~ Kasumi/Sumi’s Tags ~ 

More will be added as needed. 

When You Wake Up

Terzo Fluff trade (SFW) for the amazing @inf3stissumam 💗

-Terzo x Reader

-reader is not described and no particular pronouns used so everyone can enjoy a self insert ☺️

Also available on AO3. Asks and requests are open. For Commission hit me up (on that site that looks like a heart mug, user copiousloverofcopia)!

Hope you all like it 😊

The room is pitch black and quiet, and the peaceful embrace of silence having finally overcome you. As the night settled in, you had fallen asleep waiting. It had been a very long week while Terzo was out traveling to promote the band’s upcoming tour.

For months leading up to this recent trip, you were always by this side. Every practice, every meeting, every argument between him and Secondo about how things should go–all of it. You grew accustomed to being on his arm through it all. The memories of him belting out lyrics to his new songs as he serenaded you in your bedroom were your constant companions while he was away. You were ever so proud of him.

The new album was something he worked so hard on, his need to prove himself to his family and the church weregreat. He had poured his soul into it. Terzo was so excited to share it with the world. To show them that Papa Emeritus the Third was a man of virtuosity and charisma. Your Papa was someone worthy of their admiration.

So when he told you he would be leaving soon, it had come as no surprise, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. There would be more nights like this. Terzo would only be home a few short days before the tour would begin. You were going to have to get used to the emptiness in the bed the two of you shared.

Without you knowing it a couple more hours had passed and you were out like a light, laying in bed. You were awakened by the sound of your books, you had used to distract yourself, tumbling off the side to the floor. The noise startled you, making you flinch. “Oh no, I am sorry I woke you. I was trying my best to let you sleep.” Terzo said, his hand resting gently on your shoulder.

The sound of his voice in the darkness, soft and musical, like the gentle strum of a guitar–intoxicating. It brought you such relief knowing he was finally home. "I am sorry I am so late, the ghouls were a handful getting through airport security….it was a lot, I won't bore you with the details–Omega may have bitten someone, but that's neither here nor there. Anyway, my love, again I am sorry to have awakened you.

“It’s ok, I must have fallen asleep waiting–” you began, Terzo's brows furrowing at your words.

“Waiting? Tesoro, I told you not to wait up for me.” he sighed, turning the lamp on the bedside table on. Terzo smiled, seeing you laying there, the dimly lit room illuminating your shape under the sheets. He climbed over you to place the gentlest of kisses on your forehead. Deeply inhaling as he did, the scent of your shampoo filling his nose for the first time in days. He was just as happy to see you. He laid down, nestled up next to you beneath the covers, his elbow bent and his head resting in his hand.

“I know you said not to, but I couldn’t help it. How am I going to get through this? I can’t stand it. Every second that has passed without you herethese last few days has been torture. How am I going to make it through an entire tour?” you asked him, your eyes glossing over with unshed tears.

“It is not forever, tesoro. I will be home after a few weeks. You know I will always come home to you.” he reassured you. You smiled back at him, knowing he meant every word that left his lips. His word had always been his bond and for you of all people, his candor fully on display.

“I know.” you sniffled, him pressing his lips into a tight smile. He could tell it was hard on you. It wasn’t the same for him, not because he didn’t long for you just as much as you did him, but because he would get so engrossed in his commitments to Ghost and to the Ministry that he didn’t get the luxury of dwelling on anything else. He pulled you closer to him in the bed, holding you in his arms.

He was warm and you could hear his heart beating within his chest. A crescendo, sounding off as you nuzzled closer to him. His embrace was unlike any other. You melted into those strong arms holding you and the softness of his lips, as he gently kissed the bare skin of your shoulder, flooded you with happiness.

His chest hair tickled your nose, Terzo chuckled watching the sensation making you twitch. You giggled right along with him, the tender moment between the two of you sending your heart soaring. He brought his fingertips up to your jawline, pulling you to face him. He wanted you to look into his mismatched eyes, to see the sincerity in the words he would begin to speak.

“Listen to me. I want you to know something…you're ready to listen, si?" He asked you. His tone was reassuring, making you feel comforted and protected. In his arms you were safe.

"Uh huh." you agreed, smiling at him through your tears. He smiled back, wiping them from your cheek, his fingers grazing along the side of your face.

"I adore you above all things, tesoro. There is nothing that could keep me from coming home to you. My entire world is right here in this room." he vowed, his soulful eyes staring deeply into yours.

“I just want to be with you, please stay here with me as long as you can. I'm so afraid to fall asleep. What if I fall asleep and wake up to you being gone–gone all over again. I need more time with you.” you cried.

Terzo had been trying hard not to, but your undying love and devotion to him in your eyes along with how beautiful you were took over. He kissed you fully on your lips–pure serenity the feeling of him there. The moment, a bit bitter sweet, but one you were grateful to have. When you pulled away to face him once more you were overcome with emotion. You buried your face into the crook of his shoulder and his embrace surrounded you.

“Shhhh…that is not going to happen. You rest now, tesoro, I will be here when you wake up.”

If you feel so inclined, can you talk a bit about what you love and/or enjoy about the Morse novels? On the strength of loving the show Lewis and a recent delighted binge of the first 4.5 seasons of Endeavour, I just read "Last Bus to Woodstock" and my feelings are... mixed. On the one hand, I deeply enjoyed many of the Morse/ Lewis interactions ("'I see,' said Lewis, unseeing")-- on the other hand, I found the *multiple* "is rape even really a thing?" discussions, the legs-first descriptions of female characters, etc etc etc pretty exhausting. In your view, is enjoyment of the first book a good indicator of enjoyment of the series as a whole in this case?

Sure! (I am postponing my grading.) To give a comparatively short answer to your more general question first: the prose, the wit, the cleverness, and the virtuosic playing with the detective novel genre. I love good prose. I enjoy clever prose. As is clear from this blog, I read a lot of detective novels and have a lot of opinions about the genre! So for all these reasons, I am squarely in Dexter's target audience.

Now, to your second question: um, maybe? It depends on what variables are most important to you. Personally, I would say that Morse is sexist in ways that the novels are not; and I say this with great affection for the character! He's a romantic who has flashes of devastating self-awareness and he is very clever and grumpy and vain and fundamentally kind and I love him; also he tends to the Edwardian binary as described by Dorothy L. Sayers: "The women, gawd help us" or "The ladies, gawd bless 'em."

I know you didn't ask for a sort of counterargument to your reading of the text, but unfortunately I am an academic by temperament as well as training I think that offering my views on some of the things Last Bus to Woodstock is doing may help you to understand why I like the Morse novels, and to assess whether or not you're likely to. I think that one of the really interesting things LBTW is doing is to ask: what scripts about sexual desire and sexual violence are available to women in an unimaginatively patriarchal society? When might a narrative of rape be the only available strategy of self-defense against more insidious manifestations of misogyny? Also, in the tradition of great detective novels, I think it is asking and answering interesting questions about when and where and by whom women are being exploited, and how these realities can be obscured by narratives about respectability, class, wealth, sexual mores. It's been a while (years) since I last read the book, and I can't find the copy I thought I owned, but I thought the legs descriptions were funny, part of the absurdism of the only clue being the view of a woman running towards a car in the rain, and our poor protagonist being forced to fixate on this. Do all women run "in the same damn ham-fisted way?" (No, but Morse has had several long days.)

TL;DR: sometimes I am also bothered by the sexism/misogyny in the books, but I see the novels as commenting on these oppressive realities more than participating in them. Also, for me personally, reading detective plots as good as Dexter's, and prose as good as Dexter's, are special pleasures.

Fake Ass Highness!

Fuck the Monarchy! Polite and respectable patriarchy

That dead Queen needs a posthumous revocation of her uterus, Procreating dehumanization ain’t humorous

My intergenerational trauma feeling highkey triggered How white-liberalism remains dissonant and splintered

Anti-blackness and recolonization ain’t controversial if you are rooted in a decolonial politic I am spiritually sick of fake ass comrades who choose which slogans to handpick

My trust is fading; These heifers celebrate the act of invading— In white saviorism they stay trading and act like in liberty they parading

Liberation ain’t a game of charades Many of you hide behind virtuosic shades

Redemption is a feast we ain’t even went shopping for But you whites stay treating yourself to caviar 

Ya’ll got me livid; white liberalism is encrypted  From close dynamics, you gon’ find me self-evicted 

We all need a tribe, but it don’t make sense to be this conflicted; How “friendship” be feeling counterfeited

#finishedbooks Dance of the Infidels by Francis Paudras. Picked this up from my favorite used bookstore in Tokyo located in Mitaka near my ikebana studio. They actually had several books I wanted (non more than 1,000 yen) but settled on this since my to-read-stack is already as long as it is. This book is on the jazz pianist Bud Powell named after one of his early classic compositions. Powell as time goes by I have learned to appreciate more and more where in the jazz zeitgeist one could say he was the stop gap between Art Tatum and Thelonious Monk. A lot like Tatum, it was Bud's left hand that changed what could be done (his pumping strong off beat chords) and Tatum knew it in a famous albeit romantic jazz story that went something like this: One night a Birdland, Powell was on piano and Tatum walked in...Tatum known for being stingy with compliments noted Powell's left hand was a little weak. Bud heard this took out a pocketknife cut his hand, crudely bandaged it and went on playing with a self inflicted handicap showing virtuosity in both hands. Some say he never forgave Bud haha, but both should be remembered as your favorite jazz musician's favorite jazz musician. Ornette Coleman upon meeting Bud simply told him that all his music was based on the intervals and changes of the sevenths in Bud's left hand. Although nuanced I love his musical surprises that the author cleverly relates to what Berlioz wrote at the top of the score for his "Romeo and Juliet" symphony: "As the public has no imagination, pieces that appeal only to the imagination have no public." With that the book is a memoir of the French author's dedicated friendship to Bud something one can confirm by archival Downbeat articles or even the lesser known Black Lion record that has "Una Noche Con Francis" on it dedicated to the author. The book details Bud's life through his heyday in the 40s/50s in Milton's Playhouse where modern jazz got its chops from the criminally underrated Charlie Christian to of course Monk, Diz, and Bird. Inevitably and although detailing a great friendship, the book is overwhelming a tragedy leading to Bud's premature death in 1966. It was after an unjustified police beating that he was thrown into jail and sent to a psychiatric ward and given electric shocks that forever damaged him. The examining doctor at the time questioned him and Bud responded truthfully that he had composed, published, or recorded over 100 songs that the doctor wrote "delusions of grandeur and a detachment from reality" as the medical finding before prescribing more shocks and medication. In those early years he was far ahead of Monk and if anyone is familiar with his discography, one would have assumed he actually died in the mid 50s because after the police beating and systematic mistreatment his recordings fell drastically. One of the brilliant minds...kinda of hurts even more because he is somewhat famous today. One has to question how many rebellious spirits and brilliant minds may have been systematically crushed in this way? Makes me recall the quote from Steven Jay Gould, "I am, somehow, less interested in the weight and convolutions of Einstein's brain than in the near certainty that people of equal talent have lived in died in cotton fields and sweatshops." Listening to his music while reading the book I just felt a profound sadness at what racism can do to such a sensitive and brilliant mind.

Old Cat 

Barely midnight unfurling familiar red thread whose frayed end I know

Sleeping lover undercover for it is bitter cold outside but You sitting coiled

Better here inside with heated hearth and heart spare for you

Cats always coy, knowing they are spoiled

Sometimes when I talk I swear you understand

With time recognition, trusting first the fleeting fingertip then the long caress of this hand

Bond older than articulation, wordless but more pleasant by statement made

For pure pleasure play and ever rue the shorting day

Every cat as every person has a way, such have you, and what onesuch! 

Though furtive, cats rarely are seen shy or lacking expression

Yet I called shy feel caged, termed bon vivant

Outside, forge-belch clouds occulting constellations

Inside, a projector-painted star ceiling; no less alive than their stellar antipodes.

Sometimes attunement stands me from consideration, bars patience

Sitting thus riled composing, hair of the arm like sleeping horses

My hand seeming faster than thought rapt by unseen forces

Around me the sleeping on their quests, bubbles of bright protection

By a lantern’s holder blessed, chin to breast the best and worst of us must rest

As if by means of course correction a coarse interruption intersects prosody

Imagined prodigy, my thrustless collared progeny demanding inclusion 

To them prostitute focus and in payment abundant minute trifles.

Unsealed boxes in mind’s attic contents thoroughly rifled, I feel stifled

When I can neither voice my hurt nor joy exert, words curt dim feeling exhume

When costless the peacock-phrase gilds the hearer, silvers the speaking tongue, reddens both bloods, whitens gruesomed satins.

Some innocence reclaimed in rhyme, revirgining. Versions countless vast tracts of unusable trash midden-bound.

Dim rhyme abounds in such quantity that’s criminal, yet my lure to places liminal rebounds to the speaker,

Cannot scribe free my ignored gift yet on I grift, shrift of old soul I chronicle shifts,

Bright my gift from Thoth, to write; pyre ignite with mire-tricky pithy wits or flames sooth

With easily-sticking stanzas,

Stamen wilt with weight and volume of petals; word with weight of metals; let man as Gods meddle.

On sectioned mind’s mist wreathed fringe, where oft recalled falsehood and desired fantasy decide life’s symbols

Vestry of eagles, house of gold’s innermost misericord

Relaxed standards, a ban on standards in favour of worldly rags star emblazoned, alike which Magi hastened toward

Enormous walls girdling garden of pearls, passwords primrose, where pinemartens furl – my ward

Hereout the verse cursed spite adversity singled out for virtuosity smuggle out fine verse

Nursery of verse unguarded, thimble measure of wonder tincture

Place of mind where inward eye alone descries, yet finds dispensation, self-hated and desperate though granddad spoke Nil Desperandum

Dismal, lonely sinecure, self of selves interred like King’s old wife

Though kept head am kept confined, no lease but leash for life

Like Lear I see every sorrow reflect my own, my souring bones

Hidden beneath my light; a mask across the riven face of one crone.

'François Truffaut once wrote that ‘war films, even pacifist, even the best, willingly or not, glorify war and render it in some way attractive’. This, I think, gets at why Christopher Nolan refuses to show the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, world-defining events that eventually killed an estimated 100,000 to upward of 200,000 souls. ‘Oppenheimer’, Christopher Nolan’s staggering film about J Robert Oppenheimer, the man known as ‘the father of the atomic bomb’, condenses a titanic shift in consciousness into three haunted hours. You do, though, see Oppenheimer watch the first test bomb and critically, you also hear the famous words that he said crossed his mind as the mushroom cloud rose: “Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.” As Nolan reminds you, the world quickly moved on from the horrors of the war to embrace the bomb. Now we, too, have become death, the destroyers of worlds.

The film’s virtuosity is evident in every frame, but this is virtuosity without self-aggrandisement. Big subjects can turn even well-intended filmmakers into show-offs, to the point that they upstage the history they seek to do justice to. Nolan avoids that trap by insistently putting Oppenheimer into a larger context, notably with the black-and-white portions. One section turns on a politically motivated security clearance hearing in 1954, a witch hunt that damaged his reputation. The second follows the 1959 confirmation of Lewis Strauss (a mesmerising, near -unrecognisable Downey), a former chairman of the ‘United States Atomic Energy Commission’, who was nominated for a cabinet position.

Nolan is one of the few contemporary filmmakers operating at this ambitious scale, both thematically and technically. Working with his superb cinematographer Hoyte van Hoytema, Nolan has shot in 65-millimeter film (which is projected in 70-millimeter), a format that he’s used before to create a sense of cinematic monumentality. The results can be immersive, though at times clobbering, particularly when the wow of his spectacle has proved more substantial and coherent than his storytelling. In ‘Oppenheimer’, though, as in ‘Dunkirk’ (2017), Nolan uses the format to convey the magnitude of a world-defining event. Here, it also closes the distance between you and Oppenheimer, whose face becomes both vista and mirror.

As Oppenheimer comes into focus, so does the world. In 1920s Germany, he learns quantum physics. In the next decade, he’s at Berkeley teaching, bouncing off other young geniuses and building a center for the study of quantum physics. Nolan makes the era’s intellectual excitement palpable - Einstein published his theory of general relativity in 1915 - and, as you would expect, there’s a great deal of scientific debate and chalkboards filled with mystifying calculations, most of which Nolan translates fairly comprehensibly. One of the film’s pleasures is experiencing, by proxy, the kinetic excitement of intellectual discourse. At Berkeley, the trajectory of Oppenheimer’s life dramatically shifts after news breaks that Germany has invaded Poland. By that point, he has become friends with Ernest Lawrence (Josh Hartnett), a physicist who invented a particle accelerator: the cyclotron (incidentally, the first cyclotron in India was made in Kolkata by Meghnad Saha and his team) and who plays an instrumental role in the ‘Manhattan Project’. It’s also at Berkeley that Oppenheimer meets the project’s military head, Leslie Groves (a predictably good Damon), who makes him Los Alamos’s director, despite the leftist causes he supported - among them, the fight against fascism during the Spanish Civil War - and some of his associations, including with Communist Party members like his brother, Frank (Dylan Arnold).

Nolan integrates these black-and-white sections with the colour ones, using scenes from the hearing and the confirmation - Strauss’s role in the hearing and his relationship with Oppenheimer directly affected the confirmation’s outcome - to create a dialectical synthesis. One of the most effective examples of this approach illuminates how Oppenheimer and other Jewish project scientists, some of whom were refugees from Nazi Germany, saw their work in stark existential terms. Yet Oppenheimer’s genius, his credentials, international reputation and wartime service to the United States government cannot save him from political gamesmanship, the vanity of petty men and the naked antisemitism of the ‘Red Scare’. These black-and-white sequences define the last third of ‘Oppenheimer’. They can seem overlong and at times in this part of the film, it feels as if Nolan is becoming too swept up in the trials that America’s most famous physicist experienced. Instead, it is here that the film’s complexities and all its many fragments finally converge as Nolan puts the finishing touches on his portrait of a man who contributed to an age of transformational scientific discovery, who personified the intersection of science and politics, including his role as a Communist boogeyman, who was transformed by his role in the creation of weapons of mass destruction and soon after raised the alarm about the dangers of nuclear war. The movie is based on ‘American Prometheus: The Triumph and Tragedy of J Robert Oppenheimer’, the authoritative 2005 biography by Kai Bird and Martin J Sherwin. Written and directed by Nolan, the film borrows liberally from the book as it surveys Oppenheimer’s life, including his role in the Manhattan Engineer District, better known as the ‘Manhattan Project’. He served as the director of a clandestine weapons lab built in a near-desolate stretch of Los Alamos, New Mexico, where he and many other of the era’s most dazzling scientific minds puzzled through how to harness nuclear reactions for the weapons that killed tens of thousands instantly, ending the war in the Pacific. The atomic bomb and what it wrought define Oppenheimer’s legacy and also shape this film. Nolan goes deep and long on the building of the bomb, a fascinating and appalling process, but he doesn’t restage the attacks. There are no documentary images of the dead or panoramas of cities in ashes, decisions that read as his ethical absolutes. The horror of the bombings, the magnitude of the suffering they caused and the arms race that followed suffuse the film. ‘Oppenheimer’ is a great achievement in formal and conceptual terms and fully absorbing, but Nolan’s filmmaking is, crucially, in service to the history to which it relates.'

On SALE now! Pre-order Price Guarantee: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/not-guilty-by-amatan-noor/

Not Guilty is Amatan Noor’s unapologetic #poetic endeavor for #deliverance. Narratives of legacy, love, solitude, grief and displacement pulsate between origin stories and conjurings that revolt against despair. Trekking through cosmic intergenerational trauma and volatilities of land, Noor declares a reclamation of the body and the self. Poems spring from post-partition East Bengal, to a New Jersey Criminal Courthouse, to cascading cities across Europe and the Middle East where Noor collects soulful mementos and lessons on perseverance. This debut collection embraces one’s inner turmoil while birthing stanzas as balms of convalescence A striking tale of #survivorship, #migration, heartbreaks and joy with grit at its core. Not Guilty is a tenacious continuation of the self, past tragedies of catastrophic scope in unfamiliar terrains.

Amatan is a Bangladeshi writer Based in Brooklyn, NY. She migrated to the United States in 2005 and spent her adolescence in New Jersey. Her poetry appears in DIALOGIST, Thimble, No, Dear and elsewhere. Her work has been nominated for a pushcart prize. Amatan attended Rutgers University where she earned a dual Bachelor’s degree in Information Technology and Sociology. She began her writing career partaking in poetry slams. Amatan has won poetry slams at the Brooklyn Poetry Slam and Nuyorican Poets Cafe. Over the course of her writing career, her work has evolved to explore themes of dislocation, physical and generational trauma, diaspora, Islam and the multitudes pertaining to womanhood. Amatan lives in Clinton Hill and is in an ongoing love affair with Fort Greene Park. Not Guilty is her debut collection.

PRAISE FOR Not Guilty by Amatan Noor

Amatan Noor‘s debut chapbook Not Guilty is a revelatory exploration of what it means to grapple with legacy. Those of pain, those of love, those of dislocation and return. What do we make with the fragments we inherit, with the stories we are left with? Noor is steadfast in her scrutiny of different histories, those of land and people alike. “We know to burn the abuse into the backs of our skulls,” she writes and, later: “I answer all the questions asked of me.” But the answering itself is an act of reclamation, a rewriting herself into narratives of surveillance and erasure. With humor, with heart, with a steady gaze, Noor gives us alternate narratives. They are a reprieve and a benediction all at once.

–Hala Alyan, author of The Arsonist’s City and The Twenty Ninth Year

These poems feature a fearless blues and melodic lattice of memoir. Scenes that oscillate between mind and gut through Noor’s gift for image and insight. Poems’ virtuosic further in that this music comes while she maintains a revolutionary altitude for analysis of political economy. This collection is right on epochal time; scaffolding for the humanity to come.

–Tongo Eisen-Martin, Poet Laureate of San Francisco

I have learned/it is better to observe, writes Amatan Noor, and it is this poet’s keen and omnipresent observations that propel these poems from mere arrangements of words, into vivid and dynamic portraits. I love this poet’s insistence on affixing everyday encounters beside large and sweeping metaphysical questions. Noor refuses to leave anything out or behind—I am grateful for this poet’s ferocity and generosity.

-Tarfia Faizullah, author of Seam and Registers of Illuminated Villages

Amatan Noor pens a Brown girl’s anthem, a survivor’s song, a lesson on womanhood and loneliness and so much more. Not Guilty gives us a glimpse into a Bangladeshi woman’s existence in America. Noor is choosing liberation over others’ expectations. Her writing is packed with imagery and genuine emotion cautioning readers at turns. This is a calling out of perpetrators of violence and a calling in of self. Noor’s debut offers a mourning of loved ones, love lost and past iterations of self while calling each to account for their actions.

-Roya Marsh, author of DayliGht

Please share/please repost #flpauthor #preorder #AwesomeCoverArt #poetry #chapbook #read #poems

1. It was not a matter to be trifled with hastily, for the answer lay not merely in the knicks-knacks of adornment, but in the endless melody entwined with each option, akin to deciphering enigmatic riddles encoded within heavenly groupings of stars. It is so nice to be back! My dear DIVEs of Seoul, with an effusion of endless joy and a glow of celestial delight, I doth proffer my ecstatic arrival amidst these hallowed lands, wherein serenity wins, knitting and lacing a melody of tranquillity around the loom of existence that veils my core. As the resplendent sun dipped below the horizon, relinquishing its sovereign to the luminescent stars that adorned the space of the night firmament, I found myself enmeshed in contemplation, ruminating with care and deliberation upon the most embellishment to grace my ensemble.

2. Amidst this journey, a procession of delightful photobombs has emerged, as if snacks themselves seek to share the stage with my radiant countenance. The ever-lovely universe conspires to bestow the crown of "Photobomb of the Year" upon this assortment of nibbles, whose presence in each frame infuses a delightful touch of whimsy and charm. Verily, it is a symphony of delight, a harmonious symposium where each cut bears witness to my alteration, akin to a butterfly unwinding its gleaming wings to embrace the world. Every snap captures not just an image but a fragment of my soul, immortalized in the realms of digital artistry. It is none other than the daily rite of capturing a selfie, an art I have ardently honed, achieving the renewal of expertise in the esteemed discipline of self-portraiture. A prodigy of the lens, I am now the maestro of my visual narrative, deftly weaving the sweet harmony of my life with each click and pose.

3. As the pink-haired princess wields the power of self-love, infusing every snapshot with an effervescent radiance. In this visual odyssey of empowerment, I ascend to the zenith of self-assurance, an epitome of grace and authenticity, a perennial reminder of the infinite facets that dwell within, waiting to be unraveled like a gleaming mystery. Here, the ethereal reflection of my being coalesces with the lens, an ethereal fusion amidst the shimmering stardust. In this divine cohesion, it’s safe to say that I transcend the roles of both muse and artist, for I am the living canvas, where the symphony of emotions is depicted with bold and lively lines of resplendent shades. Each click of the camera is a celestial waltz, an opulent performance of captured moments that immortalize the essence of myself, etching an indelible legacy upon the grand harmony of eternity, the allure of authenticity, and the eternal enchantment of my celestial being.

4. My pony-tail, an iridescent halo of innocence, becomes a crown of celestial elegance, mirroring the enchantment that sweeps over me wholly. A celestial muse bestowed upon the world, let me cast a spell of fascination, encapsulating the pure magic of youth and wonder within each photograph, leaving an indelible impression upon the hearts of all who encounter my wizardry. These behind-the-scenes glimpses of my lovely odyssey breathe authenticity into my visual saga, revealing the unguarded essence of my soul, a treasure trove of emotions, and vulnerability laid bare before the gaze of the world. Witness the descent of a celestial cherub, as I immerse myself in the mysterious art of capturing hearts through the allure of my entrancing pictures! A prodigious prodigy, I weave enchanting spells with my camera, leaving all who glimpse my photographic mastery entranced.

5. Revel in the irrefutable magnificence of my innate finesse, for the tender manifestation of my endearing allure shall forever stand amongst my most prized attributes! Behold, as I unveil the enchanting essence of my charm, an eternal symphony of cuteness that remains unrivaled in its splendor! Oh, the virtuosity with which I harness my inherent loveliness, transmuting it into a celestial art form, leaves even the most discerning hearts in awe of my captivating creations! With an ethereal grace, I command the power of cuteness, a gift bestowed upon me as a cherished muse. Thus, I pose the question to you, could your heart remain impervious to the charms of my visual delights? Embrace this symphony of beauty, for within it lies the celestial anthem of my adoration for you, dear DIVEs, imprinted deeply upon the harmony of my essence.

6. Amidst the ever-evolving realm of photography, a gleaming technique has emerged like an ethereal waltz of light and shadows, the enigmatic "blurry technique" that now in glory as the vanguard of artistic expression and trendiness. A mesmerizing dance of deliberate ambiguity, where clarity and obscurity intertwine in an embrace of enchanting mystique. And verily I ask, what purpose would my existence serve if I were to remain a mere bystander in this enchanting spectacle of visual ingenuity? Nay, I shall not be deterred by the shadows of hesitation but instead embrace this photogenic changes with a big amount of enthusiasm! Embrace this symphony of visual ingenuity, for within each frame lies a story of boundless delight, and in the tender curve of my growing smile resides a manifestation to the eternal enchantment of the divine embroidery of life, an assertion to the undying spirit of artistic exploration and self-expression.

7. Though close-up selfies may not have hitherto epitomized my customary style, yet here, in a grand gesture of appreciation, I present this treasured offering unto you, a bejeweled token, a visual symphony of gratitude for your constant and eternal presence in the intricate melody of my existence. Peer into the depths of this extraordinary creation, and you shall find a glimpse into the very depths of my soul, bared in all its vulnerable authenticity. For in this collection of close-up selfies, I lay bare the myriad emotions and facets that define the essence, an intimate portrayal of the emotional journey etched upon the canvas of my visage. Let the flair and sentiments behind these close-up selfies mesh an enchanting tale of our cherished connection, an immortal ode to the celestial friendship that unites our souls in a timeless and ineffable waltz of camaraderie.

【Release Info】 Gretchen Jude & Leo Okagawa [renatured: body w​/​o image]

(Gretchen Jude self-released / December 1, 2022) - Digital

[Buy] Gretchen Jude Bandcamp Page

[Tracklist] 1. renatured: disarticulating, evowelating (15:16) 2. renatured: improjection, de-emplacement (18:25)

Live performance recording by Leo Okagawa at Ftarri (Tokyo) on July 9, 2022 (Gretchen Jude, amplified voice; Leo Okagawa, electronics).

Overdub recordings and audio composition by Gretchen Jude in the Champion Mobile Unit during a Sou’ Wester Artist Residency (Seaview, Washington, USA) in October 2022.

[Comments from Gretchen Jude] renatured (body without image) for a singer +

1. disarticulating, evowelating 2. improjection, de-emplacement

I wrote this instructional score as part of my ongoing project to examine and explore habitual and predetermined forms of vocalization. The four words (+ title) call into question vocal technique as conceptualized within dominant Euroamerican voice pedagogy, which cultivates a culturally specific (often wrongly universalized) aesthetic approach to the range of human sounding. To me, virtuosity feels like a gilded cage. What if I instead try to blur consonants, loosen vowel shapes, allow resonance to wander, and let my placement be vague? Erasing physical and musical training is an impossible task. But efforts to resist the habitual can illuminate how deeply cultural and linguistic patterns are embedded in the body and psyche. Digging into the internal invisible instrument called “voice” brings to light moments of shining discovery – THIS is another sound I can make! HERE is a different sound I like! NOW I am vibrating with the world beyond my skin…

In this realization of the score, I started with live performance – following my score while my duo partner listened deeply and improvised freely. A few months later, I followed the score alone, recording close-miked vocals as I listened carefully to the recording of the first performance. The presence and proximity of the microphone as a key collaborator can be sensed through the distinct character of my vocals in the two different situations. Many of the organic sounds I made in the duo performance are indistinguishable from electronic sounds. Both recordings are woven together here. Thank you to Leo for inviting me and playing along with my experimentation. Gratitude to our small audience for patiently witnessing the rawness. As always, many thanks to Y.S. at Ftarri. Shout-outs to Curly Cassettes, and thanks to S.R. for your generous feedback.

Christmas Spirit at Last

Finally, the Christmas Spirit is here at last with the Celtic Christmas Podcast. Full episode is in the podcast feed.

It’s Celtic Christmas Podcast #66

Jed Marum, Alisa Marie, Vicki Swan & Jonny Dyer, We Banjo 3, Gaelynn Lea, Bart Zeal, Brigid's Bounty, West of Eden, Marc Gunn

0:04 - Jed Marum "Banjos We Have Heard On High" from A Celtic Christmas and Rejoice! A Christmas Album

3:21 - WELCOME TO THE CELTIC CHRISTMAS PODCAST

I am Marc Gunn. I am an Atlanta-based musician and podcaster. We are promoting Celtic culture through Christmas cheer.

If you hear music you love, please support the artists. Visit the shownotes to find out more about the artists and subscribe to the show at CelticChristmasPodcast.com.

Shop our Mage Records online store.

4:52 - Alisa Marie is a multi-instrumentalist, composer and producer from England, who creates music inspired by fantasy novels and films, in particular the works of Tolkien. Alisa's influences also include traditional folk music from Britain and Ireland.

Alisa plays a number of instruments including the harp, ocarina, piano, guitar, Irish flute, tin whistle and bodhran.

Her latest EP is a collection of traditional and Christmas music, recorded live in front of a real fire.

5:26 - Alisa Marie "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" from Winter Harp (by the fireside)

7:16 - Vicki and Jonny are two of the most versatile musicians of the folk circuit today, on stage – and now online. Their performances showcase new interpretations of old songs alongside original self penned tunes and new contemporary songs that are entirely at home in the tradition. They have developed a sound that is both familiar and fresh.

Their Christmas album is absolutely delightful as you’ll hear in this song.

Check out this interview from 2006 with Swan & Dyer.

7:54 - Vicki Swan & Jonny Dyer "Good Christian Men Rejoice" from A Sound of Christmas Past

11:54 - Galway-based We Banjo 3 has one foot in Irish music and one foot in Americana music. They seamlessly combine the virtuosity and precision in each genre’s traditional disciplines with the artful song-craft and infectious live performance of today’s musical landscape.

Their version of “Joy to the World” was a hit on earlier episodes this year.

12:23 - We Banjo 3 "We Three Kings" from A Winter Wonderful

CELTIC CHRISTMAS SPOTIFY PLAYLIST: Joyful Celtic Christmas Music

16:26 - THANK YOU CHRISTMAS PATRONS

The Celtic Christmas Podcast is brought to you by the kindness of Celtic Christmas fans on Patreon. Your generosity funds the creation, promotion, and production of the show. Patrons can vote for your favorite song in each episode and they also get music-only episodes.

Thanks to our newest Christmas Patrons: O'McPub Band

Thanks to our Christmas Producer: Carol Baril

Join others to spread Christmas Cheer! Sign up for as little as $1 per episode on Patreon.

16:58 - Gaelynn Lea won NPR Music’s Tiny Desk Contest in 2016. Since then, she has captivated audiences around the world with her haunting original songs and traditional fiddle tunes. Most recently, she composed the music for Macbeth on Broadway, starring Daniel Craig and Ruth Negga.

17:26 - Gaelynn Lea "Love Came Down at Christmas / It's in Every One of Us" from Deepest Darkness, Brightest Dawn

21:39 - Bart Zeal is a Dutch songwriter of folky fantasy-themed songs. He is inspired by stories of people and places in both real-life and fantasy settings. Since November 2020, Bart creates one song a month, both covers and originals. He has a personal goal to make a living with his music by 2030. He hopes his music will create lasting connections with fans and friends, for the best thing about singing songs is finding enthusiastic listeners!

22:25 - Bart Zeal "Yule" from December Celebrations

25:04 - Brigid's Bounty "Merry Christmas Celtic Medley" from Celtic Christmas Medleys

31:26 - West of Eden is the Swedish folk-rock band that has vitalized the Celtic music scene with their unique sound and songwriting. A deep love for the traditional British and Irish folk music has earned them a solid reputation.

31:45 - West of Eden "Next Stop Christmas (with Stefan Andersson)" from Next Stop Christmas

34:53 - WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE CELTIC CHRISTMAS SONG IN THIS EPISODE?

Support the artist by buying their music and joining their mailing list, or even joining their Patreon page, just like many have done with this podcast. You can also add the song to your own Celtic music playlist.

Cast your vote for the Celtic Christmas Favorite song.

The most-popular track will be added to our Christmas playlists. You have just two weeks to vote. So… cast those votes. Then let me know if there’s a Celtic Christmas song or tune that I should add to the next episode of the show.

35:46 - Marc Gunn "Frosty the Irish Snowman” from Celtic Christmas Greetings

38:51 - CLOSING

Celtic Christmas Podcast was produced by Marc Gunn. The show was edited by Mitchell Petersen with Graphics by Miranda Nelson Designs.

The show is supported by our Christmas Patrons on Patreon. Spread cheer and vote for your favorite Christmas song in this show.

Visit our website to subscribe to the podcast. You’ll find links to all of the artists played in this episode. You’ll get access to our Celtic Christmas Playlists. You can subscribe to our Celtic Music Magazine and get 34 Celtic MP3s for Free plus, you’ll get 7 weekly news items about what’s happening with Celtic music and culture online. And best of all, you will connect with your Celtic heritage.

Finally, please tell one friend about this podcast. Word of mouth is the absolute best way to support any creative endeavor.

Promote Celtic culture through Christmas music at CelticChristmasPodcast.com.

Nollaig Shona Daoibh!

#celticchristmas #celticchristmasmusic #frostythesnowman

Check out this episode!

Jakob excels at the sovereign submissiveness of his at once subordinate and superior performance, and holds up its principles even when he is offered special treatment by Lisa and her brother. Claudia Liebrand has described this as follows: “Sowohl Ohnmacht als auch Versagung verlieren für Jakob also ihren Schrecken, weil sie von ihm selbst induziert sind, weil es sich nurmehr um Effekte einer Simulation, einer Inszenierung, eines Spiels handelt, dessen Regeln er bestimmt” (Both powerlessness and frustration lose their fearfulness for Jakob, because he has induced them in himself, they are nothing more than the effects of a simulation, a theatrical moment, a game whose rules he determines). He becomes a virtuoso at conducting his own play—in the sense of game and performance—of absolute servitude. This simultaneous debasement and empowerment of the subject is reflected in the perpetual shifting of Jakob’s feelings between smallness and grandeur, impotence and omnipotence, obedience and transgression. After the principal’s declaration of love for his pupil towards the end of the novel, it is Jakob who insists on maintaining the hierarchical relationship. He enjoys being thrown out of Herr Benjamenta’s office, and indulges in self-assured laughter: “Wenn ich so lache, nun, dann steht nichts mehr über mir. Dann bin ich etwas an Umfassen und Beherrschen nicht zu Überbietendes. Ich bin in solchen Momenten einfach groß” (When I laugh like this, nothing stands higher above me. Then I am something that can't be surpassed by surrounding and conquering me. In such moments I am simply magnificent). Herr Benjamenta fulfills his assignments in turn by enacting the roles of both “Riese” (giant) and “entthronter Herrscher” (ruler without a throne). Paolo Virno recently introduced the idea of virtuosity as “an extremely modern servitude” , as a way to explain the performative quality of those non-material skills and services that shape post-industrial information society. Detaching the concept of virtuosity from its more common context in the performing arts and tracing its history from Aristotle via Marx to Hannah Arendt, he detects both its inherent potential of non-productive service labor and its capacity for representing a type of political agency born out of the excellence of a leader figure. Virno’s rethinking of the concept aims to restore this political agency to the “general intellect” of today’s virtuosic service providers, and encourage their “exodus” from stifling corporate structures. The double-edged movement of exodus as both liberating and traumatic departure will indeed inflect the present readings of Walser and Sebald. However, while Virno’s intriguing notion of servile virtuosity can function as a point of departure for reconsidering Jakob von Gunten, the virtuosic servants of Walser’s novel follow their own course. What Walser rehearses, in the first instance, is the subversive drive of virtuosity within, rather than after servitude. Walser’s Jakob does not want to abandon servility; he refines and mocks its rules and rituals, which can only be done if those very rules and rituals are firmly in place.

Lucia Ruprecht (Emmanuel College, University of Cambridge), Virtuoso Servitude and (De)Mobilization in Robert Walser, W. G. Sebald, and the Brothers Quay (trans. me </3)

Pocket casts playback speed

But I am completely serious about my love for Geoff and Reilly and their improv scenes based on the ridiculous product reviews found on the internet. Let me be clear here: I am completely biased. Episode 94 (Numbers) was my own haunting introduction to the show. Recommended Episode: Play roulette with the feed. The show is understated and subtle, and usually clocks in under 20 minutes if you’re looking for “quick and poignant.” Any writing that I do on Dead Eyes, I’m trying to channel his voice. Nate DiMeo is a minimalist with production, but his prose and nonchalance are what pack the punch. I didn’t have a car or friends, so there was a lot of alone time, and a lot of walking through quiet, dimly lit suburban neighborhoods on summer nights. I started listening to the memory palace when I was living in Silicon Valley for a few months. I recommend Scott, one of the show’s heavier eps. Recommended Episode: Gregor is typically recommended due to the “star-power” and semi-petty premise. These are satisfying, self-contained presentations of personal dramas, sometimes petty, sometimes grave. But knowing what goes into trying to resolve just one person’s hang-up, I cannot imagine the amount of pressure Jonathan Goldstein has faced episode after episode. I don’t fool myself into thinking all of Dead Eyes couldn’t have been condensed into one episode of Heavyweight. Recommended Episode: just listen to the whole six-episode feed from start to finish, and try to find the bonus episodes. The best part is, after you’re done with the whole thing you have the rest of Ross Sutherland’s Imaginary Advicefeed to enjoy. Learning “the rules” of the puzzle-solving is frustrating, but once you get it (with or without help) you feel SMART. Fans of Welcome to Night Valewill recognize the style, but might appreciate the addition of the meta-game played in between episodes, solving puzzles to unlock the actual narrative. The Golden House clears that hurdle by presenting as a studio-produced, public-facing podcast for a secretive tech startup/cult. Most audio-fiction that goes for “realism” ends up sounding studio-perfect. It’s fiction, I’ll get that out of the way in case it’s a big turn-off for you. When I saw the trailer for this show-yes, a video trailer to advertise a podcast!-I told everyone about it. The latest episode as of me writing this is Are You Listening? Devastating, but not exploitative. Recommended Episode: Pick any of them, really. They give their listeners the truth and a re-education. There’s nothing sensationalist about the show, no “star-power” endorsements needed. Earlonne and Nigel’s personalities and voices are perfect complements for one-another. Their sound-signature is unmistakable, thanks to a dedicated composer and consistent blend of polished interviews and yard audio. Recommended Episode: Relevant Questions – The reveal in the first few minutes is my favorite moment in all of podcasting. They are the podcast producer equivalent of really, really, really cool rock and roll guitarists: virtuosic in technique and execution while projecting a couldn’t-care-less attitude about meeting audience expectations. These are shows that I experience joy when listening to, best saved for a medium-aggressive tempo weekend walk in the park. While most of my podcast-listening is driven by an innate fear of bad things happening to myself or my loved ones if I don’t make it through my weekly queue, there are a select few that I commit to listening at regular-degular old 1.0× speed. Some might say that’s sociopathic, and I’m inclined to agree! But I have many shows to get through, and a very small window of time in which to listen to them. That sometimes bumps the playback up to 3.25× speed. I listen to a lot of podcasts, usually on 2.5× speed, with silences removed. Mike feels uncomfortable writing in the third-person. He has won no awards or honors, but writes music under the moniker Old Best Friend, infrequently produces his own Star Wars podcast called Bantha Fodder, and airs his general conversations with co-host Jacob Tender on Podchasm. He writes, edits, and mixes the unimportant investigatory podcast Dead Eyes. Mike Comite is a producer and audio engineer at the Headgum podcast network.

What Do You Gain From Pursuing Something You Do Really, Really Badly?

The immediate answer to me is practice makes better. Unless you're a prodigy or savant, it is rare to simply begin something and be virtuosic. Things take practice.

I've bashed my head against lots of stuff until I was proficient at it. The hardest, perhaps, is with my mental health. I really try with therapy. I try to be vulnerable, to be honest, and to really take advice on board. By nature I trend negative, so sometimes it's very difficult to overcome the voice that says, "It's not worth it, nothing will ever work out..."

I have actually improved in this department. I use those good old DBT skills to practice opposite action and checking the facts or looking for evidence. I use self talk, journaling, etc. and most of the time I can keep myself above board. Practice makes better.

The other perk of doing something that you are really bad at is that Oh, idk, maybe you enjoy it! I'm really not good at the Ukulele but I REALLY like it so I do it anyway. I'm not very good at French but I speak it sometimes anyway because I love it. So yeah, I would say I can gain mastery, a sense of accomplishment, and enjoyment when I pursue something I am really, really bad at.

All dust is pixie dust, somehow. Sunlight makes it shimmer, twinkle. Gravity makes it snow. Bunnies are born from dust. People too. Death turns everything to dust. A sneeze. “I am alive”, it screams. For now. Dead cells fly from the epidermis. Flying feathers of a secularized angel. A body in constant regeneration. A photocopier, the original file lost. Copying the copy of the copy. Each iteration adds more noise. More dust.

All dust is a life, somehow. Pollen suspended in water. Photons hitting it, making it dance. A breeze sculpting a dust devil. Why is it a devil? Flour, for baking bread. Some is lost on every step. It gets stuck to the bowl. To the table. To the rolling pin. To the kneading hands. The thermal death of the universe. Dust mites. They refuse to bite the dust. There’s something to be learned there. A refusal of our own essence. A defiance of virtuosity.

All dust is just dust, somehow. Dust is just dust. Words are just words. Letters are just letters. Ink on paper. Pixels on a screen. Shapes. There is no intrinsic meaning. Signified and signifier. There’s no link without a subject. Every act of communication involves noise. Dust. Interferences. Perception can’t exist without distortion. Reality is bound to biology. The mind body dualism is a farce. An emergent system. The self. Dust speck by dust speck. Neuron by neuron. Cell by cell. 1 + 1 = >2. Where does it come from?

my “years of pilgrimage” manifestations as a pianist/musician point of view: a thread 🧵

(i so far only have thoughts for what’s mentioned in the plot as i translated before from the takarazuka webpage.) (i’m also writing this bcs we know everything about what’s going to happen in top hat, but almost a mystery as to how years of pilgrimage would look like) （will add in george sand after more research)

rei: liszt（リスト)

okay so i just read through the franz liszt wikipedia. years of pilgrimage was composed in 1835, published in 1842, so at that time liszt was only 25 when composed, 31 when published. around 6 months before his death in july 1886, he played this to debussy again in january 1886, as the “Third Year” had only been published in 1883. (these are parts that i doubt would happen in the musical so i don’t mind saying it) this implies that “years of pilgrimage” had been a span of his LIFETIME for composition. besides, liszt reached the height of fame in 1844 after leaving marie so he wasn’t so uncertain with himself yet, and it was around 1860s that he started feeling self-doubt (as to why he became sad in 1860s i’ll leave it for the musical to say it, i think they most likely would so i won’t spoil what happened unless you search for it). which if needed to answer questions of “who am i”, it would take longer than 13 years and more than that of the period mentioned. if rei gets a lifelong journey of lizst in this, i will be deeply impressed and expectant of the acting spectrum she’s about to achieve on another level.

madoka: marie （マリー)

also marie d’agoult was a countess who was in a relationship for 11 years, which is 1/7 of his life. i think for a musical-revue kind of production. if the musical were to be in around 90-110 minutes, madoka’s presence may account for 30 mins but not more than that. (despite the above promo pic suggests otherwise which features a prominent presence) even in the wikipedia, the couple were more separated than together due to liszt’s busy schedules in tours.

maiti: chopin (ショーパン)

chopin and liszt share that of friend-and-foe concept. they were both influenced with each other in their early acquaintence and performed together several times before they actually drifted off during 1831 when they first met, to their last collaborative concert in 1841 and they started being uneasy with each other. from a musician’s point of view, chopin was (like salieri to mozart, but less of that hostility) jealous to liszt’s virtuosity (instead of mozart’s genius) and had condemned liszt for playing his nocturnes “the wrong way” and that he demanded an apology from liszt or rather liszt never played it all. from personal relationships, marie d’agoult had been fasincated by chopin, making liszt jealous. liszt was also closely associated with amantine lucile aurore dupin, who later goes by the name most profoundly known as george sand (maybe Otok? confirmed now to be towaki sea)