#wood varnish price

[starry-eyedblog]

(comes up to the mic and taps it)

john price is a hatefuck enjoyer *

(steps away from mic and disappears into the shadows)

* actually enjoys arguing on the dl because he knows how to segue it into a hatefuck sesh and of course, the lazy, postcoital make up sex afterwards WOOPS!

omg yes anon, thank you for coming out of the shadows with this beautiful idea. i hope i did it justice <33

warnings/tags: john price x reader, 18+ smut, hatefucking, rough sex, makeup sex

i can just imagine how gleeful he feels when in an argument, watching the anger building in your eyes. he loves watching your arms fly all over the place to try get your point across, so caught up in your anger with him that you don't notice the way he stalks over.

and then before you know it, he's shoving you down onto his desk with his lips pressed against yours. a surprised muffled gasp leaves you, eyes wide and body squirming in his grip. once he pulls away from your lips, you smack his chest. "what the fuck do you think you're doing? you think getting into my underwear means i'll forgive you?"

he'll laugh, smirking down at you. "not askin' for you to forgive me right now, look too hot all worked up. c'mon, keep yellin' at me - gets me hard."

you let out an almost disgusted sound at his confession but you can't hide the way your underwear grows slick and damp. queue to the both of you going at it like fucking bunnies over his desk, still yelling and hissing at one another about whatever the argument was about.

it's messy and fierce, john setting a bruising pace that has you gripping at the wood, nails scratching the varnish off. and as the rough fucking continues, the both of you are unable to keep up the shouts and insults, too lost in how good the other feels.

once the both of you have came, panting heavily - john will apologise, pressing a kiss to your head while pulling out slowly.

oh but the lazy postcoital make up sex? it leaves you in tears. it's so soft and slow, barely puling away from the others lips and when you do, it's to murmur sweet praises and apologies.

he moves you over to the big worn out leather couch in his office, spooning you from behind with both strong arms wrapped securely around you. his hips lazily bucking into you and grinding in, taking his time. you'll hold one of his hands, intertwining and locking your fingers together, wishing to be even closer somehow.

and he'll make you cum before him, just as an extra apology for riling you up earlier. will he do it again though? oh absolutely, you're just too hot when you're yelling at him.

[lailoken]

Raffle: Braided Crabapple Stave (CLOSED)

This raffle is for a unique Stave of braided, thorny wood that harvested from a 120+ year old Crabapple tree. It measures approximately 34 inches/86 centimeters in length and 1.5 inches/4 centimeters wide at its thickest point.

After initially acquiring the rare specimen in question, I went about curing the wood, smoothing the ends, and cleaning up some ragged branch stumps. While I usually debark pieces of this sort before working on them, the particular helical structure and profusion of thorns made me worried about being able to strip and sand the piece without damaging it. As such, I instead gave it a thin coat of handmade Dragon's Blood varnish to help stabilize and prime the wood, and then went about staining the entire piece using a polymerized oil pigment I make from Hearth Soot (Creosote) harvested from the interior of our Wood Stove. I applied layer after layer of the pigment until the bark was thoroughly coated and preserved, then used a cloth and my homemade Wisefool’s Oil (a ritually crafted oil of empowerment that also serves as a wonderful wood conditioner) to polish away the excess, before sealing the piece with my personally developed Wisefool's Glaze (a ritually empowered wood varnish made from an array of potent arboreal resins.) Finally, I gave the stave one last protective coating of polyurethane and suffumigated it with a smoke of Apple Blossoms and Dragon's Blood in a simple rite of hallowing.

While the retail price for this item is $200, I am taking the risk of setting up this raffle, in hopes that it might aid me in raising enough money to help us ease the cost of emergency surgery my dog required recently.

Tickets are $5 a piece, each assigned a number, and you can purchase up to three of them. To purchase a ticket, simply use the link below and follow the provided instructions. You will be asked to make an account and fill in your payment details, which will allow the raffle to email you your entry information, as well as automatically notifying the winner when the time comes. Participants are more than welcome to deactivate their accounts following the raffle. A random number generator will be used after ten days' time in order to determine which ticket number is the winner.

Thank you, truly and sincerely, to anyone and everyone who takes part! Please feel free to let me know if you come up against any issues! And as an aside—even if you don't end up entering the raffle, I'm sure that sharing it would still be helpful. :~)

Raffle Link: ☆

[silasjulian]

hey y'all! I'm excited to show you these two fruity T4T collages I've been working on. here's individual posts of the first collage and second collage!

they're on 12x12 inch cradled wood panels with a depth of 7/8ths of an inch. I used acrylic paint, scrapbook paper, various magazines, adhesive medium, and satin finish varnish. I've gotten into leaving the paint on the sides/back of my collages, sanding it smooth, then varnishing over it instead of just painting over it with black!

they're being sold strictly as a set! if you’d like them, they're on my etsy together under one listing for $325 with free shipping in the US or you can message me about it here and have them for $275 with free shipping in the US! if you’re outside the US then I will need to calculate the price for you but I’ll discount it by the average price for shipping it within the US.

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

I totally love ur interpretation of alphas smelling kinda nasty it's not my thing but it's very cool and fun!!! (Pls share where you disagree with me I love hearing other opinions)

For some reason to me, omega! Price is fresh baked bread. Like it just seems correct to me idk why

Beta! Price is herbal. Maybe w some very slight powdery notes. But mostly like tea and old books. The smell is on the warmer side even tho I tend to see beta scents as more... cold? If that makes any sense

Alpha! Price is either a sharp, pine scent. Like a Christmas tree farm. OOOOOR this really yummy perfume I have called Jazz Club by replica. It's such a good scent and I feel like either price or ghost fit the vibe of it.

-🔪

Interesting!!! Also Pine Price? Yes yes??!??! 🫵🫵🫵

(I will be highjacking this to post my own hcs!)

(UPDATED) The 141's Scents in an A/B/O AU: Depending on Presentation

Follow-up on these two posts:

As a reminder, these two posts follow a theory of mine that:

Alphas smell so strong and overpowering, bordering on just smelling Bad™️;

Betas smell natural and comforting (average, no major complaints);

Omegas smell sickly sweet and so overwhelming it could make someone ill.

Johnny

Omega Johnny smells like the syrup that surrounds and preserves canned fruit. Canned peaches especially.

Beta Johnny smells like the sea. Salt water, seaweed… that kind of thing.

Alpha Johnny smells like shoe shiner, or another product like that. Maybe wet paint or varnish?

Kyle

Omega Kyle smells like something warm and cosy and gooey that melts in your mouth. My brain is saying honey or honeycomb, caramel or toffee maybe?.

Beta Kyle smells like freshly cut grass, and ivy. Especially when the freshly cut grass is damp too.

Alpha Kyle smells like nearly vinegary and acidic. The best way I can say it is... strong wine that has just started fermenting.

Simon

Omega Simon smells like talc/baby powder. Makes you wanna bury your face in him and sniff like you do to a newborn baby.

Beta Simon smells like old books with yellowed pages. Not necessarily musty or bad.

Alpha Simon smells of black pepper.

ALTERNATIVELY:

Omega Ghost wears scent blockers. You'd never know what he smells like because he doesn't let you. (It's vanilla sugar)

Beta Ghost smells of freshly carved wood furniture, unfinished and unvarnished, still full of splinters and rough edges.

Alpha Ghost smells strongly of burning. Like a campfire, a forest fire, maybe gasoline or sulphur.

John

Omega John smells like lemon merengue. Sickly sweet and tangy at once, with a softness that melts in your mouth.

Beta John smells like a forest, maybe a rain forest, but I could also see him smell of pine and very obviously so. But the kind of pine that people sometimes mistake for mint?

Alpha John smells like rusted iron and dirt... Which a lot of people confuse with fresh blood. Especially when he's angry and his scent mutates.

[wallwriterstuff]

Fault lines ||FosterDad!John Price x Teen!Simon Riley|| Part 5

Warnings: This is a fairly accurate representation of a Child Planning Meeting used to assess need and put supports in place for children who are struggling at home and/or at school. Swearing. Trauma responses. Mentions of violence and mental, emotional and physical abuse. Discussion of child services. Mentions of mental health and learning disability diagnoses.

Words: 4836

Summary: As John tries to put support in place to get Simon into school (and back to some sort of normalcy), the push back he gets shows just how much Simon is bottling up.

<-Part 4: Paint Over The Cracks

John hasn’t been in a place like this for decades, but the place smells familiar. The varnish on old wood and the faded, aged paint chipping off the wall in places throws him back to a time that he knows he lived through but feels separate from. John Price knows he went to secondary school, but the Jonathon Price who excelled at being mediocre in his classes feels very far away from the grizzled SAS Captain whose best asset was always his mind first, his weapon second. There’s this hum of noise that occupies the building, rumbles through the walls, a vault of stories waiting to be told and lives waiting to be lead that’s bursting at the seams. John remembered that feeling well; the feel of being confined by four walls and a test grade was etched into his marrow, fed that itch that had spurred him into the military when his parents had pushed for a University application.

It was the feel of a prison cell.  

“Mr Price?” The receptionist is middle-aged, smiles kindly, is overly polite, but her eyes scream at him to fuck off and let her work in peace. The documentation required to transfer Simon to this school had been a pain to collate and fill out, but John had painstakingly triple-checked every detail before handing it over to her for processing today. Simon’s about as settled as he’s going to get right now and the school’s have taken a while to get back to him about his application for a place, so Price considers himself lucky that he’s only had to wait a little over a month to enrol Simon. Old instincts flare when a sudden flood of people enter the corridor with him. Pupils spill from classrooms as he’s lead along a corridor and up some stairs, the loud chatter and laughter of raucous teenagers gossiping and laughing and loving and hating keeping his head on a swivel. It’d be easy to disappear in a crowd like this.

I can’t let Simon slip through the cracks.

“Oi Robocop! Gi’us your hat yeah?”

“Andrews! That’s not how we talk to visitors. Grow some hair and you won’t need someone else’s hat.”

“Ooohhh!”

“Mr McKay that’s well savage.”

Price shakes his head, ignores the little snotter and follows the receptionist into a meeting room. A tall, lean man with tired eyes and a cornflower blue tie stands to greet him and shake his hand. He’s got a laptop open in front of him and the lady across from him has an Ipad open in her lap. She’s blonde, bobbed hair and cappuccino eyes set in a young face that he thinks Simon’s demons will eat alive if given half a chance. The only other person with them is an older gentleman with laughter lines deeper than a canyon and the kind of gentle smile Price has learned to distrust over the years. He’s too cynical to believe everyone’s good at heart anymore. He tries to be more open-minded.

“Afternoon Mr Price, it’s good to meet you face to face. I’m Owen Croft, we spoke on the phone.” Price is glad when the head teacher finally stops shaking his hand – the clamminess was starting to irk him. He gives a polite nod to the two other members of staff in the room before taking his seat, pulling off the beanie and ruffling his hair a bit to let it settle. He’s been in a Child Planning Meeting before but, well, the last few kids he’s fostered haven’t had quite as large a history as Simon does. He pulls his own notepad and papers from his backpack and watches the way the older man’s eyes flick to it briefly. He can almost sense the relief in them, like the fact that their sitting there with someone who has actually has a clue is a rarity. Price gets a sneaking suspicion it is.

“Right, we’re going to start off by introducing ourselves and then we can talk through a plan to help integrate Simon into the Littlewood Academy family.” Owen Croft is far too cheery for the subject matter he thinks. “I’m Owen Croft, and I’m the Headteacher here at Littlewood Academy.” He turns his eyes next to the blonde woman who gives another one of those friendly smiles that his cynicism hates. He tamps down the irritation and mentally prepares himself for whatever the next hour might bring. He’s hoping it brings the biscuits down from the shelf behind Owen Croft.

“I’m Michaela Morris, and I’ll be Simon’s form tutor this year.” Price gives a nod of acknowledgement.

“I’m Thomas Edwards and I’m Support for Learning at Littlewood.” The older man tips his head towards him and Price gives another nod, feeling his own gut tighten.

“John Price…Simon’s foster carer.” It feels strange to acknowledge it out loud. He’s known from the start of course, but he’s been so busy being in the thick of it with the kid that he’s never really took the time to acknowledge his role in Simon’s journey. Owen smiles encouragingly and Price resists the urge to roll his eyes at him. He’s no unruly teen that needs a guiding hand anymore. The years haven’t been kind, and he sits before them now an assertive and grizzled old man ready to fight on a different kind of battlefield, the bureaucratic kind. Just you try and stop me helping this kid, just try.

“Okay. What we’re trying to do in this meeting today is establish a plan for enrolling Simon to our school. Today’s meeting is going to be focused on creating an accurate profile of his needs so we can support him the best way possible. So, John, can we start with a bit of background about how Simon came into your care and what’s been going well for you at home so far?” Owen has his hands folded near the laptop, poised and ready to type but giving the impression he’s fully listening. Price weighs each word in his mind carefully. There’s a lot to tell since Laswell’s last visit and he’s not really sure where to start with it all. Maybe the phone call that brought Simon to him?

“Simon has a younger brother, Tom. He took on a caring role and it was his wish for the boys to remain together but…welfare concerns don’t permit it. Simon found their mother. He’s seen a lot in the last 24 hours.”

Owen takes diligent notes, as does Thomas, and Price finds the feeling addictive. It’s a lot, to hold someone else’s trauma, and it spills over one edge into the next like a champagne tower cascading from him to them. Perhaps it’s the not the phone call he needs to start with but everything leading up to it. Maybe he needs them to know Simon starved to feed his younger brother when poverty kept food on store shelves and not in their kitchen cupboards. Perhaps they need to know of the level of abuse his father subjected him to, from bringing dangerous animals into the house to making him witness overdoses in seedy bathrooms at concerts a young boy should never have been at. Maybe it’s the manipulation of his relationships with Tommy, a brother he loves so dearly doted on by their dad until Tommy became just like him and bullied him to.

No, no the separation of the siblings is another issue. Price’s head spins with it all. They only need to know the labels, not the specifics, he thinks.

“He er, he found his mother after she was murdered. Dad was taken into custody for it and the boys got placed into foster care. Simon came to me, his younger brother was placed with another carer. Investigation since has turned up evidence of a lot of mental, emotional, and physical abuse towards both boys, but mainly Simon.” His answer is polite, professional, but inside he’s straining under the weight of holding it all in. They don’t need to know everything, just the challenges and working supports, he reminds himself. Simon’s story is compelling to tell and he wants to shout it from the rooftops, condemn Thomas Riley for everything he ever did to his sons and make the entire damn country wake up and realise what’s happening to its kids behind closed doors. It’s not his role or place to do that though. His job is to advocate for Simon, not use him as some moral fable or example of a failing system to force change.  

“He has a younger brother?” Michaela, is tapping at her Ipad to and the clacking of keyboards pounds like war drums in his head. Simon would hate having these strangers know all of this but it’s the only way to get him the support he needs. It still feels like a betrayal and it makes Price’s gut clench.

“He does.” He confirms.

“Is there a family plan in place? Visits?” Owen questions, eyes probing. Price slowly shakes his head, mind drifting back to Laswell’s recent visit and the meltdown it had caused. He thinks it would have probably been easier to tell the President World War 3 had been declared than it was to tell Simon that he wasn’t able to see Tommy again for a while. He’d not seen Simon as the emotional type before that night; the boy kept his emotions neatly tucked away, all compartmentalised with a daily rota of which emotion he could display and when. Laswell telling him he couldn’t see Tommy had a similar effect to tectonic plates slipping against one another, the grinding friction building and building until it exploded into an earthquake that shook his whole house. Well, the doorframe perhaps, after Simon slammed the door hard enough to crack the wood. Maybe the floorboards to from where he’d thrown the furniture about.

“No. Social services have decided it’s in the boys best interests to remain separated for now.” Price said.

“Of course they did,” Thomas shook his head, looking pitying, “It’s ludicrous how many siblings get split when there’s evidence that shows siblings have better outcomes when they’re kept together.” Price feels his face pinch and before he can stop himself he’s on the attack, a vicious guard dog coming to Simon’s defence. He’s only 8 minutes into the damn meeting. It’s a new record.

“Unless welfare concerns stipulate otherwise. Their relationship was completely pathologized. Tommy was favoured by their dad and became exactly like him. Simon took on caring responsibilities for Tommy and was so blinded by that side of their relationship that he couldn’t see his brother was abusing him just as much as their bloody dad. So no, it’s not in their best interest to keep them together. Simon needs a chance to be a kid, not a carer, and he’s done his time as a moving target.” There, that should set the record straight. Thomas is silent enough that Price thinks the point definitely hit home. It feels almost cathartic to have someone take the brunt of his anger, and he is angry, so angry, that Simon had to live through any of this bullshit.

“The night we picked them up Simon was trying to keep Tommy away from their father, but the kid wouldn’t leave him be, talking about how “the bitch had it coming” and mocking Simon about the fact he couldn’t cry to her anymore whenever he was mean to him.”

“Fucking Christ Laswell…what a little psychopath.”

Maybe not his most professional response but if the shoe fits…

“Okay so, things that have been going well at home?” Owen gently guided the conversation to something better and Price glanced to his notepad. His chicken scratch was barely legible and Simon had snorted when he’d seen it. The conversation had been…interesting. Simon didn’t give away much, but he’d told him a few things he liked about living with him. Price wasn’t sure if he really meant it or was just saying what he thought he wanted to hear but it made him feel better to think he was serious. For all of his personality traits it was Simon’s observational skills he somewhat admired most, born out of vicious necessity tragically but giving him the comfort to know that Simon was never going to be played by any old idiot.

“We’ve established a good routine. Dinner at the same time, lights out, calm time before it. I spoke to the doctor’s a few times to and Simon’s got melatonin to help him sleep, so he’s getting a full nights rest now. There’s been chronic bed wetting but we’ve found ways of managing it. Simon said he likes his yes basket for all his snacks to and playing with my dog, Riley.” Price glanced about as more tapping echoed in his ears. There were other small wins but he kept those to himself, little successes to cherish that didn’t need boasting about at this stage. They’d painted together just last week. Simon had willingly let him into his space, been open to spending time with him, and they’d talked a bit as they worked and got to know one another more. It was one of the first real conversation Price felt he’d managed to have with the boy. He’d left feeling better about his ability to cook anyway once Simon had declared his Bolognaise was the best he’d ever tasted. Sure, the kid was comparing it to a microwave meal but…well he’d take his wins where he could get them.   

Challenges were of more interest to the staff members though. He could see them all perk up like hungry dogs salivating at a steak. Simon wasn’t a steak. He admired it, the thought that they could be the one to turn this kids life around – hell he’d once thought the same. The truth was…trauma had no timeline. Some kids would make no progress despite every support and the best will in the world for the next 20 years. Others might flip on a dime and heal quite a lot in 5. It wasn’t about any single one of them at that table but the team they were creating. Simon didn’t need a hero, he needed an army, and Price would be damned if he didn’t spearhead it. If Simon looked back in 20 years time and remembered him fondly then he’d have done his job right.

“Simon’s not big on talking but the few times he has his language gets…colourful. I imagine that’ll carry into the classroom. He prefers to be isolated in his room a lot, likes the quiet, so I think he’d benefit from having a breakout space.” Price pauses, wondering how to word the latest meltdown he’d had as Owen nods along and types like the cat that got the canary.

“A breakout space is something we can definitely provide. Thomas’s support for learning room is also used as a Quiet Hub for our young people who need time to regulate on their own.” Owen informed him.

“I run a lunch club there to so if Simon finds the playground tricky, he could come and eat with the small group I’ve got going.” Thomas piped up, smiling genially. Price almost scoffed at the hopeful look on his face, knowing full well that Simon wasn’t going to be his best bud just because he had a table and probably those bean bags that were never quite stuffed full enough to be comfortable. He could safely say with certainty right now that Simon was probably going to hate Thomas Edwards – the boy didn’t do bullshit smiles and probing questions into his emotional state.

“Is there anything else you can think of specifically that will need supported? Any diagnosis perhaps? I know you mentioned that there’s a PTSD diagnosis in the works but I’m thinking other things like autism, ADHD etc.” Owen questioned and Price paused a little. He tilted his head.

“There’s no official diagnosis for any of those things, no, but…I see some traits of ASD.” Price admitted.

“Like what?” Michaela asked.

“He thrives on a stable routine, he’s at his calmest when he knows what’s happening. Struggles to hold eye contact. Seems to have a thing with textures for food as well. Doesn’t like the lights on full blast. Of course those could all be byproducts of his trauma to. Difficult to tell.” Price shrugged. Michaela nodded, Thomas humming a bit. With a quiet sigh, Price added, “I’ve only seen it once but he…got physical, last week. His social worker visited with updates on his case and he had a total meltdown. Furniture tipped and lots of throwing stuff with a complete lack of regard for the safety of himself or us. Shoes at the lightbulbs kind of dangerous. He didn’t get physical with us but…I wouldn’t have put it past him to try, once he feels more comfortable with me. He got quite confrontational.”

Price hates the way that Owen types all this up. Paperwork is a necessary evil and he knows it, he’ll never get anywhere with helping Simon if they don’t have all their ducks in a row, but words on a page and actually getting to know the kid were two different things. It felt definitive, having it written down, that somehow he’d formed this image of Simon in their heads that they were going to perform to, whether that image was the same as the boy in front of them or not. Deep down, he didn’t want anyone to see him like that. He wanted them to know Simon as the kid who loved dogs and plants, as someone who had such a big fucking heart and showed great care for everything he was given because he knew the value of things better than most kids did. He wanted them to know the Simon that loved unconditionally, even when people didn’t necessarily deserve it.

“So one of the big things we’ll need to focus on for Simon then will be relationships. It’ll be the cornerstone of everything we do going forward. He needs to know he’s got consistent, reliable people he can turn to for comfort and for help when he needs it. As his form tutor and foster dad, John and Michaela are going to be an integral part of that.” Owen reasoned. Price tried not to role his eyes and simply nodded along. He’d done plenty of training before he was allowed to become a foster parent and knew the importance of being trauma-informed. He’d had the 6 principles of nurture practically seared into his brain. He was just waiting for one of them to say all behaviour is communication.

“Remember that there are times Simon may well struggle to cope, but when he’s dysregulated we need to look beyond that to what he’s really showing us. All behaviour is communication.” Ah. There it was. Check that off the bingo card.

“Perhaps we could also give him a buddy? A point of contact that isn’t an adult.” Thomas’s suggestion had Michaela nodding.

“Oh I know just the boy! We could pair him with MacTavish. Friendly, quite popular so can connect him to other friends. I’m sure they’d get on great.” Her suggestion was made with enthusiasm and Price had to fight the urge to disagree. Simon absolutely needed a buddy but…well…he had the attitude of the grim bloody reaper didn’t he? Did they have any kids who were willing to put up with silent, probing stares and an aura so cold it could freeze the first ring of hell? Maybe they should interview for applicants…

He leaves with a foreboding feeling and the promise of another meeting to “touch-base” in the next 6 months. As they walk down the stairs they’re met by the Deputy-Headteacher, who looks perturbed by the intense presence that is Simon beside her. He’s put his mask on again, eyes dead and hollow as they glare out at everything around him in the foyer, clearly not happy about having to be here or the tour she’d led him on.

“There they are. We had a lovely time touring the school-“

“No we didn’t.” Simon cut in. Price had to swallow a laugh at the startled look on the Deputy-Head’s face as Owen tried to make things better.

“That’s a shame. Not even one thing you look forward to doing more of when you join us?” he probed. Price had braced himself for the answer he knew was coming but it still took all his willpower not to grimace.

“Going home.” Simon’s scathing reply has Price sighing quietly. The staff members blink, unsure how to handle him and his bluntness. It was a stupid question really, Price thinks, Owen had set himself up for that one. He meets Simon’s eyes and sees he’s at his limit, fists balled up in the pocket of that green Hoodie that’s not been washed since he came in with it weeks ago. It’s got a lingering smell that’s just the wrong side of unpleasant but Simon refuses to wash it still despite another subtle talk about hygiene the other day. Price is going to have to be the bad guy soon and stop him from wearing it out in public lest anyone think he’s neglecting him.

“Well…we’re looking forward to welcoming you to the Littlewood family, Simon. We’ll see you for your first induction day next week.” Owen offers him a smile and gets nothing in reply. Simons as stoic as ever, unmoving, stone-faced. He might as well have tried smiling at a brick wall. Price nods a bit and grunts out a thank you as he passes, giving Simon the permission he needs to head for the front doors and get the hell out of dodge.

“I’m not going there.” He’s quick to refuse once they’re outside.  

“Unfortunately, that’s not a choice. I can’t break the law by not sending you to school and this is the only one with space.” Price informs him as they reach the car.

“I’m not fucking going.” Simon repeats.

“Half a day. Your induction next Tuesday is over by lunch time.” He reassures him.

“I’m not, fucking, going, old man.” Simon grouses. Price has to take a deep breath, meets him with calm and collected cool.

“Simon, I’ve given you my answer. By law, you have to go to school. This one has space. It’s a choice that’s out of my hands now and won’t change.” He keeps his voice even and tunes out the venom in Simon’s voice as he continues to needle at him over and over. He hasn’t even put his seatbelt on yet and Price doubts he’s going to. There’s a slightly manic gleam in his glare that makes him think he’s been hovering at tipping point since Laswell’s last visit, and something as simple as visiting his new school is enough to push him over the edge.  

“I said I’m not fucking going! It’s not my school and you’re not my dad! You’re pathetic!” Simon spits.

“Put your belt on, thank you.” Price ignores the insults.

“No!” Simon snarls practically, sitting with his arms folded in the front seat and spitting curses at him.

“And how does that choice help keep you safe?” Price questions.

“I’d rather go through the windshield than spend half a day in that shithole!” Simon snaps. Price knows he can do nothing but ride out this storm, let Simon spew fire and spit acid until he’s burned out. Simon’s beyond listening, beyond words, so Price just doesn’t talk, even when Simon tries to provoke him to. It’s a strange dance really. Simon’s confident enough in knowing Price’s response that he can shout and swear at him till he’s red in the face, but he keeps his arms rigidly folded, his body physically trembling with the effort of holding back physically, because he’s not quite sure where the line is. Price knows it’s what he’s pushing to find, that line in the sand that tips Price from calm to furious, to shouting at him and proving he’s just as bad as his father. Price won’t let him find it, won’t let that be his life anymore, so he stays silent. It’s the only response Simon gets for the 15 minutes that he stews in his fury. It’s like sitting too close to a lion, makes Price’s adrenaline spike and though he feels the spitting on his cheek from gnashing teeth he doesn’t flinch, knowing better than to give a predator the satisfaction. There’s a quiet click of his seatbelt being buckled up.

“Thank you. We need to get home to help Riley.” Price says coolly, aiming for distraction to deescalate the situation further. Simon doesn’t look at him, but he doesn’t say anything either. By the time their home he’s amenable to taking Riley for a walk to the local park, the stubborn silence making it an uncomfortable walk for Price even though Riley’s having the time of his life prancing through the leaves autumn has dropped onto the floor. Dogs are clever little things and he’s sure that Riley can sense the tension, but he weaves through the gap between them and nudges at Simon’s hands all the same until the boy reluctantly pets him.

“I don’t want to go to school there.” Simon says as they walk.

“What makes you say that?” Price keeps the conversation light, open, not shutting him down even though he knows the answer will have to be tough, it’s where you’re going.

“I wanted the other one.” Simon keeps his eyes forward on the pavement at his feet. Price thought back to the other school they’d toured and hums slightly. The boy played his cards close to his chest and there was never any indication that he’d preferred that one more. Had he missed a twitch of a pinky finger or something? Even if he had they’d said the best they could do was put him on a waiting list only.

“What did it have that you liked better?” Price paused at the edge of the park, reaching down to unclip Riley’s leash and letting him go run off some energy. He doesn’t want to push him to far but it’s good Simon can acknowledge what had triggered him, even though Price knows it runs deeper than that.  For Simon it feels like he didn’t get what he wanted, but subconsciously Price knows that moving to a new school, away from old friends who had previously supported him perhaps, where he has to return to a home that probably still doesn’t feel like his every day to a man who isn’t his family, has him feeling at a total loss. It’s a decision made for him, a change he can’t control with too many unpredictable factors, and predictability meant safety. Where things weren’t predictable, they weren’t safe, and that feeling meant Simon was constantly on edge, always on the verge of being tipped into a meltdown at the slightest provocation. He’d just hidden it well until his brain recognised Price was safe enough to show his inner turmoil to.

“Pool.” Simon’s reply was short, but it made Price smile slightly.

“The swimming pool, huh? If you’re interested in swimming, we can get you a membership for the local pool. Did you want to swim for fun or join a team?” Price is met with silence for a little while as Simon mulls it over.

“Just liked it, I guess.”

“Well, the offers open anyway,” Price assures him, “Littlewood may not have a pool, but it does have space for you there, and a form tutor who’s excited to meet you. Did all that shouting and swearing at me change the outcome?” Simon huffs a bit, clearly not happy at being called out for his behaviour, but there’s a slight glimmer of frustration in his eyes that Price can tell isn’t directed at himself. Simon keeps such tight control over his emotions that the outburst has probably upset him more than it did anyone else.

“No.” he grumbles under his breath.

“Exactly, no, it didn’t. Sometimes, as an adult, I will have to make decisions you don’t agree with but are in your best interests. You’re allowed to be angry with me for that, but what you’re not allowed to do is let that anger hurt other people. We find other ways to channel that kind of emotion, alright?” His lecture is met with an eye roll and hunched shoulders. Price doesn’t push further, knowing that’s as much of a restorative conversation as he can get today, so instead, he pulls a tennis ball from his pocket and offers it to Simon. “Want first throw?”

Simon channels his rage into getting Riley to fetch as far as he possibly can, and Price inhales the fresh air to try and remove the sour feeling that this is only the beginning of a very long road.  

[devlunar]

(FOR SALE) I will likely take commissions again but here's my first attempt to sell a painting. It's acrylic paint on wood with varnish, 6.5 x 6.5 inches or 16.5 x 16.5 cm. I don't want to charge too much but the starting price is probably $30 not including shipping. DM or email rioluholland@gmail.com if you're interested in purchasing.

[deepspacequeer]

hello! I'm a 29 year-old artist living in mississippi! I started making star trek collages as a teenager. they gained some popularity amongst my friends and I eventually found myself selling them online around 2013. I got close to 600 sales on etsy until I got a little concerned with their rising fees and copyright policies. I took a little break and now I'm back here selling my stuff primarily through tumblr now!

I have my etsy back up as an option for commissions! the prices are different to account for their fees and free shipping.

you can email me about commissions or something you'd like to buy at deepspacequeer@gmail.com!

you can also continue to commission and buy from me here on tumblr through messenger.

I post my original work over on @silasjulian

you can chat with me and see my process over on my work-in-progress blog, @sj-wip

if you wanna see what art I'm into you can check out my art inspo blog, @androgyne-android

I mostly post my original work on my instagram and facebook but there's some of my fanart too

if you like what I'm doing you can leave me a tip on my ko-fi or venmo!

you can also get me art supplies here!

if you want to link all of this at once, you can use my linktree!

you can see everything I have for sale right now on this post. you can also check out the collage kits I'm selling right now on this post!

I am primarly paid through venmo or paypal but I have a cashapp as well!

I have many sizes and panel options! below I have information on each type of panel and the estimated prices for each. the final cost will depend on the materials I need to use for your commission, complexity, and shipping costs. all sizes listed are in inches!

cradled wood panels:

8x10 - $80

10x10 - $100

9x12 - $100

12x12 - $150

11x14 - $150

12x16 - $200

10x20 - $230

16x16 - $250

14x18 - $250

16x20 - $300

18x24 - $400

the cradled wood panels I will use have a depth of 7/8ths of an inch. the sides/back can be painted black then varnished over or they can be varnished over without being painted. below are examples of the front and back of some unfinished 11x14 inch cradled wood panels!

flat panels:

4x4 - $40

these are hardboard panels that are 3/8ths of an inch thick. these panels have a notch in the back for hanging. the sides/back can be painted black then varnished over or be varnished over with no paint. for $5 I can add four magnets to the back! below is what the front and back of my unfinished 4x4 panels look like!

6x6 - $60

these are hardboard panels that are 1/4 of an inch thick. I can paint them black then varnish over them or varnish over them without paint. for $5 I can add four magnets to the back. here’s a big stack of unfinished 6x6 panels!

[boundinparchment]

Dream a Little Dream of Me - XXXVIII

Celestia had a cruel sense of humor. He knew this, even before his days as a student. But to be given a soulmate? Now, when he openly blasphemed against the cursed island in the sky? He would outlive you and the dreadful fated bond that haunted your shared dreams. There was little point in this. He could at least put a Vision to good use. People were nothing but disappointments. He had no use for you. Until you pulled the bow across your instrument and awoke a part of him long buried by self-hatred and arrogance. Soulmate AU; Il Dottore/Female reader w/ established personality and backstory. Slow burn. Lore and world speculation and interpretation within; follows canon story where possible. On AO3 here.

So far, your combat trials were some of the most impressive sessions he’d seen in a while.   

You weren’t perfect.  Far from it.  Your aim needed work.  You had a hard time leveraging the claymore properly.  Such things only came with time, when one knew the weight and balance of a weapon as well as they knew themselves.  

A second shining blade made itself known with the first, pure Geo energy so refined that it passed for diamond.  Pantalone would be jealous, certainly.  In the first few trials, he speculated that your abilities mirrored his own, in that his claymore became unnecessary and he could freely wield his Cryo needles without a hand on his weapon.  

He was half-right.  You required the claymore in order to retain the Geo swords, however.  You had to direct the Geo energy somehow and despite the lack of familiarity with your powers, you moved as if you knew exactly what you were doing.  If he counted just right, it always seemed as though you were following a very specific rhythm when landing your blows.  Your claymore’s swing was accompanied by the lightest enhancement of a particular pitch, depending on how you swung it.

Your combat abilities weren’t the only thing subject to musical structures.  Silence that prevailed too long was filled with humming, sometimes fragmented until you found the right note and flow.  Occasionally, the repetition set his teeth on edge.  But when he addressed it and your head snapped up from the book you were reading (probably something left behind by a stray assistant), he realized from your expression that you had no idea you were doing it.

Music was as much a part of you as machines were for him.  He lived and breathed moving parts and systems and the perfection with which they operated; no doubt, music was as precious to you as your own blood, something he knew but never saw in practice, not even in your dream-shares.  Then again, you’d had a proper outlet for such energies and now all of that desire had nowhere to go.

Zandik looked down at the work table in front of him, the surface littered with parts and wires and drawings.  Omega was handling everything with Akademiya, as expected, which left him with time to look over the schematics for weapons manufacturing.  Easy work, really.  Boring work.

He’d given the plans all but five minutes of his time before he found himself examining the cello neck again.  You’d handed it over but not without several questions, all of which were understandable.  This remnant was precious to you, even if it only seemed like a chunk of carved and varnished wood to him.

You…directed…your elemental energy…almost as if you were conducting…

Something you’d never done, as far as he was aware.  If you had, it was an experience you did not impart to him in any way.

What if…

Ah, such a thing would be simple enough.  A receiver on both objects, intended for long distance, sensitive enough to acknowledge even the smallest nuance in motion.  He’d attempted something similar before he’d learned how to control his claymore without such interference.  The Akasha modifications were a more taxing option and he’d paid the price for it heavily before finding a more efficient solution.

A tool like this might make it easier for you to wield; better still, it might make you more sure in your strikes, confident in your abilities.

As for the other problem…

Zandik sifted through a few stray notes on the table.  He’d had to go by memory for the shape and the size, and it would require far more research, but this posed its own set of problems.  

Wood would, of course, be best.  He could hear Sandrone and Pantalone criticizing his prototype based on the material alone, let alone the notion of construction.  It would be more efficient to trust another in this particular area.  But the urge to create something unique, something no one else would ever be able to recreate, sat in his very joints and made his muscles itchy.  

So many of his advancements were attributed to others, his contributions pushed aside because of his moniker of outcast .

But this?

A cello so clear and radiant that it would only be rivaled by the Tsaritsa herself (and maybe not even then).  The material didn’t carry sound well on its own but an amplifier and a transmitter were easy additions.  It wouldn’t be possible to start until he returned to Snezhnaya.  Hard enough to keep you from spotting anything you shouldn’t as it was.

He heard a soft groan from the small lounge chair nearby and looked up to find you stretching, your nose still buried in whatever novel you’d found to occupy your mind.  Although your eyes had yet to leave the page, you were poised to get up, flex, find something else to do.

Case in point.

Zandik placed the instrument neck down and smoothly shuffled the various pages in front of him just as you came up beside him.

“Don’t stop on my account, Zandik.”

“There’s little to be done right now that cannot wait until I have proper facilities.”

“You heard a composition meant for you way too early; the piece you overheard was far from finished.  I always enjoy hearing you sort out ideas, what you’re working on…”

You were shrewd; you would still be in Omega’s dreamcycle if you weren’t.  Hiding this from you wouldn’t be viable forever.  

Especially when you looked at him like that .  Earnest, curious, encouraging and genuine in every aspect of it, despite everything you’d endured.  

He could deal with politicians looking out for their own self-interest.  He could deal with the other Harbingers just as vicious in their ambitions as they were towards one another.  The dreams had been nothing more than another experiment and he never anticipated they would truly result in you .  Finding you had been a happy coincidence, a pet project, an outcome he considered but never anticipated.

The plea at the end of your words had been slight, easy to miss if he were anyone else.  In your defense, you had little to occupy you for the moment and he was, for all intents and purposes, your only other connection for the moment.

That, too, would change upon your arrival to Snezhnaya.

A caged bird would never sing and he knew better than anyone what it meant to have the freedom required for creation.

Zandik turned and reached a gloved hand to brush your neck as he leaned down to whisper a teasing, “I don’t think so,” against your skin.

He heard your breath hitch but you didn’t pull away, didn’t move, and he longed to bury his nose in your hair.  You smelled of sweetness, of summer flowers, undercut by sensations that dreams could never capture.  He steadied himself with his other hand on the table and swallowed as you moved your head slightly towards him, cheeks brushing before you looked at him out of the corner of your eye.  His heart shuddered.

What if…

The distance to be crossed was negligible, so miniscule that neither he nor you needed to lean before your lips met.  He willed his heart rate to slow, not that it would listen, your lips soft and warm.  

It was over as quickly as it began.  His lips tingled and then burned, his breaths short but steady.  You had yet to move, to pull away, your hands seeking amongst the straps and ornaments of his coat.  He could not bring himself to step away, not yet. 

Zandik pressed the lightest of kisses to the corner of your jaw, just below your ear, where your pulse seemed to be thrumming.

 Everything was a delicate balance and while he never minded exploring opportunities, this was…precarious.

The sigh that escaped your lips was the closest sound to bliss he’d ever heard in his presence; the flip in his gut was unsettling, too unlike a moment of piloting a Ruin Golem, and yet he felt as if he would endure that sensation eternally if you…

Zandik caught the slightest movement out of the corner of his eye, the doors to the workshop open a fraction and a boot just barely through the doorway.  He flicked his eyes up to find Omega, mask off, ruin core spinning, hesitating .  For once, the Segment was acutely aware of itself, its place.  

Nothing from the Segment network, no attempt to communicate.

The Segment retreated, its boot disappearing from the doorway before the doors closed silently.

He felt your hands against his chest, seemingly smoothing out his lapels, tracing the decorative edges of his coat.  Eternity in all of a minute.

Oh, how he wished he could preserve this.

[handmadegiftpl]

Decoupage decorative box Alphonse Mucha Zodiac

Handmade item

Ships from a small business in Poland

Materials: wood, decoupage, hand painted, felt, metal

Jewelry type: Bracelet, Brooch, Earrings, Necklace, Ring

Length: 8.3 Inches; Width: 5.0 Inches; Height: 2.5 Inches

Gift wrapping available

This wooden jewelry box inspired by the work of Alphonse Mucha, which is not just a practical box, but also a work of Art. My own design on the sides and top. Gift wrapping is included in the price. The unusual and rare shape of this box attracts attention at first sight! Dimensions - Length 21 cm (8.3 inches) Width 13.5 cm (5.0 inches) Height 7.0 cm (2.5 inches) Techniques and materials used - 1. Wood. 2. The inside bottom is made of natural felt. 3. Decorated using decoupage technique and hand-painted. I usually coat all products inside and outside with acrylic, eco-friendly, water-based, safe varnish. Please also note that I have a clean art studio, with no animals in our house and no one smokes. This decorative decoupage box serves as a charming jewelry organizer where you can store your favorite rings and earrings in style. Here you can also store your precious memories - letters and postcards. This unique handcrafted wooden ring box doubles as an earring organizer and trinket box, making it a truly versatile item. This one-of-a-kind creation is ideal as a gift for women who appreciate handmade items. It is sure to add a touch of elegance to any vanity. We also have unique vintage jewelry - you can choose and add to your unique jewelry box to make your gift even more original - https://www.etsy.com/shop/ElegantHomeStorePL Thank you for your support and appreciation of Art! Your support means the world and life to me. Your creative artist Julia 👩🏻‍🎨

[isadibus]

Guys this is fun and all but can someone ask for a commission or smt?

Sadly I couldn't scape capitalism and my debts are stacking and job's are not popping

So wtf do you even sell?

I am glad you asked!

I like to draw, and I invested on a wood laser cut machine, and now that I know how It works I can do THIS

These are wood earrings (8€ a pair), I made the drawings, then laser cutted the wood and then painted them. Also varnish them for protection.

I also made them into pendants (8€ the big ones and 6€ de tiny) and keychans (8€ each one)

I am open for commissions of wood things like, "I want (put here what you want) as a keychan", but then I will charge a little bit more for the new drawing.

If the drawing it's very simple, something like this, It will be only +3€

But if it's something more complex like this, the price will be discussed on message. Idk right now how much, but a complex lineart Illustration could be around 25€.

Talking about this Illustration!!

Heheje I have It in a lgbtqia+ rgb led lamp!!

I also do like "traditional" commisions, with:

Simple chibi sketch for 3€ (+2€ for clean lineart, +1€ for colour)

Complex bust sketch for 25€ (could be more if too detailed) (+5€ clean lineart, +2€ colour) (but again depends on the commission)

Yes I know everything it's good omens, sorry (not really).

If you read till here, thank u so much.

I will be posting parts of this "ad" but I really wanted to put everything first in the same post.

And think of buying something, maybe? No? Pls?

[trans-lykanthropie]

Things that make me sigh wearily like a disappointed and jaded schoolteacher

All those flecks aren't part of the artwork, it looks like varnish or wood stain just sprayed across the piece, and the woman who brought it in doesn't want to pay the full price of cleaning it

Just.....look I have to clean each fleck individually with a cotton wool swab, it takes so much time and it's pretty technical so do you want me to fix your negligence or not?

[ashtrayfire]

hey fellow art lovers, especially abstract art lovers!!

i’m currently selling an abstract art piece of myself.

it’s a 20x20cm and 3,8cm depth canvas, varnished and painted with acrylics

it’s also tightened, but unfortunately not fully cause one piece of the tiny wood was missing, so i’m selling it for a lil lower price since it’s only like 80% tightened/stretched

please share this, it would mean a lot to me! and it would help me out a lot (duo my health i currently have no job)

[lailoken]

Hawthorn Root & Willow Shaft Wand — Custom Commission

This is a wand that I was custom-commisioned to craft on behalf of a client recently, using both Hawthorn wood and Willow wood. I share it here now, as an example of the sort of work I offer.

After locating and harvesting a suitable length of White Willow from the banks of the river that feeds our land, I then harvested a segment of root-wood from a dead Hawthorn tree I have access to. Next, I went about debarking, drying, shaping, and smoothing the two specimens of wood, before lightly staining the Hawthorn with an herbal pigment and then carving out part of the root-wood's core to allow for the insertion of the Willow shaft. Once that was done, I proceeded to permanently affix the two segments using a cold-welding epoxy and then sealed the whole piece using my Wisefool's Glaze (a ritually empowered wood varnish made using an array of potent arboreal resins.)

Though it was my first time crafting a wand in this way—using two different kinds of woods—I'm quite pleased with the ultimate result, and I believe it will serve my client well in the years to come.

I continue to take on commissions for a wide variety of Craft implements, and I am always honored and happy to be given such an opportunity. My pricing is reasonably flexible, and I'm always happy to work out things like payment plans when necesarry. If you would like to inquire about commissioning a custom piece, please feel free to reach out through tumblr messenger, or through the contact form on my webshop, Wending Wares Occult Parlor.

[ambiguouspuzuma]

The Librarian

It was a meagre inheritance, as these things go. A small sum of money and an annual stipend, from a trust she couldn't access, and therefore didn't truly trust. Clara was grateful for the gift - and thankful to the distant relative for including her in his will, having received little from her own parents - but it wasn't the sudden windfall she'd read about in books. Nothing to write home about, and certainly no ancestral home to write it to.

Still, it was the price of freedom. She no longer had to work, if she didn't want to, and in truth she never had. Clara had never found a job that suited her - she had always been a housewife temporarily deprived of house and husband, a woman longing to be kept, a lady waiting on her leisure. Well, she had that now. It wasn't a life of luxury, if one counted such a concept in things, beluga caviar and brut champagne, diamonds and pearls and all of that, but at least she had the luxury of time.

The stipend supported her to do whatever she want, if what she wanted cost less than the average wage, which was sadly not the case. Clara had always felt a deep-seated desire to travel the world, to experience endless adventures in far-flung lands, but without a job she could barely save to afford one holiday. The stipend was swallowed by her living costs, the mundane tax of rent and bills and groceries. The life of her dreams would have to remain confined to her imagination.

So, in the absence of real world escapes, she became an avid reader instead.

Clara had never actually been to her local library before, but she'd passed by it a hundred times. It had never seemed like much, from the outside: a tired sheet glass front, on the corner between a retail bank and a hairdresser, with a row of benches just ahead. But the inside was different. Clara stepped through the revolving door one day in town, mostly just to get out of the rain, and found that in that single moment she was hooked.

The library was a whole new world within four walls. With sodden hair and tearful eyes, she walked into a labyrinth of shelves, rows of books separated only by vast stone pillars, a daunting anthology of every kind of text imaginable. It was a paper cathedral; a corridor of tiny hardback doors; a mosaic tiled with laminated stories. By the time Clara had opened her first book, she was already in love.

She lost herself inside that forest of paper and varnished wood, leafing through the pages of one book, rustling through the chapters of another, devouring them whole whilst the stacks drank her in. She read cover-to-cover, wall-to-wall, and dawn-to-dusk - or at least during the opening hours of eight to seven. She resolved to turn the whole place inside-out, one piece of paper at a time.

It started with the corner titled adult fiction, whatever that meant, but it didn't take her long to exhaust the library's supply: a few months, perhaps, but they flew by for a woman who had little else to do. One by one, she turned novel into familiar, filling her head with tales, honing her amateur taste with works of prose. Clara didn't discriminate: contemporary or classic, literary or genre, good or bad, she read them all.

She wept once she was done - the last book had been a real tear-jerking romance, on top of the finality of it all - but there were more worlds left to conquer. Clara delved into Young Adult, Middle Grade, all the way back into books that had more pictures than words, and more cardboard than paper. She cut clean through the non-fiction section, which had no demarcations for age, but probably should have. Some of that history had been gruesome - and that was without mentioning the scientific diagrams, which had taught her things Clara was sure nobody had to know.

But she didn't stop there. The library kept an archive of the local papers, and selected national broadsheets, and Clara read her way back through their more recent history, reported through the lenses of a present now past. She learnt to see the beauty in reference books, the poetry of trade directories; to read the stories in the shifting boundaries of a dusty atlas.

Then there were the marginalia. When Clara read cover-to-cover, that covered everything: the publication dates, the copyright, the profile on the inside of the dust jacket. She acknowledged the scribbled names of those who'd checked it out before; checked out the author's own acknowledgements. There were flaws, too. Sometimes she found foxing and dog ears, even the occasional grammatical correction in blue biro. She breathed it all in as one.

After a while, it wasn't even about the books. Clara learnt to read the patterns in the shelves, the books removed and not-quite-put-back: after adopting them herself, she helped them on their journey home. She had the order memorised, a sequence that she knew to five Dewey Decimal places. The world was her omnibus, and she knew how to read it like an open book.

Clara became more regular than regular. She was an ever-present, clocking in with the library staff and going home with them at night, or at least at the same time. She would greet them as they settled at the front desk, her hosts for the day, and found that they actually spent less time there than her. They all knew her as an inhabitant of the upper floors; and later, as the years passed and a new generation arrived with barcodes and scanners, as a fixture.

They asked her questions, sometimes, as she sat and read the messages on their new computers. "We're all getting name badges. What surname should we use on yours?" Well, that only seemed fair. The children who met the challenge of reading a mere ten books that summer had been rewarded with a whole sheaf of colourful stickers, and Clara had surpassed them all. Why shouldn't she get something to show for it?

Later, when she found her way into the staff break room and read their tea leaves, or the back of their coffee sachets, they said that they were digitising their personal records. Well, that made sense too: the books had been catalogued digitally for some years, and it was only natural for their readers to follow suit. Clara never did understand why they'd needed her bank details, but then she never noticed the salary that started to arrive every month.

Customers would ask her questions too, no doubt recognising her from the badge as a connoisseur of these shelves. "Can you recommend me a book?" they'd say, with some impossibly abstract description of the kind of thing they liked, or an example of a precedent they'd like to read again for the first time. But she always could.

"I loved it," one customer told her, returning the latest book for her to re-shelve. "Thank you, yet again - this was exactly what I needed. I don't know how you do it, but it's like your suggestions are always perfectly tailored to my tastes."

"I try my best," Clara said, her eyes tracing the faded furrow in their brow, the newfound lightness in the way they held themselves, the smile that danced across their lips, and deciding what to recommend them next. "I suppose that I'm just good at reading people."

[sebastianinjapan]

June 11 - Himeji-jo

I have sad news to report. Today is the final day of Japanese breakfast. My heart broke when I found out about this. It will be missed. In terms of what we did today, we traveled about 2 hours out of the city of Kyoto to the World Heritage site that is home to Himeji castle. This castle is one of the few structures that has survived the many destructive acts that plagued Japans past, still standing tall in its original glory. I continue to thank myself for purchasing the newest Zelda game as it continues to aid me on our longer train routes. When we arrived at the station we broke up for lunch and I had probably the best Indian food I’ve ever eaten (the price was also godlike). Once I stuffed my face we left for the castle. The structure itself clad in all white was towering, but we were allowed to enter the highest point in the keep which surprised me (most buildings we’ve visited have been inaccessible). The interior (which is now empty) is of high craftsmanship with all the wood (the entire structure is made of wood) covered in a beautiful varnish which makes the floors incredibly smooth. Paying attention to the layout it was clear the entire structure was oriented towards defense as many chokeholds and sharp turns mark the path upwards. Once we arrived at the top the entire city unfolded with large mountains surrounding it in the background. All the walking had me pooped, and I’m not certain but I feel like the sleep here doesn’t get me to 100% each night so I turned in early.

Academic Reflection

While this connects with a previous reading (the one on forestry practices) this castle fully displayed the daimyo’s requirement for large strong trees. Entire pillars in the castle were incredibly thick trunks which showed their age in the rings that were visible. The keep also had 8 flights of stairs so the scale of the structure (and the wood required) is quite massive.

Similarly mirroring the integration of green spaces in Tokyo, this castle was made using the slope of a mountain as part of its construction. The Japanese did this for a number of reasons such as defensibility, and resistance to fire. It’s evident that this willingness to coincide with nature has been present early into Japanese history as opposed to the adversarial nature the US has had with its own nature. While the castle itself lies on a mountain it also borrows design features from nature itself such as sloping and triangular constructions that increase the castles defensibility. However this focus on defense is quite ironic, considering the Tokugawa period (when the castle was reinforced by Ieyasu’s son in law according to a sign at the castle) was known for its peace. Obviously this is a point of hind sight. Todays readings also continued to build on the knowledge surrounding early Japanese urbanization. With the creation of castle towns, economy and populations increased rapidly. Like we’ve read earlier this created a problem for more rural areas as peasants from those regions would attempt to start a new life in the castle town which offered a higher level of prosperity. Interestingly this flight mirrors that which occurs in modern Japan, when a new Shinkansen line opens in a area.

What I personally enjoyed from the readings was furthering my understanding of the social dynamics within ancient Japan. While the daimyo and samurai were still the ruling class, it wasn’t as strict and brutal as a previously believed. Individuals shaped much of the life and culture in ancient Japan and this is evident in the way the cities unfolded. While the daimyo had plans for how they would like their towns to be constructed leeway was afforded to individuals in the construction of their homes and establishments for work.