or I. Thanks be for that.

But I digress. I mentioned I've been thinking about Death, looking for constructive discourse really, perhaps even discursive in nature, wondering how people can be so absolutely convinced that the way they see things is the way things are, and no other is the truth; that they have life and death all figured out and there's nothing more to imagine.

-Shall I continue, or is this just colorless meandering, banal and meaningless, perhaps even offensive, going nowhere, serving no purpose?

-All right, I'll continue.

It seems Death is always hanging around somewhere near at hand, sly, waiting like some hood behind the school for some poor geek to unwittingly walk by, oblivious to Death's little set up, one hand insolently stuffed on a pocket, while flipping a switch blade with the other, making sharp metallic snaps, the handle crusted with the blood of some other poor sucker who made the same mistake yesterday. Almost like Death has it all figured out, gleefully pushing people off the set, sometimes with a gentle nudge, sometimes with a stiff arm to the back, watching as we fall from that impossibly high bridge, spread-eagled, our bungee cord snipped before we even knew it.

I wonder why, when everyone thinks they have the answer to where we go when we do leave this good Earth, they can't tell me where we were before we were born. It's as though we didn't exist before then, and yet, like the Big Bang, we get spewed out across the universe, wet and dripping from the cosmic birth canal, hurtling at the speed of light toward an unknown destination. Maybe that's why some people want to crawl back into the womb, thinking they might pass into that warm, weightless state, where time hasn't begun, dreaming endlessly into oblivion.

Somehow it doesn't seem fair really, that Death has so many faces, effortlessly morphing from one expression to the next, like the stranger who lures us with candy into a blood red paddy wagon, then speeding off into the foggy night, tires squealing, we are thrust back into the cold seat, unable to see where we're going because the van is windowless, and we realize with a sick feeling that the driver doesn't need windows anyway. I wonder what model vehicle Death would be driving... a nice new shiny car for the rich? Or an old donkey cart for the poor? I'm thinking a sleek black limo, because then Death could play the cool cat, in a slick chauffer's outfit, smugly hip, smirking with closed mouth, never letting us in on the secret.

-Shall I continue, or am I just tempting Death, insulting with my feeble wonderings, or drawing a guffaw at how blind I am?

- Why do I even ask?

Maybe Death likes to hang out on a limb, overlooking an abyss filled with human joy and misery, randomly choosing who goes next, poking us along with a stick, totally unconcerned with what we may think, the ultimate egotist, barefaced an raw, only taking, giving nothing. Perhaps Death actually is the bookends, defining a start and a finish, left on an infinite shelf, in a limitless library where the corridors do not intersect. What a temptation it must be, to bring down all that we've been and all that we are, thrusting us onto a pitiless roller coaster ride with no discernable track; the ultimate trip, that once begun, cannot be stopped.

Now I see Death as the Maestro, directing a dark symphony orchestra, the musicians all ghosts with instruments made of silly putty, blaring out a tune of their own, each unaware of the other, only looking up when the baton swoops down to signal a final crescendo of cacophonous sound, bringing on a silence so profound, that even Death must stand still for a microsecond, vibrating like a string, echoes receding into the distance.

Isn't Death so efficient and effective? Always ready to replace us with the next poor slob who comes along, meticulous as a Swiss watch, ticking off lives, heart beats, toe taps, and wise cracks. Like some merciless and terrible CEO riding the hands of a monstrous time clock, foul mouth blaring out endless orders, forcing us to march along, while riding on the back of a timeless vibration stolen from the very same atoms from which it is made.

-Shall I continue, or is it time to put up or shut up; stop paying lip service and embrace Death?

Umm, not just yet. I could use a little more time.

If only I could see Death for what it is, look into the depths of it's eyes, stand toe to toe and take it's measure, turn the tables by asking a few questions and doing a little poking around on my own. Gee, what if I poke Death too hard, or ask the one question Death is loath to answer, like: what is your point? Who does Death think it is slinking around like that, and on who's authority? Hitting on some poor soul, maybe even trying to get a date. Who would want to date Death anyway? A loser no doubt, chuckle, chuckle, snort, snort.

And who am I to squawk about it? A dog knows when it's his time. He'd simply trot off into the woods if you let him, never to be seen or heard from again. When animals die they don't complain, or rely on colorful personifications, there's no candy coating, no burial in a favorite suit. Just dig a hole, drop them in, maybe say a few feeble words, though perhaps heart felt, and then walk away.

What if Death is omnipresent, like... Santa Claus? Always watching to see if we've been naughty or nice, reading our wish list like it's a last will and testament, looking over our shoulder, filling up endless sticky notes with criticism. Go ahead Death, write all you want, you don't care anyway, so what's the fuss? Get down off your pale horse and mix with the rest of us, maybe discover a few things about yourself. You should be careful though. You might not like what you see. I know, I could wear a mirror on the back of my head, and then Death would have to look itself in the face when it comes to get me.

If I'm lucky, Death will run away screaming, and let me alone.

#death #death wish #limo #parents #ancestors #unknown #destiny #ultimate trip #tattletail #writerscreed #spilled ink #spilled words #creative writing #writers community #irony #ironic #satire

16 notes · View notes