#william wile

[anatomyofjamesyates]

[diioonysus]

art aesthetics: dark acadmia

[shipwreckedcomedy]

Come in, and get to know us better, man! 👻

Shipwrecked Comedy proudly presents: How to be a Ghost

Jacob Marley learns what it takes to make it in the afterlife.

Written & Created by Sean Persaud & Sinead Persaud Directed by William J. Stribling

CAST Jacob Marley - Sean Persaud Christmas Past - Mary Kate Wiles Christmas Present - Sinéad Persaud Christmas Yet to Come - Parissa Koo Narrator - Sammy Paul

Assistant Director: Nick Dugan Production Assistant: Matthew Pinkney

Executive Producers: Michael Walsh, Jane Leach Produced by: Sean Persaud, Sinead Persaud, Mary Kate Wiles

Director of Photography: Devin Hassan First Assistant Camera: Nic Palermo

Production Designer: J.P. Gagen Costume Designer: Morgan Gannes Hair and Makeup Artist: Hayley Orozco Choreography: Lauren Lopez

Edited by: Raymond Fraser

Original Music by: Dylan Glatthorn Original Lyrics by: Dylan Glatthorn, Sean Persaud, and Sinead Persaud Production Sound Mixer: Will Kioultzopoulos Re-Recording Mixer: Noah Hunt Audio Song Recorded at Noah Hunt Audio Song Mixed by Dylan Glatthorn

Special Thanks - Tom DeTrinis & the IAMA Theatre Company, Hugo's Tacos, American Black Market, Brent Madison, Brian Henderson, Matt Amys

Made possible by: Katie Adamczyk, Julia Arnold, Heather Attewell, Michael Baker, Anna Beale, Carrie Bouwman, Kaci Burrow, John Callender, Miles Collier, Janel Christensen, Kelsey Fink, Madi Flesch, Bernadette Kovacs, Alicia Lomas-Gross, Avalee Long, Erin Hawley, Mary Lyszczarz, Jill May, Desiree McLaughlin, Halle Merrick, Sharon Messmore, William Miller, Meghan Morris, Kelly O'Neil, Lisel Perrine, Viivi Pyykkö, Halsea Root, Rodger Samuel, Emily Scheerer, Deborah Shapiro, Lindsey Stewart, Rebecca Stockman, Emma Tulip, Annie Vaccaro, Abigail Vanderhoff, Justin Waterman, Kylie Wells, Christina Wentz, Cassie Wojcik

[tads-eggs]

i cba to crop them properly but these are the best ones i could find, it's pretty weird looking back at my old art, when i first drew them they looked a lot better to me then than they do now 😅

[heatherfield]

#He’s right and he should say it

Headless: A Sleepy Hollow Story, Behind the Scenes “From Action to Cut” [x]

[scenesandscreens]

The X-Files: Fight the Future (1998)

Director - Rob Bowman, Cinematography - Ward Russell

"Trust no one, Mr. Mulder."

[duranduratulsa]

Up next on my 90's Fest Movie 🎬 🎞 🎥 🎦 📽 marathon...Major Payne (1995) on glorious vintage VHS 📼! #movie #movies #comedy #MajorPayne #nickcastle #damonwayans #KarynParsons #orlandobrown #EddieKayeThomas #stevenmartini #daniendantewayons #chrisowen #BamBamBigelow #andrewleeds #markwmadison #josephblaire #michaelironside #williamhickey #ripwilliamhickey #deanlorey #rstephenwiles #rjknoll #peytonchessonfohl #stephencoleman #vintage #VHS #90s #90sfest #durandurantulsas4thannual90sfest

[wileroadfoolery]

[incorrectlooneytunesquotes]

The essence of genius is to know what to overlook.

Wile E. Coyote

[badmovieihave]

Bad movie I have Rock Star 2001

[therealmrpositive]

The X Files (1998)

In today's review, I seek out the truth whether on the big screen or small. As I attempt a #postive review of the 1998 movie sequel of The X Files #DavidDuchovny #GillianAnderson #MartinLandau #BlytheDanner #ArminMuellerStahl #MitchPileggi #WilliamBDavis

Through the eyes of the T.V., the cinema screen might seem like a liberating creative field. Arguably more prestigious, commanding bigger budgets for bigger scripts and bigger effects. If you’ve got an idea and need a big enough venue to showcase it, the cinema screen might be your best bet. In 1998, as the show was left on a perilous cliffhanger, the adventures of Mulder and Scully would leap to…

[krispyweiss]

Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Day One, Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, Calif., Oct. 4, 2024

Lucinda Williams was not at Day One of Hardly Strictly Bluegrass. But Chuck Prophet, Ismay, Steve Earle and Kelly Willis - joined by Willis’ Wonder Women of Country bandmates Melissa Carper and Brennen Leigh - brought Williams’ spirit to the Banjo stage as the Songs from a Gravel Road Band.

They opened the festival guitar-pull style, trading such numbers as “I Just Wanted to See You So Bad” (Wonder Women), “2 Kool 2 Be 4-Gotten” (Earle) and “Crescent City” (Prophet) before ending with an all-hands-on-deck rendering of “All the Way to Jackson” a little shy of their scheduled 45 minutes of stage time.

Lindsay Lou followed on the Arrow stage sporting white shades and yellow flowers on her mic stand, into which she sang hilarious band introductions and turned them into a magnificent song of their own.

Lou and the all-woman, voices-of-goddesses Queen of Time Band - featuring Isa Burke on electric guitar and violin plus a rhythm section - used their 45 minutes to play a mix of Huffamoose-styled jazz, folk, rock and weepy country music as they offered up songs from the LP for which the band is named (“Nothing Else Matters”) and from across Lou’s discography (“Roll with Me”). And then they were off to catch a flight to the next festival.

So the Sound Biteses flew off to the Swan stage as the harmony-rich strains of the aforementioned Wonder Women wafted from the Banjo …

“… We’re going to slow it down a little bit,” the self-deprecating Milk Carton Kids said from the Swan, where they played their not-quite-ready-for-a-free-festival folk music for a large audience mixed with listeners and talkers. Those who shut their mouths and opened their ears were treated to the sonic heirs of Simon & Garfunkel - except funnier.

“It’s very hard to write a song on banjo without killing a person in the song,” Kenneth Pattengale said as he played a set heavy on selections from I Only See the Moon - and going all the back to “Michigan” - with fellow Kid Joey Ryan.

Surrounded by Golden Highway on the Banjo stage, Molly Tuttle recalled seeing her heroes as a child from the Hardly Strictly grass with her dad. And getting offered a pot brownie while at the festival with her mom.

“Your mom brought you all the way here just to offer you a pot brownie?,” banjoist Kyle Tuttle (no relation) asked incredulously and jokingly.

Playing high-energy, traditional-yet-modern bluegrass, the quintet offered a highly-apropos “White Rabbit” for the San Francisco audience; “San Francisco Blues,” meanwhile, was Tuttle’s waltzing paean to the hometown she left for Tennessee. “Down Home Dispensary” and “Dooley’s Farm” were Tuttle’s amped-up homages to ganja.

She doffed her wig for “Crooked Tree,” a song about what makes Tuttle, who has alopecia, and San Francisco, different - and so very special. Golden Highway received a rousing standing ovation at the end of their 55-minute set.

Sleater-Kinney provided the pre-show soundtrack to Cat Power Sings Dylan ’66 as their kinetic Swan-stage set flooded the field in front of Towers of Gold.

Immediately following their set, Power was barely audible as she sung “She Belongs to Me.” Power was like a whispering specter, guitar and harmonica nearly inaudible, causing Mr. and Mrs. Sound Bites to give up after a few songs only to find excellent sound at the Swan, where “It’s All over Now, Baby Blue” and “Mr. Tambourine Man” were as clear as bells behind where the music was being played.

A half-hour later, the strains of the full-band “Ballad of a Thin Man” could be heard a mile away on the JFK Promenade as Power wrapped her set.

10/5/24

[diioonysus]

objects in art: instruments

[shipwreckedcomedy]

The first look at Shipwrecked Comedy's The Case of the Greater Gatsby - a new audio narrative coming July 26th!

THE CASE OF THE GREATER GATSBY Written and created by Sean Persaud and Sinead Persaud Directed by William J. Stribling Produced by Sean Persaud, Sinead Persaud, and Mary Kate Wiles Recorded by Ears Up Audio and Noah Hunt Audio Edited by Lizzie Goldsmith Music by Dylan Glatthorn

FEATURING Sean Persaud as Ford Phillips and Jimmy Stewart Sinead Persaud as Fig Wineshine Curt Mega as The Announcer Mary Kate Wiles as Vivian Nightingale Matthew Mercer as Officer Mo Beats Brian Rosenthal as Rex Punchwhistle Julia Cho as Sheilah Graham Sarah Grace Hart as Wilhelmina Vanderjetski Dante Swain as Bixby Crane Tommy Hobson as Barnaby Nightingale Lauren Lopez as Penny Nickelpenny Lesli Margherita as Mel Hammermeister Tom DeTrinis as Cliff Calloway Joanna Sotomura as Claudette Knickerbocker Joey Richter as Dash Gunfire

Video edited by Sean Persaud, featuring clips from "The Case of the Gilded Lily," shot by Alex Gallitano

Kickstarted by 921 accomplished sleuths

[fantasticalbits]

If anyone knows of any "reliable, independent" coverage of Shipwrecked (especially if it's a fairly high-profile source) (ideally articles about Shipwrecked projects but any source that mentions Shipwrecked such as an interview with a cast member would also do), I might be collating a list....nooo reason...just seeing how much there is...just in case...

Out of curiosity: Has anyone tried to make a Wikipedia page for Shipwrecked and had it deleted for not meeting notability requirements? Because unless that happened in the last year, I feel like there are enough outside sources at this point that there's a decent chance they'd be covered.

[hier--soir]

sun don't set

ellie williams x f!reader

rating: sfw, not explicit summary: life in the little house is calm - quiet. days pass in a blur of fruit and sunshine and companionship. slow mornings, afternoons, and evenings. ellie is slowly rediscovering her love for music, and on that journey, she writes a song about you. warnings/tags: late twenties ellie, set years after the events of tlou2, no spoilers or discussions of plot points in tlou2 - except perhaps the description of an old injury but the way it happened isn't described, established wlw relationship, food and eating, brief description of skinning animals for food, soft soft soft ellie. word count: 1.3k masterlist a/n: this short little thing poured out of me after a nice sunny day and it's maybe one of the softest, sweetest things i've ever written. a slice of life type thing based on the happy ending i hope ellie got x [ALSO the song ellie sings is ronnie's song by odie leigh]

The little house lives in the basin of a valley, circled by sycamore boughs and juniper bushes.

A shallow stream trickles close by.

In the mornings, you eat berries drizzled in honey, sipping warm tea while watching the water. The air is still and quiet, filled only with the sounds of the dribbling brook and teeth sinking into ripe fruit. The first rays of sun arrive and they are safe and warm against your skin, and time moves slowly. Gently.  

You sit on the patio in chairs that she built. Ones that creak and whimper as your weight settles upon them; rickety wood and worn old nails. On the armrest, hers or yours, fingers catch and hold. Thumbs and indexes and pinkies looped together.

In the afternoons, she peels an orange. Spindly fingers tear thick skin, pulling apart perfect segments of flesh – one for you, one for her, one for you, one for her. Together you bite and chew and swallow, jaws and mouths and teeth working in sync. In the silence, you relish the feeling of tasting this together. That burst of juice across your tongues. Wisps of pulp that catch in the cracks of your incisors.

When it’s warm you splay out on the grass, stretching and purring like two cats in the sun. She’s a calico, splotches of white and brown and beige, and you’re a tabby, mottled streaks of burnt orange – wiling away what’s left of your nine lives together.

In the evenings, she returns from her walk. Some days empty handed, others with rabbit or duck or deer trailing behind her. On those days you sit with your knees pressed together, sharp knives peeling back hair and skin and feathers. You eat as the air turns cooler and the sun sets over the hill, an almost endless—always wondrous—burst of oranges and pinks that taint the sky before it turns to black.

Often, you turn in first. Tuck yourself away inside the little house, swathed in blankets; keeping her side of the bed warm. Alone, she reaches for the guitar. Takes it outside and closes the door behind her, so that those soft melodies won’t carry to your ears. With heavy eyelids, your ears pique and strain, eager to listen. But she must stray further than the patio, for you never hear a thing.

Time passes and she joins you soon enough. Her long limbs coil around yours beneath the covers; cold toes press into the skin of your calves. Her hand on your back, those fingers tracing a tickling portrait. The tip of your nose rests in the base of her neck and you breathe in the scent of pine and rosemary and honey on her skin. In the darkness, sinking into her warmth, you feel tenderness thicken the lining of your throat. And together you sleep; at peace knowing that another morning awaits you.

Ellie found the guitar in your fourth year together. Deep brown, layered in dust, the sound hole and fretboard decorated with cobwebs. She didn’t say a word as she slung it over her back and carried it the entire way to the little house. Didn’t offer any explanation when she stashed it away in an empty room. And when you caught her one night, long after sunset, wiping away the dust and tightening the strings, you didn’t ask any questions. Didn’t ask if she was thinking about him – you already knew the answer.  

“It’s hard,” she told you one morning, lips and chin shining with berry juice. “Learning how to play again. How to play… like this.”

Your fingers ghost over the palm of her left hand, splayed on the armrest of her chair. Tracing lines and scars on pale skin until you reach the shortened stumps of her ring and pinkie finger.

“Sometimes the hardest things,” you pick up her hand and lay a soft kiss to each finger, lingering a little longer on those two. “Are the things most worth doing.”

She hums a short response, eyes trained on where your lips touch her skin. Then her hand cups your jaw and brings your face to meet hers, and she smears the taste of blueberries into your mouth.

It’s not until a morning in your fifth year together that you hear it for the first time.

She wanders in from the chicken coop, white and brown eggs cradled in the well of her palms. The wind tousles that short auburn hair, loosening it from behind her ears, and carries her voice through the door to you.

“She’s my… I’m… she’s a coffee cup, I’m tea.”

Your fingers still against the page of your book, and you glance up as she walks through the door, still murmuring under her breath.

“What’s that?” you smile.

“Eggs?” She holds them up, eyebrows pinched defensively—secretively.  

“Ellie,” you laugh. Dog ear the page of your book and tuck it away on the kitchen counter. She nestles the eggs carefully into a bowl and sidles up beside you, hooking an ankle neatly around yours.

“It’s nothing,” her nose brushes against the apple of your cheek, lips chapped and dry from the morning air as they lay a kiss to your jaw. “How do you want your eggs? I’ll make a fire.”

Months pass after that, and you hear it as she bathes. Hear it as she hangs your socks on the clothesline.

“She’s the salt,” she sings faintly. “And I’m the sea.”

Hear it as she builds her arrows, hunched over the table, tired fingers fiddling. Hear it grumbled through a mouthful of mint as she brushes her teeth.

“She’s a dog, and I’m her fleas.”  

One day in Summer you walk together, following that little stream all the way to the lake. You hear it then too. Softly, under her breath, your hand held loosely in hers as the sun turns her shoulders pink.

“If she’s creamer, then I’m jooooe,” the voice you love purrs, her thin lips pursing and parting as she drags out the vowel. “Sun don’t set, wherever we go.”

And then one night, as the two of you sit admiring the sky and all of its pinks and blues and yellows and oranges, you abandon your chair for hers. Slink two steps across the patio and into her lap, welcoming the way her arms drape around your shoulders. She kisses the bone at the top of your spine, the sloping side of your neck, and watches the sky from over your shoulder.

And then she sings quietly, her voice a delicate and hoarse thing against the back of your head.

“She’s a pistol.” A breath in and a breath out. “I’m a bow.”

“Is that from your song?” you ask, voice a hushed whisper. Scared to break the softness of the moment; the sunset trance that rests in a warm shroud over the patio.  

“Hmm?” she murmurs. You feel her lips trail the shell of your ear, the edge of your jaw. You shiver and go lax in her lap.

“Will you sing me your song?” you say louder, eyes focused on the waning horizon.

“My song?” Ellie laughs. One of her hands slips from your shoulder to play with the hairs at the nape of your neck. Twisting a strand around her finger and tugging gently. “It’s your song, babe.”

“Well, I’d like to hear it,” you murmur, and you can hear the smile in your own voice. “Properly, I mean.” Feel the heat that rises in your neck at the mere thought of it. Your song.  

“What about…” she says, fingers thrumming a beat against your stomach now. “What if I sing it for you in the morning? I think it’ll be warm. Sunny. We can see if those strawberries you planted are ready to eat.”

You consider it for a moment—her lips stained pink; eyes bright as she croons your song in the morning sunshine.  

“With the guitar too?”

A pause.

“With the guitar,” she agrees.

You nod once and turn to kiss her. Smile into her mouth.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Strawberries and my song in the morning.”

thank you for reading! x