Retweets very much appreciated folks💙

Praise the returning sun! I'm doing a 4-hour charity fundraising stream this Sunday in celebration of the solstice, with the proceeds going to Galop, a UK charity that helps LGBTQ+ victims of all forms of violence and abuse. I'll be playing Vintage Story and trying to survive a four-hour in-game night, playing until the sun rises. Signal boosts are greatly appreciated, as my usual streaming audience is quite small. See you Sunday at twitch.tv/secretfoxfire!

I'll be appearing on @AyeforScotland  24hr stream in about 30 minutes!  Come check it out! It’s a great time, great game, and some great speakers!

Aux galops de l'inconnu : L'Heureux, Alain, 1962- auteur : Free Download, Borrow, and Streaming : Internet Archive

MILO J LANZÓ SU ALBÚM DEBUT

Luego de una inolvidable presentación en la gala de los Latin Grammys junto a Bizarrap, un show en el emblemático Primavera Sound y agotar dos Movistar Arena de Buenos Aires en menos de una hora, Milo J llega con su primer álbum “1 1 1”. 

El artista presenta una obra de 9 canciones entre las que se encuentran las colaboraciones internacionales de Peso Pluma, Nicki Nicole, Yahritza Y Su Esencia y Yami Safdie.

El artista es el argentino más joven en ser nominado a los Latin Grammys y durante 2023 acumuló más de 3 mil millones de streams en plataformas digitales, posicionando seis canciones entre las 50 más escuchadas a nivel global. Colaboró con Bizarrap, Nicki Nicole y Duki entre otros. Además, se presentó en vivo en La Velada del Año de IBAI, que fue vista por más de 3 millones de personas, y agotó sus shows en Madrid y Barcelona.

Alejado de los ritmos urbanos, en el álbum Milo J se sumerge en sonidos, melodías y letras profundas en una propuesta sonora diferente, producida por Evlay y Tatool. El cantautor atraviesa en su lírica el recorrido de una historia de desamor desde el enamoramiento hasta la ruptura.

“Necesitaba hacer canciones con la sensación de explosión, de epicidad, pero sin la necesidad de usar ruidos punzantes o de percusión. Quería sentir que la canción rompe sin tener que escuchar drums” dice Milo J.

El álbum está acompañado de videos grabados en Argentina, México y España que siguen de cerca los sentimientos que narran las letras del álbum con la participación de Peso Pluma en UNA BALA y Nicki Nicole en ALUMBRE. Todos fueron producidos por ANESTESIA AUDIOVISUAL y GALOPE.

The AM: August 28, 2023

Music for the last Monday of August. A little summery, a little autumnal, and a lot of beauty in any case. Enjoy psychedelic sounds, cosmic synths, acoustic ballads, quantum-inspired folk-rock, and other offbeat easy listening to start your week off right. Full track listing after the break.

Listen at CJSW.com

Stream from Soundcloud

Spotify playlist

Other links

Hour One:

Escape Wheel Emeralds • Does It Look Like I'm Here (Expanded Edition)

A Fresh Dawn for North Cheshire Warrington Runcorn New Town Development Plan • Building a New Town

Gale Still Blowing Early Fern • Perpetual Care

Impression of the Divine Plateau Electric Enlightenment • Volume One

Explorer 3000 Inner Flight • Inner Flight

Morning Dose Spume • Original Formula Spume

Palms Teen Daze • Single

Joy Ride - Jeff Parker Remix Dougie Stu • Single

Wavebreak Monster Rally • Flower Shower

In Drink Joy Orbison • Still Slipping Vol. 1

Ladders II Dominic Pierce • 'Elevate' EP

Hour Two:

Cascade Modern Nature • No Fixed Point In Space

Late Afternoon Ann Annie • By Morning

Sunbursting Bibio, featuring Óskar Guðjónsson • Sunbursting EP

Classic Water North Americans • Long Cool World

Ways of Losing Ora Cogan, featuring Y La Bamba • Formless

Is This Really Necessary Carl Glacier • May Cause Dizziness

All Dressed Up In Dreams The 6ths • Wasps' Nests

In the City In the Rain The 6ths • Wasps' Nests

La nuit galope Citron Citron • Chagrin Bleu

Alfie Solomon’s Hush April March • April March Meets Staplin

Nest of Giants Moonfish • Single

Entre les mors YOCTO • Zepta Supernova

104 Oranje • Pure Sport

Hour Three:

Turn Away Automatic • Excess

Pet Rock L'Rain • I Killed Your Dog

Children Kiss Your Mother Goodnight Pisces • A Lovely Sight

Marbles Vanishing Twin • Afternoon X

You Are Beside Me Ryan Driver • Feeler Of Pure Joy

Bloodspot Margret • The Most Fun That Two People Can Have Together

Regret Everything Pia Fraus • Evening Colours

Conductor 71 Fujiya & Miyagi • Transparent Things

To a Sea Fresh Snow • I

Underneath Programm • A Torrid Marriage Of Logic And Emotion

Ether Mogwai • Atomic

Maurizio Mastrini, Hugs

Il pianista  presenta il suo nuovo album

Parliamo di genialità e di numeri. La genialità e ́ quella del maestro Maurizio Mastrini, uno dei maggiori pianisti e compositori del panorama musicale e strumentale internazionale, che presenta il suo nuovo progetto, l'album Hugs, uscito il 13 Maggio. Un album composto da 11 nuovi brani, ognuno dei quali porta con sé un significato importante: con delicata sensibilitá il maestro tocca alcuni temi, riuscendo a scuotere attraverso le note le corde dell´anima e le coscienze degli ascoltatori. I numeri sono quelli di un´artista definito dalla critica come “fenomeno“, che con la sua musica ha toccato tutti i continenti raggiungendo, negli ultimi 10 anni, 770 concerti in giro per il mondo ed oltre 32.000.000 di ascolti solo su Spotify, rientrando così tra i pianisti italiani ad avere il numero più alto numero di download e streaming sul web.

“Hugs”, brano che dá il titolo all'album, è un omaggio agli abbracci ed al contatto mancato durante la pandemia, ma anche l´auspicio, attuale piú che mai, che due popoli come quello russo ed ucraino tornino ad abbracciarsi; “Astor”, composto a Buenos Aires nel 2011, é un tributo ad Astor Piazzolla, noto musicista e compositore argentino e descrive l’atmosfera notturna delle milonghe della capitale argentina; “Bolle di sapone” è dedicato all ́étoile Roberto Bolle. Il maestro è solito suonarlo mentre dal pianoforte escono e si librano nell’aria bolle di sapone, con l’intento di evocare la grazia e la leggerezza del famoso ballerino

Si parla nuovamente della pandemia con “Butterfly”, brano scritto in onore dei tanti camici bianchi periti durante la lotta contro il Covid; le loro anime, con rimando proprio al bianco della divisa da lavoro, sono paragonate magicamente alle ali di farfalla. “Elettra”,brano molto sentito dall´artista, è una dedica ad Elettra Morini, étoile della Scala e moglie di Tony Renis(attuale produttore di Mastrini e di artisti del calibro di Bocelli);in occasione di una serata passata insieme a questi due cari amici, Maurizio coglie gli sguardi intensi tra la coppia, sguardi che, nonostante il tempo, sono lo specchio di un amore saldo ed inossidabile. Si prosegue con “Galop”, un inno alla libertà: ascoltando il brano si ha la sensazione di cavalcare un purosangue e di galoppare all’infinito. Altro brano molto intenso é “Girasoli”, che evoca la celebrazione dell’amore più bello e puro che possa esistere: quello tra il girasole e il sole. I due si cercano continuamente, il sole dà la vita al girasole, ma materialmente non si toccano mai; “Il balbuziente innamorato” è un brano autobiografico in cui il maestro Mastrini ricorda la sua prima adolescenza piena di timidezza che lo faceva balbettare ogni volta che si avvicinava ad una ragazza.“La mia Africa” è stato composto in Ghana, presso la residenza dell’Ambasciatore italiano Favilli, a cui è dedicato; omaggia la purezza, la saggezza e la dignità del popolo africano, in particolare dei bambini, che vivono di nulla, ma quel nulla è tutta la loro ricchezza. “Love” è un’ode universale all’amore in tutte le sue forme: per se stessi, per un luogo, per un oggetto, per gli amici. Ed infine “W la vita”, scritto a Cuba e dedicato al popolo cubano. Celebra la vera essenza dell’essere e non ciò che si vorrebbe essere. Un album ricco di significati, emozioni positive e speranza. Mastrini viene definito un musicista “incontaminato“, poiché la sua vita creativa si esprime lontano dal caos delle metropoli, in Umbria. Il suo stile compositivo evidenzia i caratteri essenziali di un linguaggio colto e complesso e al tempo stesso emozionale ed immediato. Tra tutti gli insegnanti lascia un’impronta significativa il maestro Vincenzo Vitale. Tra i dischi di musica classica di maggior successo citiamo Piano Music, Baby's First Piano Music, Il Pianoforte, Love Music, Classic Music For Christmas, Le Musiche dello Zodiaco, Love Piano. Di particolare rilievo è il CD “Storia della Musica – Capolavori”, distribuito dalla Ricordi, in cui il Maestro Allorto, curatore della collezione, inserisce l’esecuzione della fantasia in do Mag. di R. Schumann. Inoltre nella produzione discografica si segnalano: “I Miei Romantici vol.1”, “Sogno D’Amore”, “Sacro & Profano”, “I miei Classici” edito da “Progetti Sonori” la cui particolarità consiste nel fatto che il Maestro Mastrini è il primo al mondo ad avere inciso i primi lavori compositivi dei capisaldi della musica tra cui Mozart, Beethoven e altri celeberrimi compositori classici. Nel 2011 all'interno dell'album Terra! é contenuto il brano “Tié!“, suonato con un virtuosismo particolare, usando sulla tastiera del pianoforte solo le dita pollice, indice e mignolo che formano il segno scaramantico delle corna, brano dedicato ad un amico rimasto paralizzato dopo un incidente, con il messaggio che anche se la vita ci mette davanti a situazioni tragiche bisogna avere il coraggio di andare avanti. Mastrini compone e registra anche per alcune importanti emittenti televisive e radiofoniche come Radio France, R.A.I. Italiana, Radio e televisione Svizzera, Mediaset, BBC, ABC Americana. La consacrazione come compositore in campo internazionale arriva con la realizzazione del primo album “Il Mio Mondo al Contrario”, in cui suona composizione classiche ed originali partendo dall’ultima nota verso la prima, con un riscontro musicale sorprendente. L’attenzione dei media lo consacra tra i più quotati e sbalorditivi pianisti contemporanei mondiali ispirato sempre da una continua ricerca ed esplorazione verso frontiere musicali sempre nuove.

« Un Exigeant Irréel » En Grande Taille

C'est la allié streaming detail/topicid-76247/" target="_blank">streaming des réflexions que l'on peut manufacturer fors on a vu Jean-Claude Dreyfus entretenir la sacrilège dans lequel nettoyage bonnes heures et demie, potager de partenaires globaux principalement excellents les uns que les plusieurs, parmi cette extrême pastiche de Molière.

La protégé fut charitable. L'fait subsistait amplement officiel par le céleste et le cirque affichait mortel depuis plusieurs semaines déjà. Tous les âges présentaient représentés et le allocutaire n'a pas été déçu.

La proverbe cordon au thesaurus depuis 327 ans, son triomphe n'a en aucun cas faibli et pellicule luxuriant expressions de idiome, sézig n'a pas collé une sillon, beaucoup Molière avait vu ordinaire sur la indigène libérale et ses défauts ressources naturels. Totalement alcoolique par les médecins et apothicaires plus charlatans que véritables soigneurs, le chiche Argan est devenu une productif génisse à lait beaucoup dépouillée par ces pseudo-savants aujourd'hui reconvertis entre l'hypnose, que par une minute cadet épouse formidablement cupide par son espérances, qui envisage de fabriquer nuire les adolescents du rectifié lit. L'cabale de projets d'union contrariés envers menaces de placer la frais canette au église est de encore classiques, mais les multiples rebondissements essentiels là-dedans insinuer bref hanter les yeux à cet sombre personnel intégralement frais toute finances doux demandent une éternelle maîtrisé de l'art série de Molière en présentait un maestro exprès.LE PLAISIR ABSOLU DU THEATRE

Classique dans lequel son attitude et son elfe, boîte toutefois actualisé le pousse d'un étape, strictement effroyablement vague chez son divagation et son agriculteur, la mise en attaque follement travaillée de François Bourcier est foncièrement enthousiasmante. Il plant les personnages dans à elles retranchements, traitant les Diafoirus père et petit en véritables vampires pendant que le juvénile amant aide amplement davantage ses regards en intendance d'Orgon que d'Angélique qu'ils instrumentalisent et veulent distribuer à leurs convoitise. S'il est aujourd'hui délicat de réinjecter la musique de sacrilège et les ballets à frappas multiples que Marc-Antoine Charpentier composa parmi la étrenne de 1673, la avanie de l'entracte opératique d'Orgon et d'Angélique est bien traitée en menuet et cuadrilla sur une refrain ampoulé du XVIIIe époque.

Si l'baignade générale est à la proverbe et à la bouffonnerie, entre Molière la drame n'est en aucun cas absent et l'on frôle le drame ancestral. Heureusement la nourrice Toinette, divinement interprétée par Sophie Barjac, gardiennage et sézigue indemne la condition dans l'délié de tous avec la péripétie de Béralde, le frérot d'Argan et oncle officiel des enfants. A son appâte, celui-ci article refluer la avis chez cette pénates que l'on aurait dit en récolte aux streaming appétits féroces d'une coterie singulièrement effarant.

L'bande de la section éprouvait une tangible exultation à amuser cette éclatante représentation, pendant que pour la ouverte, le allocutaire riait de bon incertain. Le galopant est banalement exemple et aux rappels Jean- Claude Dreyfus pouvait le venger pendant son apparence. Ajoutons que contre l'petitesse de la sacrilège auscitaine, les acteurs ont eu mûrement de frivolité à minauder parmi ce beau chambre.

“what can i do to help trans people in the uk?”

i got a bit sick of seeing posts talking about the current ongoing cultural mudslinging and particularly sick of responses to people asking what to do about it that amounted to either “nothing, just keep talking about the awful things endlessly without offering any rationale for any of it or hope for anyone” or “donate to these (american) charities!”

so here we go, a short and very broad list of things you can do to support trans and nb people in the uk. this is not comprehensive and will contain info both for residents here and for people living in other countries as and when they occur to me.

recognise why this is happening: this is a manufactured cultural assault designed to create perpetual vitriolic media buzz. we can get into the nitty-gritty but the short version is that brexit has been and is going to continue to be a disaster, and covid has been even worse, and they are disasters too big to spin into gold. this has created both a lot of internal upset and, unsurprisingly, an upswing in left-leaning consciousness and support, a wholly predictable response that the uk press has completely shit itself over. i cannot emphasise enough how much the uk media and upper echelons would rather be notorious for bigotry than tolerate the existence of the most mealy-mouthed socialist movement going undemonised. so, what’s the response? well, creating a convenient enemy is just what these people do, and it’s hard to go with the usual standard of immigrants when hardly anybody can get in and almost nobody wants to. trans panic is an ideal choice because like all bigotries predicated on a gut feeling of disgust it is highly resistant to being deflated by research and facts, it has the huge added bonus of destabilising support for the left, which trends progressive here, and you can pick at it forever without needing anything to actually happen in order to run stories, (see: the number of news articles that amount to glorified opinion pieces but have flimsy-to-no actual news content) and running stories keeps the machine doing its job. this is a smokescreen and a very deliberate one. if you interpret that as an implication that it is therefore harmless, please google the effects of sustained smoke inhalation.

with that in mind, stop doing tr-anspho-bes PR for them. polls on the general consensus wrt trans people in the uk do not, in fact, show an overwhelming majority of people vocal about especially repugnant anti-trans views. more and more people know a trans person personally, more and more are educated on basic info and are reasonably content to be sensible about our existence and the primary movement for the opposition is composed of a statistically smaller number of very loud, very miserable people. the ones near the top of the social pile make a mint endlessly churning out outrage articles, and the ones down here with the rest of us make a lot of bitter twitter posts about all the friends who won’t talk to them any more. their legal and legislative efforts in practical terms have amounted to stalls and deadlocks at best, embarrassing overturns at worst. they do not have the majority. do not give them the illusion of it, do not credit them with a victory they have absolutely no right to claim. this isn’t their island.

support actual uk trans/trans inclusive charities and activists, i promise they exist outside of america and have donation links. stonewall uk and mermaids are probably the most prominent ones in the public discourse, but off the top of my head there’s gendered intelligence and the lgbt foundation and galop and whichever country in the uk you happen to look in will have their own. google them, ask your local queer hub, look at individual-issue campaigns like the multiple anti-conversion therapy groups, find one of the endless number of us who seem to make extra dosh on the side streaming videogames or debates and see when the next charity stream is live, this is really not a difficult thing to do at all

support/join activist and/or political orgs and movements. please stop making posts saying protesting is banned in the uk, this is not true and does not help. there have been a number of protests around the bbc and other outlets in the past few months alone and we are probably going to be in the need of a lot more protests about a whole range of things in the coming years, so find the people doing it, join up, and boost. do you have a job? are you in a union? you probably should be. and your union probably has people dedicated to supporting, explaining and defending the legal rights of of lgbt+ people in the workplace. find out what those are and whether your workplace is compliant, vote for reps, go to a (probably virtual) AGM, talk to your coworkers, not even about trans stuff! if the people up top are all so frightened of a robust, united left in the uk, give em one.

boost uk trans/nb voices in general, and not just when we are complaining about this stuff. again, turning our entire culture into a constant stream of misery for people who don’t live here or know better to gawk at does not help. boost uk trans/nb people talking about solutions and talking about the good news (and there has been good news, which deserves at least as much attention) and boost them existing and putting out things that are not activism, because living our lives authentically and being creative or constructive or happy after coming out are also things we do, contrary to what certain people would very much prefer. your trans/nb followers here probably don’t want an endless parade of rubbernecking about our sad, doomed little lives, and the people who want to make that gross little pipe dream a reality hate seeing us happy, so it’s a win/win

if you see a shitty article or report in the paper or in the news that is making a mockery of journalistic standards of impartiality, or using absurdly terrible “data” or quoting notoriously vile people or otherwise stepping outside of the paper/channel/etc.s own standards, lodge a complaint, and then follow up on that complaint if/when they fob you off through whatever avenues they are obligated to provide, and let other people know they can do this, too. this is a media circus, make it as tedious and difficult and miserable to run as possible. be specific about exactly what is unacceptable on their own terms (e.g. “this is bigoted, generally” is not going to get you very far, “you claim to cover all sides but only interviewed one” is a provable claim)

if your political candidate (local or otherwise, for any party regardless of your usual voting habits) has been egregiously unpleasant (about frankly any issue that matters in an elected official) contact the party or local office and make a complaint, being clear that this is a question of you feeling comfortable to vote for the party during the next election (you do not need to wait for the next election). again, be very clear about the specific remarks, actions or policy in question. then, when an election does come, follow through. bring it up when people canvas door to door, bring it up in hustings, do the social media thing if that is your thing, make it clear that this candidate, or at least this candidate airing and acting on these particular views, is voter poison, and prove it by not voting for them. a lot of uk politicians are careerists and there is not a single colleague or policy or ideal in their deepest hearts that they won’t eject or erase or sell out if they think it will cost them a popularity contest in a town you could spit across end to end. it won’t work on all of them, but it has worked on some, and it can work again. a whole lot of this entire smokescreen is predicated on the fallout from making a scapegoat out of trans people being less politically and economically damaging than the fallout of the international health and economic crises these people are on the hook for, but, fortunately, and because you are now very cleverly aware of the ruse, there’s no reason they can’t catch heat for both. 

stop talking about the wizard book woman. i know you all care very deeply about which media a person likes and dislikes and how you can read the nature of their soul from the tea leaves of their interests, but you are taking a whole lot of energy that could be spent on anything worthwhile in life at all and spending it boosting the career of a has-been author whose main draw for her followers is purely the fact that people talk about her. yeah if you buy a plastic wand perhaps £0.0000000002 of it might get donated to some unscrupulous character, but jk’s power is not in her ability to throw peanuts at parties whose coffers are already brimming with dirty money. it’s that she’s a famous voice who can be paraded out to do a pity party whenever buzz gets too low. who can speak and write in coherent sentences without making an absolute embarrassment of herself, which is a skill in high demand in frothing hate movements. she’s a hashtag. she’s a mascot. her dwindling fame is one of the few veneers of legitimacy these people have to cling to and that’s why they won’t shut up about her and that’s why you should.

in general, if the bulk of your Serious UK Trans Ally Activism Post is about fandom crap, or a funny joke about how a country you don’t like and the people who live there are bad, perhaps make those insightful and hilarious points on a post that does not leverage the nonsense we are actually dealing with for extra clout, ta

so there you go, a very long short list of things you can do to help uk trans and nb people. there are probably loads more and anyone who has some can feel free to add them on, my only request is that they be educational, actionable, and with a view towards actual improvement of the situation (as opposed to, for example, telling us all to emigrate, which i am sure is well-intentioned but unless you’re willing to pay for a lot of covid tests, transit fare, board, etc., is neither helpful nor practical, nor is it particularly sound long-term tactics to give mouthy little hate groups the idea that if they are simply awful enough, they can have all the minorities they don’t like put onto boats and planes and sent away forever to leave the nation Pure again).

boosts appreciated but you’re not a bad person if you don’t

                                               Searing Strider

"The slaves of the demon planes are foul abominations, consumed by pain, madness and pure evil. Once upon a time these were wonderful centaurs, galopping in feywilds, but they were captured by demon lords, turned into these monsters through brutal experiments. Now they are used as mounts, as their minds are no strong, other than to only to be a horse consumed by bloodthirst."

If anyone would want to make a stat sheet for it in DnD please ask my permission, and tag me if you want to use the art! Much appreciated! <3

((little backstory: Most of these recent creature designs are redesigns of old old sketches I did as a kid))

Consider supporting me on Ko-Fi! <3

I occasionally do art streams or any kind of streams on Twitch!

We're going to be hosting a 24-hour fundraiser for Galop UK on the 3rd & 4th of December

And I'm going to be announcing the guest speakers in this thread!

Chapter 66 - SBT

Here it is!

The morning was cold and crisp. Thank God for that scarf and beanie. He had stolen it, like everything else, unfortunately. But he didn't have any choice. 

The campfire had died overnight, as it usually did. He revived it and warmed up his hands. Those mittens weren't good enough. He should go and find proper gloves with fingertips. His teeth chattered and his stomach growled. Time to find some food. 

"You stay here, I will be back shortly." 

He received a nod for an answer and he headed deeper in the forest. Most of the trees had lost their leaves but the forest was so dense that one could still progress quite stealthily. He walked until he spotted a rabbit, maybe a hare. 

"Ah…" 

He pulled the rifle he was carrying on his back and readied it, reloading it slowly and silently before screwing in the suppressor at the end of the barrel. He went down on one knee to take aim and didn't fail. The rabbit fell limply to the ground. He went to retrieve it and walked back to his camp. 

"I am back. This should feed me for the entire day. You still have your own food." 

He cleaned the rabbit, skinned it and gutted it before cutting the different parts neatly. That knife had never been that handy. He had breakfast with one leg and a bit of the rabbit and then laid down to take a nap in his shelter. 

"Wake me up if anything happens." 

Again, he was answered with a nod and laid on his side watching the day pass before he fell asleep.

His days were extremely uneventful. No one came around these parts to pass by, especially now that it was winter, and so he felt like he owned the entire forest for himself. His pass times included carving wood, sharpening his blade, throwing it at tree trunks and talking to himself and his horse. 

Yes, the horse was the only company he had, and he had stolen it too. Everything he owned he had stolen off of people who had come earlier in the year. May it be for a hike, a bit of hunting, fishing, anything that could be done around these parts. And in more than a year, he had amassed quite the collection of objects. He had everything he needed. He even had a game of cards, he just missed someone to play with. 

When he woke up from his nap, he decided to go on a walk with the horse. He hopped on his back and off they went, marching slowly. After more than a year living there, they both knew the forest by heart so the thrill of discovering new paths didn't exist anymore. They languidly walked through, under the dark spiky branches, and that's what they would spend their time doing. 

This time of the year, the forest was dull and sad. Life seemed to be taking a break, dormant. The horse was taking his time, enjoying the view, his hooves crunched on the dead leaves on the ground. The squirrels were away, birds hardly chirped. The silence was deafening and made the man reflect on himself. He detested that. 

Living like a hermit in a forest wasn't something he had chosen by free will. Circumstances had pushed him to do so. He had to live far from the eyes and ears of men, so he returned to nature. It reminded him of darker days of history, during the war. Only now, he wasn't wearing the uniform, he wasn't obeying anyone's orders, he was no one, and had returned to the state of dust. His hair had grown, his beard too but he could at least keep it to a reasonable level with the knife.

For how long? He himself didn't know how long he had to keep living this way. It had been more than a year already and he wished he wouldn't have to drag it for a decade. Again. 

Another decade of trying to pause time. You can't pause the passing of time. Time does not care about you and however you choose to spend it. Time passes.

And it was a torture. For he was stuck there with this horse. He couldn't go anywhere else. Trying to escape would get him noticed and that was the last thing he needed. The plan was to vanish. But this time, Houdini should not reappear. Even though he craved to, he shouldn't because it would not only put himself in danger, but also, the life of the man he wanted to reappear for. 

God only knew how that man had spent his year. Maybe he had forgotten, and moved on. Maybe he had learnt to live again, find something to do and keep his days busy. Maybe it was now a story of the past, or maybe he even managed to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. 

But for the hermit, it was no laughing matter. It was actually his reason to open his eyes and break his dreams of the night. Those dreams were something. They were the only times where he could see him, the man who mattered. He would see him, hear him, touch him even. He would have conversations with him, he would woo him all over again, let his fingers run through his long, brown and wavy locks of hair… 

Those dreams were a torture. But each day he would wake up and try to swallow it down, try to not keep track of the number of days - 487 - that had passed since that last kiss. And he wondered. When he had said "Please, forgive me.", did that man in the end forgive him indeed? If he hadn't forgiven him yet, would he in the future?

And what had become of their baby? Did she miss him? If she were to see him again, would she recognise him? How did she grow up? What did she look like now? Hopefully she was grown up and well. He knew she would, he had trusted that man with her and he knew how good he was. 

The hermit crossed a thin stream of water and the horse stopped to drink. He wasn't far from another camp. He might spend the rest of the day and the night there. He waited for the horse to finish and they carried on. When they found the other camp, the afternoon was half over. Thank God that forest spread wide… 

The hermit covered the horse with a blanket and sat down to start a fire. The temperatures started to drop. When the flames were going steadily, he decided to have a bit more of the rabbit. He grilled it and ate it slowly while humming to himself. When he finished, he looked at the sun setting. 

There were days where he would like it, not anymore. He knew what the sun set looked like too much. The view was sickening. It reminded him of his solitude. He abhorred it all and sighed. He did his ponytail again and decided to lie down and sleep through it.

But of course sleep didn't come. Even if the sky was turning darker and darker, his brain was running fast, spinning like a wheel with a mad hamster. He tossed and turned under his tent, left and right, under the duvet. He added more and more layers to prevent the cold draft from slithering it and licking his face with its ice tongue. He tried his best and his hopes died the moment he realised that his campfire died too. 

"Merde…"

He sighed and threw the blankets away. What should he do then? Well, maybe taking a walk would help. He stood up, wore a poncho on top of his winter clothes and exited the tent. The horse neighed when he passed next to him. 

"I am off for a walk, that's all. You may sleep if you want. I don't know how long I will be." 

And he left the camp, the rifle on his back and his blade in his inner pocket, as always. He walked under the full moon and between the naked trees, slithering through. There wasn't any wind whatsoever and the forest was asleep. He stopped. He knew it in his guts. He would not sleep. 

"Et merde."

[And shit…]

He went back to his camp and took the horse with him. He was mad at himself, at his loneliness, the solitude gnawing him on the inside. They went on a large forest way that had been formed by countless people walking on it before him. He aligned the horse straight. 

"Au galop!"

[Gallop!]

The horse obeyed instantly and raced on through the forest. The hermit bent forward and held on to him. The cold air whipping his face did exactly what he wanted. It made his eyes water and tears streamed down his face. The first one was always the hardest to shed but the ones after came more and more easily. 

He hated himself. He hated himself with a passion. He wished he could punch himself, make himself eat his teeth, ask the horse to trample him with its heavy hooves! He couldn't live with himself!

The fool! He thought that revenge would bring him some peace but no! It didn't do anything but bury the rest of him alive! Revenge had not put any part of him to rest. 

He was eaten out by both regrets and remorse. There are things that he should have done and said as much as there were things that he should not have done and said. 

Maybe that last kiss was too much. Maybe that last goodbye was not enough. 

He pushed the horse to race against his own fury, galloping violently on the floor of dead branches and leaves. 

But soon, the horse tired out and slowed down to a gentle trot. The hermit was out of breath without uttering a word or running himself. 

Ha, maybe now he was tired enough to find sleep.

"Allez, on rentre." 

[Come on, let us go back home.]

The horse slowly turned. 

"Attends."

[Wait.]

From the distance, the hermit could see the lake. There was a fire there, he could see the orange spot glowing in the infinite dark blue scenery. If there was a fire, there was someone and possibly resources for the hermit. 

"Allons jeter un oeil." 

[Let us have a glance.]

The horse headed for the lake slowly. As they got closer and closer, the hermit frowned. He heard some noises. They weren't voices… It was different, more… woody? 

He stopped and dropped off of his horse when he was close enough to observe the campfire through the scope of his old rifle. He lay on the ground on his belly and scoped in. 

The fire was reasonably small so the hermit guessed it was only one or two people there. He saw some skewers and fish heads. That was a lot of fish for just one or a few men…! But what on Earth were they doing at night in winter there? 

The hermit dragged the scope around and saw the silhouette of a man sitting on a chair, giving his back to him and facing the lake. The sounds became clearer but the hermit wanted to be sure. 

"Reste ici. Je reviens."

[Stay here, I will come back later.]

He walked low, close to the ground, as silently as possible, getting closer to the man giving him his back.

Mon Dieu… 

It wasn't noises. It was… music. 

The hermit lay down and scoped again. The man sat on the chair was waving gently left and right, to the music of his saxophone. Oui, it had to be a saxophone. It was hidden from the hermit's view but he did have quite a musical ear. 

And the music was pleasant. He recognised it and found himself humming along as he watched the musician play to the lake. What was it called that song again…? Ah, oui, Killing me softly… 

"I heard he sang a good song,

I heard he had a style,

And so I came to see him, to listen for a while

And there he was, this young boy, a stranger to my eyes"

On top of the song being quite slow, the woodiness of the saxophone, the breathiness of it gave the performance a very mellow tone to it, very melancholic. Add to that the full moon, the infinite black sky and the reflection of the silver moonlight on the lake ... The atmosphere was more than magic.

"I felt all flushed with fever, embarrassed by the crowd

I felt he'd found my letters and read each one out loud

I prayed that he would finish, but he just kept right on"

The man had quite the talent…! The hermit stayed stuck there, an eye on the scope and his head swinging left and right. His lips finally yielded to the temptation. After all, he had been a singer in a previous life…

"He sang as if he knew me

In all my dark despair

And then he looked right through me 

As if I wasn't there

And he just kept on singing

Singing clear and strong"

The hermit removed the scope from his eyes and put the rifle away. He propped himself on his elbows and held his head, tilting it left and right in rhythm, slowly. 

Ah the lake was lucky to receive such a performance. The hermit was used to the odd campers with a badly tuned guitar and awful pop songs. But this, this was different. A saxophone? And the nuances…! It took the hermit to an earlier life, short hair, clean-shaven, three-piece suits and crates of admirers' letters… Singing to a crowd which loved the emotion he put them through with his voice alone, when he was really only singing to one person, one man, the reason his heart beat for. 

"Strumming my pain with his fingers

Singing my life with his words

Killing me softly with his song

Killing me softly with his song

Telling my whole life with his words

Killing me softly

With his song"

He closed his eyes and smiled, even though he didn't realise it. Music was a merciless mistress. She was one of the few people who could entirely bewitch him and make him almost forget his own self. And just like that, he was back to being the classy, arrogant man, wooing men and women alike… 

The musician stopped and it pulled the hermit out of his day dreaming. He distantly heard him talk but didn't see anyone else around. He grabbed the scope to confirm and yes indeed, there was no one else. The man was talking to himself then. Not that the hermit would judge, he was talking to his horse…

By the way, he should get back to him and go for at least a nap. He went back to his faithful companion and as he hopped on his back, he realised that he was still humming to himself. Such a beautiful song that was, hm? 

They trotted back to the camp and the hermit sank in his tent and in his bed. But the unexpected performance did keep him up a bit more. Could he hope for more impromptu concerts like these? He hoped the musician would stay a few days. It would be a good change of routine for him. And for the resources? Bah, the hermit would leave him be. As long as he provides good music, he shall not steal anything from him. Let that be the poor tip he would offer him. 

Needless to say the hermit was not carrying a single cent. Not that he didn't have money. He had quite a bit of it. But accessing it meant going to town and giving his name, thus blowing up his cover. Non, he couldn't have access to money and he couldn't buy anything, which was why he was reduced to stealing. Him who could afford the best of dwellings, the feasts of kings and the clothes of princes, he had to steal. He took no pride in it, neither did he feel ashamed of it. He never stole to sell it again or gain any personal wealth. Everything he stole he needed, even this horse. 

"Bonne nuit, l'ami." 

[Good night, pal.]

Hm. The horse. It didn't have a name. Why? Because anything the hermit named disappeared off his hands. So he stopped naming whatever was of value to him. It was better that way, it was safer. He had stolen it off of a group of people touring the area on horseback. It might have been his biggest theft yet. And he pulled it off with such ease…! 

That was the stuff of stories. But no one was there in the tent to listen to it. No one, especially not the one he craved and dreamt to sleep with. He had done it, a few times. He would entangle his limbs with that tall man, he would let himself be loving and vulnerable, maybe even silly. He was head over heels for him. The hermit sighed. Hopefully that man was doing well. Was he gone to bed? Was he asleep? Was he dreaming or having nightmares? 

The hermit sighed and curled up in his bed. He closed his eyes.

"Bonne nuit, mon amour."

[Goodnight, my love.]

Broken Crown || Finan x OC || Chapter 12

Summary :  Since the day he has been enslaved, Finan never thought that he would have to face his origins. But when an old friend made her arrival to Wessex, the Irishman is forced to deal with his past.

Other chapters

English isn’t my first language, if you see any mistakes, tell me :)

Warning : none

12 || THE MONK

“Will you wake up?”

Rohan groaned as he felt a cushion fell on his face. He removed it and flipped on his other side, still sleepy. He opened his eyes when he heard footstep approaching. A young woman was standing right in front of him, morning light shining around her shapes.

“Come on.” She said, leaning to remove the furs from Rohan’s naked body. “I said you could stay one night, not the whole day.”

“It’s not even midday, Eireen.” He sighed, rubbing his eyes.

He sat up and she threw him his clothes. “Hurry up. I have things to do.”

He smirked as he put on his trouser. He stood up and walked to her. “You didn’t say that yesterday.” He replied, raising an eyebrow. Eireen answered him with a slap on the shoulder. “Ouch!”

“Hurry up, monk.” She ordered him before leaving the bedroom.

Rohan rolled his eyes, grabbing his tunic and putting it quickly. Eireen was one of the three women working in the alehouse. She was a smart girl with a hair so light that it seemed almost white. He knew since few years now and even if they laid more than once together, she wasn’t his woman. Beside that she was a good friend with whom he could talk for hours.

Now ready, Rohan walked out of the room and then down the stairs to the hall. Only a few people were already there, just the regulars. In a corner of the room, he caught Bradaigh, an old blacksmith that would spend his days here since his son was now running the forge, talking with another man. Bradaigh always had a story to tell and Rohan sometimes wondered is he didn’t have a hundred years for having live and seen so much. He walked to the table, trying to understand the little snatch of conversation he could hear. Of what he understood, they were taking of a traitor when he sat on one of the chairs.

“What are you talking about?” He asked, stopping the two men in their discussion.

“Monk, you’re not praying at that hour?” Bradaigh teased him, taking a sip of his ale.

Rohan rolled his eyes, it was no secret here that he was a monk. But none knew of the truth of his bloodline. “Come on, you were talking of a traitor. Who’s that?” He instead, curious about it.

“Haven’t you heard of Lady Ailis’ guests?” The other man asked him. He shook his head, trying to hold back his smile. He had originally come here to learn more about Ailis travel and knowing she was back reassured him. “She came back with the King’s brother.”

“Real bastard.” Commented Bradaigh in his beard.

Rohan frowned, not expecting such answer.  

“Finan the Agile?” He asked unbelieving. “Is he not dead?”

“Dead or not, he is alive now.” The blacksmith grumbled.

The young monk’s breath got cut for a brief moment. He couldn’t believe what he just heard. Conall’s brother, his father, was alive. He had been gone for years, presumed dead and yet, he came back. Hundreds of questions were popping in Rohan’s head, but no one could answer them, unless his father or maybe Ailis.

“I’ve never heard of him.” Eireen said, coming with a jar of ale that she posed on the table. She put her hands on Rohan’s chair’s back and leaned a little above his shoulder. “How do you know about him Rohan?” She asked him.

Her question brought him out of his thoughts and he tried to find a lie as fast as possible. “I’ve read it somewhere in a book, at the monastery.”

She nodded and straightened a little. “And so, why do you all assumed he was dead?”

“Because, after he kidnapped the King’s first wife, he enslaved him.” Rohan’s jaw clenched at Bradaigh explanations. This wasn’t the truth, not the one Ailis told him, and he had no doubt Conall was the one spreading it. “It was what? More than fifteen years ago.”

“And he survived this whole time?” The young barmaid marveled but the old man shook his head.

“He was saved by Ragnar Ragnarsson.” He answered, pronouncing the Dane’s name with disgust. “The King’s brother is a traitor to the bone.”

“Why is he here?” Rohan asked, trying to not let his tone betray his emotions. But he knew he partially failed when he felt Eireen eyes on him.

“They say he is pledged to Uhtred of Bebbanburg.” Bradaigh shrugged. “King Edward sent him to set the peace with the Danes.”

“Did they already leave?”

This Bradaigh frowned at his question, but he answered him anyway. “This morning, probably to Annagassan, they say Thorvard Halfdansson settled there.”

Annagassan was down South, he had never been so far but he knew the city was known for his harbor. They would probably take the merchant road, the shortest way to go to Ulaid’s South. He knew it probably wasn’t a good idea, but Rohan felt the need to join them. To see by his own eyes that Finan the Agile wasn’t dead. That he still had a father.

He abruptly stood from his chair, making Eireen jump back behind him. “I have to go.”

He said quickly before leaving the alehouse. He ran in the streets, in the direction of the gates until he heard his name being shout behind him. He turned around to see a breathless Eireen.

“Rohan!” She called him again and he bit his lips. “Why did you leave like that? What’s your problem?” She asked him when she was close enough.

He scratched the back of his neck, his feet tapping nervously against the floor. “I can’t explain to you. But I have to leave.”

“No! Tell me, what’s going on?” She insisted, grabbing the sleeve of his tunic.

He was about to answer her but from the corner of his eyes he saw a man tying a horse to a fence. If he wanted to join Ailis, he would need to ride. With no money, he couldn’t buy a horse and this was his only solution.

He grabbed Eireen’s hand in his. “Alright, I’ll tell you everything when I’ll come back. But I need your help first.”

The young woman frowned but finally nodded.

“Can you distract the man here just enough time for me to leave with the horse?” He asked, tilting a little his head.

“You want to steal it?” She took offense.

“Eireen please! I need it. Help me just one more time.” He begged her, squeezing her hand.

She sighed. “It’s the last time, monk.”

“Sure.” He smiled before kissing her cheeks.

She removed her hands from his and pulled her dress a little down, revealing the soft skin from the top of her chest. She untied her hair, letting them fall on her shoulders.

“Be quick.” She told him before walking toward the man.

Rohan went to hide in the shadow of a house and watched Eireen talking to the man. She was good at this, distracting men. It was rarely on purpose, but she perfectly knew how to use it at her advantage. Quickly she succeeded to drag the man away from the horse, letting Rohan the time to run toward the fence. He untied the reins and pulled the horse, still saddle, to a small street. He walked a few minutes in the labyrinth of Navan Fort’s street until he reached the gate.

So, he mounted the horse and hit his flanks with his feet. The moment he passed the gates, he pushed his mount to galop. He didn’t stay long at this pace, the horse already breathing heavily. But if they left this morning, he had hopes they didn’t go too far. And so, he took the merchant road. He crossed many people on it and to some he asked if they had seen a red hair. And fortunately, most had seen her, riding with four other men. It reassured him on the fact that his father was probably beyond them.

And so, he rode all day, stopping only to drink himself or eat something and let his horse rest a little. When the sun got down, he was in a forest. It was calm, only the sound of the leaves rustling in the wind and the hooves hitting the floor were filling the silence. Until he heard male laugher.

He suddenly stopped his horse. His blood ran cold. He had the hope it was the men accompanying Ailis, but if it wasn’t, he had no weapon to protect him. And even if he had, he definitely didn’t have the skills to use it correctly. He sworn about how stupid he was to not have prepare himself before leaving. But he had listened to his instinct and now he couldn’t go back.

He dismounted his horse, leading it away from the road. He attached it to a tree and started to walk in the direction of the laugher. As he approached, he could smell smoke and soon enough, he perceived the light of a fire and four people around it. He was too far to distinct them properly, but he could recognize Ailis fiery hair.

Rohan wanted to approached more but he froze when he felt the cold metal of a dagger under his throat and a breath behind his ear.

“Don’t move, if you want to live.” Murmured his assailant, pressing a little more the weapon against his skin.

He felt a fine net of blood streaming on his chest as he nodded. The man finally pulled away his dagger and grab him by the back of his tunic. As he exhorted him to the camp, Rohan took a look to the man. He was taller than him and was clearly Dane, with one side of his head shaved. He started to panic, expecting the man to lead him away from the camp, but the opposite happened.

When they walked into the fire’s light, the Dane pushed him, causing the monk to tangle his feet and fall, head first, on the floor. He barely caught up with his hands but it didn’t avoid his nose to meet the floor.

“We are being spy.” Declared the man as Rohan turned on his side and wiped the little blood flowing from his nose.

“He’s not a spy.” Sighed the voice he well knew of Ailis. She was at the other side of the fire and when he crossed her gaze, he easily felt how unpleased she was that he was here. She stood up and walked to him. She crouched to catch his collar and forced him to sit correctly.

“You know him?” Asked another Danish voice.

“I know him, indeed.” She answered not leaving her eyes from Rohan’s still scared ones after feeling the dagger on his throat. “What are you doing here?” She grumbled.

“I was in town when you came back.” He stammered. “And a rumor said that a traitor was with you.” Rohan loudly swallowed while Ailis’ lips parted. “The King’s brother.” He continued. “Finan the Agile.”

Ailis closed her eyes and let go of her grab. Rohan didn’t move, his muscles still tensed and his eyes opened wide. She stood up, running a hand in her hair.

“And so, you came here for what?” She asked him. But Rohan frowned, wasn’t the reason obvious?

“I… I wanted to be sure of it. That it was true.” He explained standing up.

“But it’s dangerous! We are at war, you could have been killed!” She shouted.

“And it’s my father!” He answered back, stepping toward her. “Wouldn’t you have done the same if it were your own?” He asked her, his voice calmer than before. Ailis found nothing to say and simply sighed. “So? Is it real?” He insisted.

“It is.”

Rohan almost gasped when he heard the Irish accent of one of the men. He turned away from Ailis to stare at the man. He was tall and had large shoulder covered by his lather armor. His hair, cut short, and his beard were as dark as Conall’s the last time he saw him. He stepped closer and he recognized the brown eyes so similar to Bran’s one.

His heart was beating fast, it was so hard to believe that he was staring at his father. He had so little memories of him, But the sound of his voice wasn’t strange to him, he was sure of it.

“You’re not a little boy anymore.” Finan commented, the shadow of a smile on his lips.

“And you’re not dead anymore.” Rohan shrugged making his father chuckle.

Both of them remained silent. He didn’t know how to act. He might be his father but he barely knew him. All he knew was part of the past. Rohan scratched the back of his neck and became suddenly aware of the other men surrounding them. There was another man, as Dane looking as the one that escorted him, and one with a blond hair cut as a monk.

“How did you find us?” Ailis asked him, arms crossed over her chest.

“The merchant road is the shortest to go down South.” He said.

“And how did you come?” She narrowed her eyes, probably already knowing the answer.

“At horse.” He innocently smiled.

“Stolen horse?”

“It’s not like I had other choices, I have no money!” He answered, raising his hand in the air making the bunch of warriors laugh. All expect Ailis.

“Yes, you have no money, because you’re a monk supposed to say in his monastery!” She yelled at him.

Ailis was angry, all his life she has been trying to keep him out of trouble because he was too stubborn to stay quietly to the monastery. But Rohan was no kid anymore and being a monk wasn’t the life he was looking for.

Their argument could have continued a bit longer of one of the Danes didn’t put a hand on Ailis shoulder. “Well, I think we can have another monk with us.” He said, Ailis rolling her eyes in response. It was an impressive man with a scar running along his temple. “What’s your name boy?”

“Rohan.”

“This is Sihtric.” He pointed the other Dane and then the last warrior. “This is Osferth and I’m Uhtred.”

Rohan smiled at him. It was almost like a dream. He was surrounded by strong warriors and about to cross into Dane land. And this was far more exciting than just running away from Navan Fort’s guard. But the most important thing, his father was standing here and he had a hundred of questions for him.

A/N : Can I scream out loud that I love Rohan ? I love that boy, first thing that comes to his mind, hop ! He has to do it lmaoooo. So ngl, it was complicated to write the scene where he met his father, like, how the fuck do you react ??? So I hope I didn’t mess it up too much. Next chapter, you’ll have more father and son talk ;)

Tag: @geekandbooknerd​​​​ @sihtric​​​​ @queen-manning​​​​ @naihqh​​​​ @kelly-fasel​​​​ @cloudjuumpers​​​​ @limenal​​​​ @amyyreblogss​​​​​ @othermoony​​​ and @queerbroceliande​

Aux galops de l'inconnu : L'Heureux, Alain, 1962- auteur : Free Download, Borrow, and Streaming : Internet Archive

GILBERT ROLAND α:11 de diciembre 1905 Ω:15 de mayo 1994

Gilbert Roland (nacido Luis Antonio Dámaso de Alonso; Ciudad Juárez, Chihuahua, 11 de diciembre de 1905-Beverly Hills, California, 15 de mayo de 1994) fue un actor estadoun Hay cierta discrepancia sobre su lugar de nacimiento, ya que su padre declaró ante la prensa que era nacido en Bilbao y que tenía la nacionalidad española. En un principio tenía la intención de convertirse en torero como su padre, Francisco Alonso “Paquiro II”. Sin embargo, cuando su familia se mudó a los Estados Unidos, se interesó por el cine y fue elegido al azar para un papel como extra en el filme mudoThe Hunchback of Notre Dame /El jorobado de Notre Dame (1923). Eligió su nombre de pantalla mediante la combinación de los nombres de sus actores favoritos, John Gilbert y Ruth Roland. Por su gallarda figura y fino rostro, a menudo era elegido para el estereotipado papel de "latin lover". El primer papel importante de Roland fue en la película muda The Plastic Age /La edad de plástico (1925), una comedia romántica en la que trabajó junto con Clara Bow. Al siguiente año personificó a Armando Duval en una versión de la famosa tragedia romántica Camille /Margarita Gautier (1926), donde Norma Talmadge era la protagonista y con quien Roland estuvo unido sentimentalmente. Juntos protagonizaron varias producciones. A principios de los años 1930, con la llegada del cine sonoro, apareció en varias adaptaciones al español de películas estadounidenses, protagonizando papeles románticos. A finales de los años 1940 y principios de los años 1950, los críticos empezaron a tomar nota de su actuación y fue elogiado por sus papeles secundarios, como en los filmes We were strangers /Rompiendo las cadenas /Éramos desconocidos (1949), The Bad and the Beautiful /Cautivos del mal (1952), Thunder Bay /Bahía Negra (1953) y Cheyenne Autumn /El ocaso de los cheyenes /El gran combate (1964). Apareció en una serie de películas a mediados de la década de 1940, como el popular personaje Cisco Kid. Personificó a Hugo da Silva, el amigo agnóstico (y totalmente ficticio) de los tres niños pastores en The Miracle of Our Lady of Fatima /El mensaje de Fátima (1952), basado en las apariciones de Nuestra Señora de Fátima en Portugal, en 1917. Al año siguiente, protagonizó el épico filme de aventuras Beneath the 12-Mile Reef /Duelo en el fondo del mar (1953), personificando a un griego-americano pescador de esponjas. Su última aparición en el cine fue en el western Barbarosa (1982). Se casó dos veces. Su primer matrimonio fue con la actriz Constance Bennett, de 1941 a 1945: tuvieron dos hijas, pero acabaron divorciándose porque el actor mantenía un romance con la también actriz Norma Talmadge. Su segundo matrimonio, en 1954, fue con Guillermina Cantú: no tuvieron hijos, pero el matrimonio perduró hasta la muerte de él, en 1994. Falleció a la edad de 88 años, víctima de cáncer, el 15 de mayo de 1994, en Beverly Hills, Los Ángeles, California, EE. UU. Sus restos fueron cremados y sus cenizas fueron arrojadas al mar.idense de origen mexicano y una de las primeras estrellas latinoamericanas del cine estadounidense. FILMOGRAFIA 1923 - The Hunchback of Notre Dame /El jorobado de Notre Dame (EE.UU.)1925 - The Midshipman (EE.UU.)1925 - The Lawful Cheater (EE.UU.)1925 - The Lost World / El mundo perdido (EE.UU.)1925 - The Spaniard (EE.UU.)1925 - The Lady Who Lied (EE.UU.)1925 - The Plastic Age /Días de colegial (EE.UU.)1926 - The Campus Flirt /La colegiala altiva (EE.UU.)1926 - The Blonde Saint (EE.UU.)1926 - Camille /Margarita Gautier (EE.UU.)1927 - The Dove /El mejor caballero (EE.UU.)1927 - The Love Mart /El mercado del amor (EE.UU.)1927 - Rose of the Golden West (EE.UU.)1928 - The Woman Disputed /La mujer disputada (EE.UU.)1929 - New York Nights /Noches de Nueva York (EE.UU.)1930 - Monsieur Le Fox (EE.UU.)1930 - Men of the North (EE.UU.)1931 - Resurrección (EE.UU., en español)1932 - Call Her Savage (EE.UU.)1932 - A Parisian Romance (EE.UU.)1932 - No Living Witness (EE.UU.)1932 - Life Begins /La vida empieza (EE.UU.)1932 - The Woman in Room 13 /La dama del 13 (EE.UU.)1932 - The Passionate Plumber /El amante improvisado (EE.UU.)1932 - Hombres de mi vida (EE.UU., en español)1933 - Yo, tú y ella (EE.UU., en español)1933 - Una viuda romántica (EE.UU., en español)1933 - Our Betters /Nuestros superiores (EE.UU.)1933 - She Done Him Wrong /Lady Lou (EE.UU.)1933 - After Tonight (EE.UU.)1933 - Gigolettes of Paris (EE.UU.)1934 - Elinor Norton (EE.UU.)1935 - Julieta compra un hijo (EE.UU., en español)1935 - Ladies Love Danger (EE.UU.)1935 - Mystery Woman (EE.UU.)1937 - Thunder Trail (EE.UU.)1937 - The Last Train from Madrid (EE.UU.) 1937 - Midnight Taxi (EE.UU.)1938 - La vida bohemia (EE.UU., en español)1938 - Gateway (EE.UU.)1939 - Juárez /Juárez (EE.UU.)1940 - Rangers of Fortune /Aventureros románticos (EE.UU.)1940 - The Sea Hawk /El halcón del mar (EE.UU.)1940 - Gambling on the High Seas /El casino flotante (EE.UU.)1940 - Isle of Destiny (EE.UU.)1941 - Angels with Broken Wings (EE.UU.)1941 - My Life with Caroline /Otra vez mía (EE.UU.)1942 - Isle of Missing Men /La isla de los hombres perdidos (EE.UU.)1942 - Enemy Agents Meet Ellery Queen /Contrabando de guerra (EE.UU.)1944 - The Desert Hawk (EE.UU.)1945 - Captain Kidd /El capitán Kidd (EE.UU.)1946 - La rebelión de los fantasmas (México)1946 - Beauty and the Bandit (EE.UU.)1946 - South of Monterey (EE.UU.)1946 - The Gay Cavalier (EE.UU.)1947 - King of the Bandits (EE.UU.)1947 - Robin Hood of Monterey (EE.UU.)1947 - Riding the California Trail (EE.UU.)1947 - The other love /El otro amor (EE.UU.)1947 - Pirates of Monterey /Piratas de Monterrey (EE.UU.)1947 - High Conquest (EE.UU.)1948 - The Dude Goes West (EE.UU.)1949 - We Were Strangers /Rompiendo las cadenas /Éramos desconocidos (EE.UU.)1949 - The Torch /Bandit general /Del odio nació el amor /La antorcha /Una mujer rebelde (EE.UU.)1949 - Malaya /Malaca (EE.UU.)1950 - The Furies /Las furias (EE.UU.)1950 - Crisis (EE.UU.)1950 - The Bullfighter and the Lady /Tarde de toros (EE.UU.)1951 - The Mark of the Renegade /El signo del renegado (EE.UU.)1951 - Ten Tall Men /Diez valientes (EE.UU.)1952 - The Bad and the Beautiful /Cautivos del mal (EE.UU.)1952 - Apache War Smoke (EE.UU.)1952 - The Miracle of Our Lady of Fatima /El mensaje de Nuestra Señora de Fátima (EE.UU.)1952 - Glory Alley /El callejón de la gloria (EE.UU.)1952 - My Six Convicts (EE.UU.)1953 - Thunder Bay /Bahía Negra (EE.UU.)1953 - The Diamond Queen (EE.UU.)1953 - The French Line (EE.UU.)1953 - Beneath the 12-Mile Reef /Duelo en el fondo del mar (EE.UU.)1955 - The Treasure of Pancho Villa /El tesoro de Pancho Villa (EE.UU.)1955 - That Lady /La princesa de Éboli (Reino Unido, España)1955 - Underwater! /La sirena de las aguas verdes (EE.UU.)1955 - The Racers /Hombres temerarios (EE.UU.)1956 - Around the world in 80 days /La vuelta al mundo en 80 días (EE.UU.)1956 - Three Violent People /La ley de los fuertes (EE.UU.)1956 - Bandido (EE.UU., México)1957 - The Midnight Story /El rastro del asesino (EE.UU.)1958 - The Last of the Fast Guns /El último pistolero de la frontera (EE.UU.)1959 - The Big Circus /El gran circo (EE.UU.)1959 - Catch Me If You Can (Cuba, en inglés)1959 - The Wild and the Innocent /Almas inocentes (EE.UU.)1960 - Guns of the Timberland /Los taladores (EE.UU.)1962 - Samar /Samar, la puerta del infierno (EE.UU., Filipinas)1964 - Cheyenne Autumn (EE.UU.)1965 - The Reward /El precio de una cabeza (EE.UU.)1966 - Poppies Are Also Flowers /Las flores del diablo (EE.UU., Francia, Austria)1967 - Vado... l'ammazzo e torno / Voy..., lo mato y vuelvo (Italia)1968 - Quella sporca storia nel west /Johnny el vengador (Italia)1968 - Ognuno per sé /Los profesionales del oro (Italia)1968 - Sonora /Sartana no perdona (Italia, España)1968 - Anche nel west c'era una volta Dio /Entre Dios, el diablo y un arma (Italia, España)1971 - The Christian Licorice Store /Franklin y Cynthia (EE.UU.)1973 - Running Wild /A galope (EE.UU.)1974 - The Pacific Connection (Filipinas)1974 - Treasure of Tayopa (EE.UU.)1977 - The Black Pearl /La perla negra (EE.UU., España)1977 - Islands in the Stream / La isla del adiós (EE.UU.)1980 - Caboblanco /Cabo Blanco (EE.UU., México)1982 - Barbarosa (EE.UU.)

POSTAL DE COLARES A 13 DE DEZEMBRO - A PESADA AMEAÇA DO SARS-COV2, MORTE DE JOHN LE CARRÉ E O LOHENGRIN DA STAATSOPER: Portugal teve nas últimas 24 horas, 98 mortes ( novo recorde ) e 4044 novos casos. De acordo com o boletim da Direção-Geral da Saúde, há a registar um aumento dos doentes internados , mais 64, num total de 3157. Há também mais doentes nas Unidades de Cuidados Intensivos (513 ), mais 10 do que ontem. A Região Norte é a que regista o maior numero de novos casos (2143) . Entretanto uma Euro sondagem de sábado mostra que mais de um terço dos portugueses não mostra interesse em receber a vacina do COVID-19 por não acreditarem na sua eficácia. O Dr Fauci já declarou ser este o seu maior receio em relação a eficácia do plano de vacinação nos EUA. A pandemia continua a galope ...

Outra noticia do dia foi a morte do famoso escritor John le Carré antigo espião do M 15 .Alguém disse sobre a sua obra : “, o verdadeiro tema de le Carré não é a espionagem. É o labirinto infinitamente enganador das relações humanas. ” Por isso os seus heróis não são espectaculares como o personagem James Bond de Ian Fleming . John Smiley é um europeu triste ...

Tambem foi domingo de “ opéra em casa “ e um deleite para este wagneriano com o streaming no canal ArteTv. do Lohengrin da Staatsoper Unter den Linden em Berlim .A grande novidade desta produção era a a estreia no papel do tenor Roberto Alagna desde que “fugiu” da produção da ópera no Festival de Bayreuth em 2019 .Roberto Alagna teve um desempenho aplicado mas enfrentou problemas de sotaque no alemão e esforço para alcançar toda a extensão do canto wagneriano , principalmente nos agudos. Mas por outro lado o tenor traz um timbre condizente com o Cavaleiro do Cisne lembrando porque o Lohengrin é considerada a mais italiana das óperas de Wagner..A soprano Vida Miknevičiūtė (substituindo Sonya Yoncheva) também fez sua estreia no papel de Elsa e não me impressionou .René Pape encarna o Rei da Germânia (Henri l'Oiseleur), com nobreza e a enorme qualidade vocal que ainda possui A excelente mezzo Ekaterina Gubanova, (que já ouvimos na Gulbenkian ) personificou bem Ortrud.Na sua estreia na Staatsoper Unter den Linden em Berlim, o mal amado Calixto Bieito (cuja Tetralogia em Paris foi cancelada este ano grande pena minha pois tinha comprado bilhetes em 2019 ...) teve as grandes condicionantes da pandemia para a movimentação dos personagens e para a utilização dos coros peça central nesta opera .No palco essencialmente uma gaiola dupla , os cantores são prisioneiros de posições fixas, movendo-se muito pouco. A sequência de cenas mostra alguns despindo-se , outros esfregando as mãos e o torso com sangue, outros fazendo maquiagem de palhaço ou comendo um boletim de voto brandido pelo rei. Uma imagem de marca será Elsa depois de se desembaraçar do véu de noiva devorar em êxtase o bolo nupcial. ..No final, todos veem sua expressão reduzida a slogans brandidos em folhas de papel: "coragem", "esperança", "felicidade" ou o símbolo da paz e do amor. Uma imagem (como tantas outras) resume a dimensão literal desta pintura: Elsa e Lohengrin puxando e segurando as mangas do casaco do herói, onde Liebe (amor) está escrito. INFERIOR AO LOHENGRIN A QUE TIVEMOS A FELICIDADE DE ASSISTIR EM BAYREUTH AGOSTO DE 2019 com BECZALA E HARTEROS EMBORA TAMBÉM COM UMA ENCENAÇÃO CRITICAVEL