El 15 de julio de 2023, en "Tano Cabrón", de la Ciudad de Buenos Aires, se presentó la antología "En las penumbras", del grupo "Escritores en las tinieblas". Moderó Maximino López y musicalizó en vivo Mi Propia Necrológica. --- Realización: Diego Arandojo Música: Power from the Sun (two handed shockwave) by Ov Moi Omm (Free Music Archive) Copyright 2023 / LAFARIUM / www.lafarium.com.ar

scrib

Most Famous Abstract Art Artists and Artworks In The Last 100 Years

2/8/2024 ♦ Framed Poster Print ♦ Canvas Print ♦ Metal Print ♦ Acrylic Print ♦ Wood Prints 🌐 Worldwide shipping

making tmc ocs with my friends ^_^

Fritz is a small black-and-white tom with a torn ear.

9 Days of Solomon

Day 2: Nostalgia

In which Solomon is reminded of his childhood.

I've wanted to write this fic for a while now. It combines a personal headcanon of mine with a bit of angst/comfort (more at the end of the fic). Nothing too intense. I want to hold and comfort sad boys. Nooo don't be sad Solomon ur so sexy...

A storm was crawling over the Devildom, slow and furious. It had started slowly, just a trickle in the morning, before bursting into a gale by noon. Outside of Cocytus Hall, wind whipped leaves across the yard and howled through narrow alleyways. Inside, however, you were far more concerned with another matter entirely.

“You definitely have a fever,” you tell Solomon, trying to keep the ‘I told you so’ tone out of your voice. Your hand presses to your sorcerer’s forehead, frowning when you feel the heat that pulses against it.

“Really? Ha ha how interesting,” he chuckles, voice a little thick from the congestion in his chest. You huff, not appreciating how glib he was taking things. He’d been sneezing all day yesterday but insisted that he never got sick. It wasn’t until his magic started fritzing this morning that Solomon finally admitted he may have picked something up.

“Don’t look so worried,” he said, giving a bright smile that was somewhat diminished by the pale pallor of his skin, “You know I can’t die from something like this.”

“I don’t have to be afraid that you might die to worry about you,” you scold, making him laugh again as he leaned back into the pillows on his bed.

“Alright, alright. Don’t look at me like that,” he relented, knowing better than to admit out loud just how much he enjoyed having you concerned for him, “I’ll be good and stay in bed, okay? See, I have my books right here.” He patted the stack of books he’d brought from his study which you gave a dubious glance. You had a hard time believing Solomon would consent to bed rest so easily, but you couldn’t think of a good reason to hover and keep an eye on him.

“Good. I’m going to go make some soup and tea, okay? And don’t even think of getting out to try and help me,” you tell him, standing and moving to turn on his bedside lamp before heading out of the room.

“Ohhh, so forceful…” His teasing coo made you roll your eyes with a smile, though you noted that as soon as you’d shut the door, your sorcerer fell into a brief coughing fit.

Well, nothing some good soup couldn’t fix. Determined, you head to the kitchen, putting on a record and gathering veggies to start sweating in the pot. Soon the kitchen is sizzling, the sound joining the furious pelt of rain hammering the window. Every so often you pause and listen to see if you can catch Solomon sneaking around, but he seemed to actually be behaving himself.

You stir in some herbs, musing on whether you wanted to use human or Devildom world stock, when the lights flickered. You pause, wondering at first if you imagined it. But no…another flicker, and then –

There was an electronic exhale as the power failed, and the house was cast in darkness.

“Dammit,” you hiss, looking around in the glow of the gas range for your phone. You’d just been looking up the recipe so where had you set it…?

A sudden bang and the sound of something breaking made you jump, your heart leaping into your throat.

“Solomon?” you called, anxiety spiking when you didn’t get a reply. Abandoning the hunt for your phone, you feel your way down the hall, finding his door and opening it.

“Solomon? Are you okay?” you ask again, squinting to try and find him in the darkness. He doesn’t answer but you can hear him breathing, the sound rapid and tight, like he can’t find his breath, and you follow it until you find him on the floor at the corner of his bed. He tries to say your name but it only comes out as a gasp.

Finally, he finds you, grabbing your arms and clutching at you as though he’s just pulled you from the sea, not the hall.

“Sol, you’re shaking!” It’s true, the mage is shivering, his fingers pressing into your back as he tries to take a deep, shuddering breath.

“Sorry…I’m sorry…just...it’s dark…” he pants, trying to get out a coherent sentence, face burning with shame even as his legs are weak with relief that you’re here, you’re here, he’s not alone, not like it was…

All at once you realize what has happened. Solomon has always kept light in his rooms. He sleeps with a magical fire flickering in his hearth, or a candle burning at his bedside. You never really thought much of it, to be honest. But now, with his magic reserves sapped by his cold and the light taken by the storm, Solomon had been plunged into a darkness he’d been fleeing since his childhood.

Your throat tightens as you wrap your arms around Solomon and hold him tight, moving into his lap so you can press your bodies together.

“It’s okay. I’m here. The light will come back. We’re okay,” you murmur softly, stroking his hair as he presses his face into your neck and breathes in your scent.

He feels stupid. Childish. A grown man, perhaps the most powerful sorcerer of the three worlds, afraid of the dark.

But it’s not just the dark, is it? It’s what the dark brings back. That tiny room in the basement of his childhood home. The chill that always permeated, the smell of mildew and wood rotting, the darkness that seemed to press in on all sides like it was just waiting for the chance to swallow him. The sound of laughter, connection, people, coming from over his head, sounds of a life he was never allowed to touch. The deep, gnawing loneliness that promised that no matter how hard he ran, eventually he would end up alone in the dark again because he was other he was wrong he was –

“Solomon…shh…” Your voice snaps him back out of his spiral, and he recenters himself in your arms. Your pulse beats against his cheek, rapid from the fright but steadying now as you hold him. He’s probably dripping snot all over your shoulder, he thinks, pulling back at last to give a sniffle that’s entirely due to the cold. Entirely.  

“Silly, isn’t it?” he finally says weakly, trying to laugh at himself.

You don’t answer. Instead, you cup his face, gently trailing kisses across it until the storm begins to wane and the light returns once more.

Notes:

I think Solomon was a lot more affected by his childhood then he'd like to admit. I could see how such deep trauma would create a lifetime phobia of the dark, even if Solomon knows logically that he's safe. If I remember correctly, one of his first spells was creating fire/light. As long as he has his magic, he can keep a fire burning, light an orb in his palm, keep the shadows at bay. But if he doesn't, he's brought back to that helpless place of fear and abandonment.

I know technically its been stated that Solomon getting sick is incredibly rare, hence his amusement. I don't care. It's fun <3

Are you going to do anything with the group of cats in the Sun-Drown Twolegplace from Sunset? I always hoped they’d come up again in a super edition or something, and as far as I’m aware they didn’t. I think they’re neat

You mean the group from Sunrise? The group of cats who previously followed Sol, but had since learned their lesson?

Jingo (leader)

Hussar

Speckle

Pod

Fritz

Jet

Pepper (Jet's littermate, killed by dogs)

Chirp

Merry

Frisk (Speckle's child along with 3 unnamed siblings)

These ones?

Unfortunately it's very likely they're going to get elbowed out of BB because of the Sol reduxes I've done. He isn't JUST some cat anymore; Sol is a god and its vessel is Harry. So there wouldn't be a scene where they go and meet these random cats.

In general I tend to avoid the various "random" cats outside of the Clans. Imo, I find it somewhat frustrating that canon has such a HUGE cast of various Clan cats, but every 3 books we get a ton of one-off outsiders who are never relevant ever again.

Like Cody for example, in TNP. Yes Cody is cute, but they couldn't have Leafpaw grow close to like, a WindClan elder escaping the poisoning? Or just, Ferncloud, who's going through a lot right now? Show us some more details about Ashfur who's about to be a major romance option for Squilf? You don't have any arc for a side characters you could use this time for?

You couldn't pick a character with some kind of legitimate emotional connection to their ANCESTRAL HOME BEING BULLDOZED?

Idk, it often annoys me. It's an extension of how some of these books feel packed with filler and dead-ends.

BUT, I do try to build outsider groups when possible, so Clan cats aren't totally alone in the world.

If I could figure out a good reason for them to exist without it being distracting (for example I would get frustrated if I had to set these characters up during the Salt Patrol episode instead of building up the massive apprentice generation) I wouldn't be opposed to them being here.

I could also repurpose them elsewhere, if I do end up making a Hengest Culture. I can bookmark them for that. Jessie is going to eventually return to Hengest after cat-divorcing Bramblestar, they could show up then.

TL;DR Unlikely I'll need them, but I'll keep them in mind.

Marilyn Monroe in Niagara (Henry Hathaway, 1953)

Cast: Marilyn Monroe, Joseph Cotten, Jean Peters, Max Showalter, Denis O'Dea, Richard Allan, Don Wilson, Lurene Tuttle, Russell Collins, Will Wright. Screenplay: Charles Brackett, Walter Reisch, Richard L. Breen. Cinematography: Joseph MacDonald. Art direction: Maurice Ransford, Lyle R. Wheeler. Film editing: Barbara McLean. Music: Sol Kaplan.

Niagara was one of three movies starring Marilyn Monroe that were released in 1953. The other two, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (Howard Hawks) and How to Marry a Millionaire (Jean Negulesco), were hits, confirming that Monroe was a peerless comic actress. But Niagara wanted her to be a film noir siren. She had done earlier turns in legitimate film noir, a small role in The Asphalt Jungle (John Huston, 1950), larger ones in Clash by Night (Fritz Lang, 1952) and Don't Bother to Knock (Roy Ward Baker, 1952), so this time 20th Century-Fox decided to go all out in exploiting her as a femme fatale. There are many things wrong with Niagara, one thing being that it can't quite decide whether it's a noir thriller or a Technicolor travelogue about the eponymous falls and their various tourist attractions. But what's most wrong about it is its misuse of Monroe, who is not even the real lead character in the film: Her role is decidedly secondary to that of Jean Peters. And she is grotesquely exploited in her part as Rose Loomis, unhappily married to a mentally unstable man (Joseph Cotten) and plotting to have her lover (Richard Allan) bump him off. The studio can't resist dressing her in skin-tight clothes, with high heels that make it impossible for her to walk without bumps and grinds, and flaming red lipstick that's obviously freshly put on even when she's supposed to be waking up in the morning. A producer less under the control of the studio than Charles Brackett (who also wrote the clunky screenplay with Walter Reisch and Richard L. Breen) might have made Rose into a credible character, but here she's only an adolescent boy's fantasy. Still, even a misused Marilyn is better than no Marilyn at all, as we find out two-thirds of the way through the movie when the focus shifts to the character played by Peters and her grinning ass of a husband (Max Showalter), and we have nothing to marvel at but the Falls. In the hands of a Hitchcock, Niagara might have been a success, but Henry Hathaway directs as if he's bored by the whole thing. 

Cyberpunk/urban scifi Armitozer for the three sentences AU?

"Don't move, hot." Sol's no great shakes with one-handed sign, but he cobbles it together well enough while he's got a soldering gun right up against Tommy's temple.

They lifted the power cell and the new neural weave from the NAVY yard downtown a few days back, so if it were going to short out or start transmitting for security reasons it would've already done so by now. There's not really enough light for this, the neon glow from the billboard outside the dirty window all they're working with after they fried the solar circuits to jumpstart the new aid, but Sol carefully secures the last wires with a ghostly whisp of acrid smoke - giving Tommy a minute to stop feeling the brain fritz before he boots up the sound receiver.

"Check, check, one two," he keeps his voice low, knowing it's overwhelming to hear again after a while without, but Tommy doesn't respond. Sol catches the twitch of his mouth though, as the light flushes blood red when the ad outside flips through to GOLDNER'S GREAT GOOP, and doesn't panic. "Tommy Armitage smells like an android's-"

He gets kicked before he can finish, confirming the patch job on Tommy's ear is working. Another wonderful day at the end of the world.

MÜTÜR DE MARZO *Incluye relato con guión de Diego Arandojo, ilustrado por Andrés Casciani Portada de Emiliano Raspante. Colaboran con ilícitos: Paté Crudo / Fabián Arnaldi / Juan Pablo Diz / Melissa Cammilleri / Gabriel Juárez / Pablo Katzin (Fritz Sol) / GR Mateo / Marcela Nigro / Emiliano Bellini / Julieta Manterola / Pablo Paz / Manuel Rivas Pintos / Matías Castro Sahilices / Juan Sirro / Juan Manuel Menéndez / Andrés Casciani / Emiliano Raspante / Dr. Clock / Mariano Buscaglia / Oscar Grillo / Walter Alarcón / Marcelo Gobbo / Jorge Fantoni / Daniel Wolkowicz / Dearand / Gladys Cepeda / Alicia P. Irurte / Lorena Pinasco \ ¡Pasen, lean, gocen y sufran! https://archive.org/download/mutur2024/mutur-marzo2024.pdf

¡LLEGA LA NAVIDAD MÁS NEOGÓTICA DE LOS ÚLTIMOS AÑOS! / Sí, damas y caballeros de la oscuridad, aquí tienen la flamante edición de Lafarium, con portada magistral del grupo Paté Crudo / Entrevistas exclusivas a Sergio Ibáñez y Sergio Más / Colaboran con textos, tripas e imágenes de la ilusión lóbrega: Emiliano Raspante, GR Mateo, Gabriel Juárez, Juan Manuel Menéndez, Pablo Paz, Pablo Katzin (Fritz Sol), Marcela Nigro, Dante Minervi, Kiminoia, Manuel Rivas Pintos, Oscar Grillo, Emiliano Bellini, Emanuel Rosso, Marcelo Mosqueira, Pabluchi García, Javier Tursi, Rodrigo Fiotto, Lorena Pinasco, Andrés Casciani, Julieta Manterola, Fabián Arnaldi, Ximena Soller, Lucho Virués, Marcelo Gobbo, Juan Pablo Diz, Javier Gervasoni, Adam Arandojo Leanza y Gladys Cepeda / ¡Pasen y lean, antes de que la nieve negra les derrita la cabeza! https://archive.org/download/lafarium2023/Lafarium-diciembre-2023.pdf

i was tagged by @fedalgaard and @fritzes thank you dears ❣️

10 songs i've listened to recently:

ꞌcosmicꞌ.m4a - denzel curry, kenny beats

gold - cleo sol

come un attimo fa - marco mengoni

swing on this - alice in chains

just a lil bit - 50 cent

get better (live) - frank turner

mi salvi chi può - ermal meta

eyeliner - verdena

vestito male - leon faun

searching for a former clarity - against me!

tagging @kaserolly @jean--valswan @lesbianmaldini @fhoetball @jaja-dingdong @mimmo2acmeelan @fortyfive-forty if you want, no pressure!!

Chapter 1.11 - Life on the Farm

“Hi Andi.”

Andria sighed, her little sister-in-law wasn’t so bad. But the child did remind her why she was not ready to handle a child of her own. “Hi Aisha.”

“What are you doing?”

“The dryer is broken so I’m hanging the clothes out to dry.”

“What if it rains?”

“Then we’re SOL.”

“What does SOL mean?”

“It means…”

“What are you teaching my little sister, babe?” Devon laughed as he came into the back yard.

“Devon!” Aisha ran to her older brother and jumped into his arms, and Devon promptly flipped her upside down over his back. Even though there was a 19 year age difference between the pair, the two were as close as two siblings could be.

Andria smiled as she watched the duo. Her husband would be a good father some day, of that she was sure. But over the last couple of years, the more she thought about it, the more she realized she wasn’t sure if she wanted to raise a child with him. Things between them were not what she expected, or wanted them to be. For example, she never wanted to be living on a farm with her in-laws hanging laundry to dry after spending all day in meetings. But she was not sure how to tell Devon that. So instead she smiled and walked over.

“Hey you. How was the business trip?”

Devon set his sister on the ground before leaning in for a kiss from his wife. “It was good. The project is on schedule and the customer is happy with the direction we’re heading.”

“That’s always good to hear.” Andria said.

“The dryer on the fritz again?”

“I think so. I don’t understand why your parents won’t let us just buy them a new one.”

“Dad can fix it. They don’t like spending money frivolously. I know you grew up with a trust fund…”

“Devon, please not here, not now, and not in front of your sister.” Andria said throwing up her hands and walking away.

Money was one of the things the argued about, more and more frequently. Andria did have a trust fund, but she had only used it to pay for school. And while she didn’t struggle growing up, she didn’t live a life in the lap of luxury. She was raised by a working single woman that wasn’t even her mother. The trust fund Andria had, was left to her when her mom died at the age of 20. Andria was only four at the time.

Del cuaderno... (IX)

ESCRITURA VIVA

La escritura manual tiene vida propia. Tiene la vida de la mano de quien la conduce y guía. Posee memoria biológica, y con ella tiembla y palpita. Todo cuanto fluye por la punta del útil de escribir surge del remoto hontanar —la fuente primera— de quien va trazando los grafismos en la página. La palabra manuscrita es viva inteligencia; inspiración gobernada por el timón de la experiencia que en las carnes del escritor ha ido dejando, durante los lustros y las décadas, su inmarcesible impronta.

[06-07/02/24]

ANXIETY PRODUCTIONS

Hay días de ansiedad y días de nerviosa fatiga y cansancio extraño, a medio camino entre el físico y el psíquico, en que te pones por la tarde aquí delante —¡qué de annapurnas de trabajo inacabado!— y sientes que de pronto te derrumbas. Quizá no descansaras bien anoche. O tal vez sea el peso de tantos recuerdos que preferirías desterrar de tu memoria: todas esas cosas que hiciste, «odiando en cada momento lo que hacías», como en “Coney Island Baby” dice Lou Reed (una de cuyas productoras se llamaba —siempre me pareció un nombre inmejorable— ANXIETY PRODUCTIONS). La verdad es que con el paso de los años la acumulación de desechos experienciales es realmente excesiva, hasta el punto de llegar a hacerse insoportable.

En tesituras como esta me pongo a peinar internet —¡qué gran cubo de desperdicios en sí mismo!— en busca de información sobre la ansiedad, el miedo, los ataques de pánico, los síndromes de angustia. «Quizá su problema se manifieste en forma de delirantes pensamientos irracionales, que le gritan en el interior de su cabeza, y sienta usted que de un momento a otro va a volverse loco, o que se va a morir, de forma horripilante y dolorosa, en breve plazo». No lo sé. Dios mío, no lo sé. Uno a veces se postraría de hinojos ante su propia mente para suplicarles a sus desvaríos clemencia, un respiro, cinco minutos o cinco horas de cuartel.

Fritz Lang dirigió en 1945 una película, en España titulada Perversidad, en la que uno de sus protagonistas es condenado a la pena capital por un crimen que no ha cometido. En un determinado momento de la historia, cuando al pobre desgraciado le llega su hora, se lo llevan pataleando por un largo y desangelado pasillo hacia la silla eléctrica, y el tipo va emitiendo unos espantosos gritos desgarradores, en desesperada petición de misericordia, y repitiendo: «¡Díos mío! ¿No puede nadie sacarme de aquí?» (en realidad en inglés dice “Won’t someone give me a break?”; «¿No puede alguien darme cuartel?»). Esa secuencia de Lang pone los pelos de punta; y así me siento yo cuando descienden sobre mí estos ataques de ansiedad. Luego…, escribo un poco y se me quita. Pasa el jamacuco. Solo se oye en el silencio el tictac del reloj, seguido instantes después por los acostumbrados retumbos del vecino de arriba, que por una vez —nunca hay mal que por bien no venga— casi son de agradecer.

[16/02/24]

VUELVE EL CANTOR

Han vuelto los mirlos al parque. Hoy en mi paseo vespertino he oído cantar a un par de ellos, desde la copa de un plátano el primero, y luego uno segundo, emboscado entre el ramaje pelado de un negrillo. Al volver por la Ventilla cantaba un tercero, como acompañando la magnífica puesta de sol que incendiaba de ocre, púrpura y naranja el cielo del oeste de Madrid. Estos hechos me han llenado el corazón de felicidad. Ya había empezado yo a pensar, en los últimos tiempos, que los mirlos nos habían abandonado para siempre. El bello cantor de color azabache y pico ambarino es migrador parcial, según los manuales de aves; pero nunca lo había echado de menos durante tanto tiempo (nunca lo había echado de menos en absoluto, porque toda mi vida, en latitudes occidentales e incluida entre ellas Inglaterra, jamás había dejado su música de acompañarme). No sé qué haría si alguna vez faltaran definitivamente los dulces y melódicos gorjeos del mirlo; sobre todo teniendo en cuenta la alarmante invasión, que desde hace lustros padecemos, de cotorras argentinas, a las que ahora —para colmo— se ha empezado a sumar la cotorra de Kramer.

Como siempre me he sentido en particular sintonía con el ritmo de los motores de la tierra, me gusta pensar que los mirlos han retornado al vecindario en respuesta a las llamadas de mi escritura; permítaseme esa pequeña veleidad poética, que es como un azucarillo de terrosa variedad morena añadido al café de mi estado de ánimo. Puedo seguir escribiendo un poco más tranquilo.

Yo, permanente «insatisfecho ontológico», soy hombre que en el terreno práctico se conforma con poco; si «poco» puede decirse que sea el canto de los pájaros.

[18/02/24]

ARTISTS I LIKE*

Ana Mendieta. William H. Johnson. Deborah Roberts. Amy Sherald. Lynette-Yiadom Boakye. Toyin Ojihi Odutola. Delphine Desane. Mickalene Thomas. Faith Ringold. Lorna Simpson. Kerry Mae Weems. Martine Syms. Kerry James Marshall. Henry Taylor. Henry Matisse. Juan Gris. Pablo Picasso. Sol Lewitt. Jackson Pollock. Geral Richter, Clyfford Still. Olga Abizu. Fritz Scholder. Joy Mitchell. Andy Warhol. Cy Twombly. Frida Kahlo. Elaine De Kooning, Roy Litchenstein. Henri Rosseau. Georgia O’Keefe. Diego Riviera. Marina Abromovic. Joe Colombo. Günter Ferdinand Ris. Pierre Paulin. Verner Panton. Olafur Eliasson

Metropolis. Fritz Lang quería 4000 extras calvos para la secuencia de la Torre de Babel, pero Erich Pommer solo pudo encontrar 1000 dispuestos a afeitarse la cabeza. Dado que la escena se rodó en primavera, estos extras se sofocaron bajo el sol abrasador mientras transportaban rocas de utilería y troncos de árboles reales por el paisaje. Algunos sufrieron quemaduras solares en el cuero cabelludo debido a la larga sesión. Después de filmar, Lang ordenó que la toma pasara por el multiplicador óptico para que los 1000 extras parecieran los 4000 que había querido originalmente.​​​​​​​​