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mlmmetalhead · 2 years

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God, do you love me?

Jason Carver x Male reader

Summary: Jason is fed up with guilt of his actions, searching for an answer of what awaits him and a way to distract himself.

CW: smut, religion induced internalized homophobia, angsty, vent fic(?), self hatred, Top!Dom!Reader, Sub!Bottom!Jason, no prep anal, cumming in pants, dacryphilia.

An: honestly I don't even know. I like this a lot but hate it at the same time.

WOMEN DNI

“Heavenly and Almighty God, I come before you humbled and sorrowful, aware of my sin, and ready to repent. Lord, forgive me for I have sinned before you. Wash away my sin, purify me, and help me to turn from this sin”

Jason muttered, folding his hands in prayer. God did not answer. Then he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. But all his thoughts bounced from one to the other, like a faulty transistor radio, distracting him. Only one thought swirled in his head like a nasty insect: He had fallen so low, so far in his sin, that God had abandoned him. Suddenly, as if forced by something otherworldly, he looked up. There was no one up there. No one. No one is going to protect him anymore, as for he is a sinner. And it's his fault, of course.

"Why?” - he whispered, bitter tears forming in his eyes.

Why was he the victim of the demon of lust, who embodied all his sins, all his filthy thoughts, and unfulfilled desires, worsening his self-loathing? Why him? Is it the will of the Almighty? Or was He punishing him for his other sins? Jason bit his lip, feeling the cold tears run down his cheeks. This was how his life would end. He would just disappear, never see God again, never remember Him, never go to Heaven. He won't have any peace at all. And yet he loved this world so much. Everyone admired his successes. He was happy. He was in love. He was free. A pang of burning guilt was eating away at his soul of passion and sadness. He wanted to be loved the same way. He wanted his enemies to know that sooner or later he would be free and love them himself. What would become of him? Would cold stone steps be the last place of his life? He will die. And who will regret it? His family? Or a world that will change forever? His friends? Why would they grieve for him? A wretched sinner, rejected by God. Wasn't that what he'd always wanted, wasn't that what he'd been born for? It was all for nothing. How unfair.

Now he will never ascend to Heaven. They will never know what he meant, how he acted, how he loved. All because of the horrible, god-awful thoughts that filled his mind. And it was never, never possible to get rid of them at all, though he tried his best. They were devouring him from within, like fire devours a dry log. And how many times had he tried to drive them out! But always, as soon as he touched Jason gently, they burst into flames with renewed vigor. And so it happened again and again.

Jason could not get his lips, his hands, his soft voice, the smell of his body, his contagious laughter out of his head. And when one day Carver thought he had overcome that obsession, that he had succeeded in driving the red witch and her red rose away from him, he willingly gave in to the terrible temptation and kissed him. It was the first time this had happened to Jason. It was the ultimate sin. But he liked it. And now he hated himself for it. But he couldn't hate him, even when he tried. Because then he would have been able to say that he would never let anything like that happen again. And he couldn't say that. That would be a lie, because it was the best kiss of his life. The sweetest. And he wished so much that everyone around him would know about it... And when Jason made up his mind, and put his palm on his lips to get his attention, and as he felt the others hands roaming confidently over his torso, Carver's body rocking in a dark room, spread apart in a silent cry, as his cock worked rabidly, Jason managed to think - “What happens when he cums and silence ensues?” He'd have to get dressed again, wouldn't he? And then go home. Alone with his thoughts, and with his body, which could never be pure again.

And as if he couldn't learn from his mistakes, only halfway along, he realized that he was going back the same way, while the wind blew around the back of his head, with what felt like worms crawling around in his head. When the door opened, Jason's breath hitched again, just from the look on his face. Jason tried to put on a smile, but it quickly crumbled under the new tears that had fallen down his cheeks.

"Are you okay?" - Y/N asked, and Jason shuddered. He was utterly disgusted that his friend was actually worried. But he was even more disgusted with the fact that he was enjoying himself. He wanted to feel his hands on him one more time. It made him grow warmer at heart to know that L/N cared, and that made him want to vomit. He shook his head, and unable to get the words out of his mouth, gave in forward to Y/N, their lips meeting. When the air escaped his lungs and he felt the others tongue in his mouth, a hoarse moan erupted from his lips. Something broke inside him. Every single one of his repressed desires and thoughts broke free. And he could taste his approaching orgasm in his mouth. Jason almost came at that moment, unable to stand it. But as soon as Y/N put his tongue over his lips and said something indecipherable, he couldn't stop, and his orgasm was born as if by itself. Carver moaned, feeling even filthier than before, but he couldn’t wait for more, at the same time. He couldn't stop his hands when they wandered around L/N's neck, fingers ghosting at his earlobes. As their bodies pushed through, and the door fell shut behind them, one of the guys spoke up:

"W-wait, Jason... What's going on? Did something happen?"

And he couldn't bring himself to answer, only gazing into the others eyes, the feeling of helplessness once again washing over him, as his thoughts were forced to return to what led to this predicament.

"It's nothing... It's just I... I don't know..."

And Jason felt himself spiraling again, losing touch with reality as every sensation in his body blurred out, disappeared within the static surrounding his clouded mind. He was returning back to clarity, which is the only thing he didn't need right now, exactly what he was trying to avoid. And then, he felt it all coming back to life, as a voice whispered to him, right next to his ear, making shivers run down his spine.

"It's alright. I missed you, too."

Followed by a gentle trail of kisses left upon his neck, leading down to his chest. Jason held his breath and exhaled sharply as his body responded by pressing against Y/N. Thoughts, like sensations, flowed through him again into the real world while he swooned under the gentle touch of his wet lips, before he heard a soft whisper right above his ear.

"How far do you want to go? The same as last time?"

His mind was too clouded for him to give any sensible answer. Yet immediately a low moan escaped his throat as he felt gentle fingers unbutton his shirt, leaving his burning chest exposed. Carver’s hands reached for the buttons on the other man's chest, and when they clicked open, his lips touched now exposed skin and his cool palms ran over L/N’s naked torso. Gradually Jason's arousal reached its apex, and he arched forward, running his hands through the strands of H/C hair. Again a low whisper echoed through his head, which seemed to him the sexiest thing in the world.

“Get on the couch, and take your pants off.”

Despite the heat, a chill wave ran down Carver’s back. He obeyed and after getting on the soft fabric of the couch, quickly pulled down his jeans along with his underwear. Jason’s heart was frantic, but he was willing to do anything now So what followed was a mixture of shock and arousal happening at the same time. He couldn't completely comprehend the fact he was sinning like this again. Everything seemed surreal in the darkness, and maybe that helped to calm the guilt that was bubbling up in his chest along with the arousal. Jason squeezed his eyes shut for a second and wished, almost tearfully, that this would be his last night. He wouldn't have wanted to die any other way. At that moment two wet, firm hands wrapped around his hips, and he slid headlong into the heat. Through the haze he could feel L/N’s tongue wandering down his legs, caressing his thighs, ass cheeks, and the wet surface of his skin, quickly covering with droplets of sweat. The fingers that gripped his flesh tensed. It wasn't a shiver of arousal, but a subtle twitch of desire. Carver’s heart raced, watching through the cloud of desire as he watched Y/N’s, who loomed over him, the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. Y/N pulled off his shirt and tossed it on the back of the seat, stripping off his shorts at the same time. He growled and rubbed his pelvis against Jason's thighs, making him afraid he was going to pass out. When he opened his eyes, he saw the other man’s face right in front of him, almost radiating a luscious tenderness.

"You're very handsome," a quiet whisper escaped Jason's lips on its own. Y/N laughed, leaning forward and kissing him.

Their tongues merged in an endless kiss in which everything but their joined bodies dissolve, driving them crazy, creating a merging of two souls at the same time. Carver didn't have time to realize when Y/N entered him, feeling something hard and hot inside his body. He cried out and lifted his hips against the pressure of the man's flesh. Jason could feel L/N absorbing more and more of his body with each movement, as if his entire soul was concentrated in the center of this intercourse.

"You're the most beautiful man in the world, Y/N," he whispers, pulling away from him a little, and feeling himself succumb to the others pressure. Thou wast perfect in thy ways from the day that thou wast created, till iniquity was found in thee.

Jason himself was no longer strong enough to speak, but it didn't matter anymore, because there was no one else in the world but the two of them, and they continued to merge in a single stream of feelings until they were one soul. Carver moaned loudly, and his moan combined what seemed like the expression of bliss, love, and agony. Before he knew it, bitter tears were streaming down his cheeks. His hands clawed at L/N’s back, leaving the marks of his nails on the others skin.

"You're mine, mine, mine," he heard a whisper in his head, and Jason himself could no longer distinguish whether he was saying it himself, or were it L/N’s words.

He felt the movements inside him echoing in every single corner of his body, and each one was a tie between the two of them. Jason seemingly lost the comprehension of how fast was Y/N moving, or where else was he grabbing him, as his whole body felt on fire.

As if forced out of the flow, Jason let out the words, "I'm yours," one last shuddering ecstasy causing him to roll his eyes and let out a moan that combined every emotion imaginable and unthinkable, the drop, the bliss, the ecstasy. He felt a sweet warmth pour inside him, like something had exploded on the inside at that moment. Carver twitched in an exodus, wrapping his arms around the other man’s neck. After a few seconds, the convulsions stopped, and the last thing he felt were Y/N’s lips gently pressing against his forehead. Whereupon circles swirled before his eyes, and he sank into darkness.

#stranger things #x male reader #x reader #stranger things x reader #stranger things x male reader #jason carver x reader #jason carver #jason carver x male reader #gay #stranger things smut #top reader #top male reader #dom reader #dom male reader #sub character #bottom character #male reader #male reader insert #reader insert

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jiangwanyinsimp · 8 days

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An Incomplete (and Very Long) list of thing Edwin Payne missed while he was stuck in Hell

This list emerged because I was talking about how he would have missed the end of World War One and then the list kept going. It is not complete or in order, and is provided simply for posterity

ww2

spanish flu

the hindenburg disaster

the rise of public radio

Irish independence

fast food as a concept

the hinterkaifeck murders

the extinction of the california grizzly

the discovery of Tutankhamun's tomb

television

jet aircraft

supersonic aircraft

the moon landing

THE OFFICIAL FOUNDING OF THE SOVIET UNION

the jazz age

surrealism

the first woman to swim the english channel

the BBC

Amelia Earhart

Tintin

the discovery of Pluto

the crash of airship R101

the founding of porsche

the geneva convention

UK abandonment of the gold standard

the discovery of 22 elements on the periodic table

technicolor

Australia starting and losing the Emu war

the creation of the Royal Christmas message

the Great Depression

FM radio

the first canned beer

pre-sliced bread

the recognition of stress as a biological condition

the extinction of the thylacine

the destruction of the Crystal Palace

the first full feature length animated film (Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs)

the nylon bristle toothbrush

Batman

the last use of the guillotine for an official state execution

Gone With the Wind (the book AND the film)

the founding of Greggs

Looney Tunes

the discovery of the Lascaux cave paintings

Agatha Christie's works

Cheerios

the discovery of nuclear fission and all subsequent nuclear discoveries

the airplane ejection seat

The Little Prince

LSD

the lifting of the prohibition of married British women working as teachers

the disappearance of flight 19

the first formula one grand prix

Mensa

the invention of the magic 8 ball

the Doomsday Clock

the AK-47

the first commercial microwave

the Kinsey reports

the first time Idaho Fish and Game parachuted beavers into the wild

humanity's entry to space

the beginning of the broadcast of the Archers (the longest running present day drama by number of episodes)

the Korean War

the polio vaccine

the first nuclear powered submarine

The Lord of the Rings

Moomins

transistor radio

the TV dinner/ready meal

ICBMs

the entire life of Elvis Presley

Kermit the Frog

My Fair Lady (the film and musical adaptations)

Grace Kelly's wedding

the Entire Life Of Marilyn Monroe

the Beat Generation

Eurovision

Helvetica typeface

the peace symbol

the Cod Wars

computer games

Dyatlov Pass incident

Barbie

Missile Mail

the Declaration of the Rights of the Child

the MOSFET

particle accelerators

the Beatles

the recovery of the Vasa

the first Six Flags

Breakfast at Tiffany's

Catch-22

the Vietnam War

Silent Spring

The Rolling Stones

the night of the long knives

Vatican II

James Bond

the Cuban Missile Crisis

Thích Quảng Đức's self-immolation

the "I Have A Dream" speech

JFK Assassination

the smiley face

Mary Poppins (1964)

IntelSat

the last British execution

high speed rail

the first time "fuck" was said on british tv

the Moors Murders

the Grateful Dead

the British parliament decriminalizing homosexuality

most of the literary career of Pablo Neruda

Fleetwood Mac

the Parker Morris Standards

the end of steam passenger travel in the UK

Led Zeppelin

Earth Day

the first temporary artificial heart

the first person to row an ocean solo

Woodstock

the Zodiac Killer

the nationalization of Rolls-Royce

decimalisation of UK currency

the first e-book

the first microprocessor

DB Cooper

the first email

the Biological Weapons Convention

Watergate

the start of the Troubles

The Joy of Sex

all attempts to climb Mount Everest and the eventual first ascent

ABBA

the invention of the Rubik's Cube

the Moorgate tube crash

the first Cricket World Cup

the global eradication of Smallpox

Star Wars

the Tenerife airport disaster

the discovery of the rings of Uranus

Red Rum winning three Grand Nationals

the Concorde

the start of the broadcast of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

Jonestown

Synthetic insulin

the Thorpe affair

the release of God Save the Queen by the Sex Pistols

Monty Python

the election of Margaret Thatcher

Star Trek

Iron Maiden

the incident where the dingo ate a baby in Australia

the end of iron and steel production in the UK's Black Country

the first London Marathon

Charles and Diana's wedding

the church of England votes to elect women to holy orders

the 1981 UK tornado outbreak

the first child born by IVF

the Falklands War

the raising of the Mary Rose

the invention of ciabatta bread

the discovery of the Titanic

the King's Cross Fire

Top Gun

Lockerbie bombing

#dead boy detectives #shit andy says #I don't honestly have an explanation for this #edwin payne

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posttexasstressdisorder · 24 days

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1971, Vol. 1

A Mixtape

A History Lesson of sorts, Babies.

Composed of actual 45s I bought as a kid during '71, snap, crackle, pop and all. Recorded onto a Maxell C-60 low-bias cassette as a mix some time back in the '90s, the order much like it might have been back in '71 on any AM Rock Radio Station worth its salt, or on a hypothetical "American Top 40" episode.

Transferred from cassette to SSD sometime last year ('23). The old Nakamichi cassette deck don't miss a beat! Tape's in excellent shape, as well. No deterioration in 30 years. Currently listening to it via AM Broadcast, on a Zenith Transistor Radio, as The Gods Intended.

It's being played on a 5th Gen iPod (with the audiophile processor), the little hard drive of which I replaced with an SD card holder and a 256GB SD Card. It's playing over an AM Transmitter I soldered together from a kit about 10 years ago that's been essentially running 24/7 ever since I plugged it in first time.

Sonically, AM had this sort of expansiveness to it, like an automatic-level control with a degree of reverb, of sorts, that had this particular sound that lent itself really well to being listened to on the typical car radio, and on portable radios. The 45rpm "single mix" was always recorded "hotter" than the album track, so it was extra "in your face". That, combined with that reverb/compression inherent in AM was, and still is, Powerful.

It is essentially a Temporal Portal back in time, this experience of hearing them now, just as I heard them back than, on an AM Radio, that imperfect medium that seemed so perfect for this music...it is like being time-machined back.

Blogging about it to finally get the tracklist written down, since in my iTunes it's just 'Side 1 and Side 2' of the cassette xfer. lulz. Figured y'all would enjoy the selections. I'll have to dig through my tapes for Vol. 2 and the rest.

Side 1

1. I Feel The Earth Move (Carole King)

2. Another Day (Paul McCartney)

3. Maggie May (Rod Stewart)

4. Chicago (Graham Nash)

5. What Is Life (George Harrison)

6. Lucky Man (Emerson, Lake and Palmer)

7. Groove Me (King Floyd)

8. Sunshine (Jonathan Edwards)

9. Signs (Five Man Electrical Band)

10. 25 or 6 to 4 (Chicago WHEN THEY USETA ROCK!)

11. I'd Like To Teach The World To Sing (The New Seekers) (Yes, the Coke commercial song) (goddammit, we were so naive and innocent...why am I cryin'?)

12. Ooh, Child (The Five Stairsteps) (There, there, it's gonna be OK, baby...)

13. Where You Lead (Barbra Streisand)

14. Temptation Eyes (The Grass Roots)

Side 2

1. Day After Day (Badfinger)

2. Draggin' The Line (Tommy James)

3. I Hear You Knockin' (Dave Edmunds)

4. Nathan Jones (The Supremes) (Yeah, after Ross left, Mary and her two new Supremes came out swingin' with this killer song, cheesy phaser effect and bitchin' piano riffs included no extra charge!)

5. It Don't Come Easy (Ringo Starr)

6. Ain't No Sunshine (Bill Withers)

7. Beginnings (Chicago)

8. That's The Way I've Always Heard It Should Be (Carly Simon)

9. Friends (Elton John)

10. One Toke Over The Line (Brewer & Shipley)

11. Lookin' Out My Back Door (Creedence Clearwater Revival)

12. Me & Bobby McGee (Janis Joplin)

13. Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is? (Chicago) No, really, y'all, there was a time when CHICAGO DID NOT SUCK! REALLY!

14. Power To The People (John Lennon)

15. From The Beginning (Emerson, Lake and Palmer)

So that's Vol 1, and 1971 was an incredible-enough year that it took me at least 3 tapes to get all the killer 45s put on tape. I'll have to dig.

#1971 #music of 1971 #45rpm records #single mixes #AM Radio pre-hate #53 years ago? fuuuuuuuuuuuck i'm old

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garadinervi · 1 year

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Dick Higgins, Statement on Intermedia, 1966, «dé-coll/age», Bulletin aktueller ideen, No. 6, Typos Verlag, 1967, page 2 [Walker Art Center, Minneapolis, MN. Artpool Art Research Center, Budapest]

Statement on Intermedia

Art is one of the ways that people communicate. It is difficult for me to imagine a serious person attacking any means of communication per se. Our real enemies are the ones who send us to die in pointless wars or to live lives which are reduced to drudgery, not the people who use other means of communication from those which we find most appropriate to the present situation. When these are attacked, a diversion has been established which only serves the interests of our real enemies.However, due to the spread of mass literacy, to television and the transistor radio, our sensitivities have changed. The very complexity of this impact gives us a taste for simplicity, for an art which is based on the underlying images that an artist has always used to make his point. As with the cubists, we are asking for a new way of looking at things, but more totally, since we are more impatient and more anxious to go to the basic images. This explains the impact of Happenings, event pieces, mixed media films. We do not ask any more to speak magnificently of taking arms against a sea of troubles, we want to see it done. The art which most directly does this is the one which allows this immediacy, with a minimum of distractions.Goodness only knows how the spread of psychedelic means, tastes, and insights will speed up this process. My own conjecture is that it will not change anything, only intensify a trend which is already there.For the last ten years or so, artists have changed their media to suit this situation, to the point where the media have broken down in their traditional forms, and have become merely puristic points of reference. The idea has arisen, as if by spontaneous combustion throughout the entire world, that these points are arbitrary and only useful as critical tools, in saying that such-and-such a work is basically musical, but also poetry. This is the intermedial approach, to emphasize the dialectic between the media. A composer is a dead man unless he composes for all the media and for his world.Does it not stand to reason, therefore, that having discovered the intermedia (which was, perhaps, only possible through approaching them by formal, even abstract means), the central problem is now not only the new formal one of learning to use them, but the new and more social one of what to use them for? Having discovered tools with an immediate impact, for what are we going to use them? If we assume, unlike McLuhan and others who have shed some light on the problem up until now, that there are dangerous forces at work in our world, isn´t it appropriate to ally ourselves against these, and to use what we really care about and love or hate as the new subject matter in our work? Could it be that the central problem of the next ten years or so, for all artists in all possible forms, is going to be less the still further discovery of new media and intermedia, but of the new discovery of ways to use what we care about both appropriately and explicitly? The old adage was never so true as now, that saying a thing is so don´t make it so. Simply talking about Viet Nam or the crisis in our Labor movements is no guarantee against sterility. We must find the ways to say what has to be said in the light of our new means of communicating. For this we will need new rostrums, organizations, criteria, sources of information. There is a great deal for us to do, perhaps more than ever. But we must now take the first steps.Dick HigginsNew YorkAugust 3, 1966

#graphic design #art #fluxus #magazine #décollage magazine #dick higgins #wolf vostell #typos verlag #walker art center #artpool art research center #1960s

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tilbageidanmark · 2 months

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Movies I watched this week (#169):

3 by forgotten [re-discovered?] Turkish director, Metin Erksan:

🍿 Dry Summer, a mesmerizing 1964 Turkish masterpiece I never heard of before. It tells of a greedy peasant who refuses to share the water on his field with his neighbors, as well as his scheme to steal his younger brother's new bride. (Photo Above). A rustic tragedy featuring one of the most insidious screen villains ever. Highly recommended. 9/10.

It was championed and restored by Martin Scorsese's 'World Cinema Project'. (I'm going to start chewing through their list of preserved classics from around the world.)

🍿 Time to love (1965) is a fetishistic, probably-symbolic, melodrama about a poor house painter who falls in love with a wall portrait of a woman, but who can't or won't love the real person. Lots of brooding while heavy rains keep pouring down, and traditional oud music drones on. Strikingly beautiful black and white cinematography elevates this strange soap opera into something that Antonioni could have shot.

🍿 "May Allah's mercy be upon her! May Allah's mercy be upon her! May Allah's mercy be upon her!"

In 1974 Erksan directed the cheesy Seytan ("Satan"), a plagiarized, unauthorized Turkish rip-off of 'The Exorcist'. It was a schlocky, nearly a shot-by-shot copy, and included the blood spurting, head spinning, cursing, stairs, a young actress that looked strikingly like Linda Blair, and even extensive use of Mike Oldfield's 'Tubular Bells'. But it eliminated the Catholic element and had none of the superb decisions of the William Friedkin's version. 1/10.

🍿

Agnès Varda's deceivingly blissful drama, Le Bonheur. Exquisite, subversive and beautifully simple, about an uncomplicated man who's completely happy with his idyllic life, his loving wife and two little children. But one summer day he takes on an attractive mistress, while still feeling uncommonly fulfilled and undisturbed. Varda lets the Mozart woodwind score do all the heavy interpretive lifting of this disturbing feminist take of the bourgeoisie. Just WOW! 8/10.

At this point, I should just complete my explorations of Varda's oeuvre, and see the rest of her movies. Also, I'm going to take a deep dive one day into the many terrific movies from 1965 (besides the many I've already seen, 'Red Beard', 'Simon of the desert', 'Repulsion', 'The spy who came in from the cold', 'Juliet of the spirit', 'Pierrot the fool'...).

/ Female Director

🍿

2 by amazing Bulgarian director Milko Lazarov:

🍿 Ága, my first Bulgarian film, but it plays somewhere in Yakutsk, south of the Russian arctic circle. An isolated old Inuit couple lives alone in a yurt on the tundra. Slow and spiritual, their lives unfold in the most unobtrusive way, it feels like a documentary. But the simplicity is deceiving, this is film-making of the highest grade, and once Mahler 5th was introduced on a small transistor radio, it's transcendental. The emptiness touched me deeply.

Together with 93 other movies, this was submitted by Bulgaria to the 2019 Oscars (the one won by 'Parasite'). How little we know; If selected, we might have all be talking about it. Absolutely phenomenal! The trailer represents the movie well. 10/10

(It also reminded me very much of the Bolivian drama 'Utama' from 2022, another moving story of an elderly Indian couple living alone in the desert, tending to their small flock of llamas.)

🍿 Milko Lazarov made only one earlier film, the minimalist Alienation in 2013. It tells of Yorgos, a middle age Greek man, (impassively played by the father from 'Dogtooth'), who crosses the border to Bulgaria to buy a newborn baby. But it's not as bad as it sounds, because he's actually helping the impoverished surrogate mother (who looks like young Tilda Swinton) who can't effort to keep him. Another stark and snail-like drama about quiet people who barely speak, told with the masterful language of a true poet. Like 'Ága', it too opens with a stunning close up of a lengthy incantation in an unfamiliar language. I wish he made more movies. 8/10.

🍿

2 more arctic dramas:

🍿 The original movie about indigenous Inuks, Nanook of the North, from 1922, was the first feature-length documentary to achieve commercial success. An engaging slice of life of an Inuit family, even if some of the scenes were staged. 💯 score on Rotten Tomatoes.

🍿 "Many of the scientists involved with climate change agree: The end of human life on this planet is assured."

Another fascinating Werner Herzog documentary, Encounters at the end of the world. About the "professional dreamers" who live and work at McMurdo Station in Antarctica; divers who venture to explore life under the the ice, volcanologists who burrow into ice caves, etc. Herzog's 'secret sauce' is finding the most outrageous, interesting spots on earth, and then just going there and letting his camera do his bidding.

🍿

2 fantastic shorts by Hungarian animator Réka Bucsi:

🍿 Her 2014 Symphony No. 42 consists of 47 short & whimsical vignettes, without any rhyme or rhythm; A farmer fills a cow with milk until it overflows, a zoo elephant draws a "Help me" sign, a UFO sucks all the fish from the ocean, wolves party hard to 'La Bamba', an angry man throws a pie at a penguin, two cowboys holding blue balloons watch a tumbleweed rolls by, a big naked woman cuddle with a seal, etc. Earlier than Don Hertzfeldt's 'World of tomorrow' and my favorite Rúnar Rúnarsson's 'Echo', it's a perfect piece of surrealist chaos. 10/10

My happiest, unexpected surprise of the week!

/ Female Director

🍿 Love (2016), a lovely meditation on nature, poetry and cats in the cosmos. 8/10.

/ Female Director

🍿

Françoise Dorléac X 2:

🍿 Her name was Françoise ("Elle s’appelait Françoise") is a fluff bio-piece about the utterly gorgeous model-actress, who died at a fiery car-crush at 25, and who left a legacy of only a few important films. It includes previously-unseen, enchanting clips and photos from her short life. But then is cuts into her and sister Catherine Deneuve practicing their "Pair of Twins" song-and-dance from 'The Young Girls of Rochefort', the most charming musical in the world, and life is sunny again.

/ Female Director

🍿 That man from Rio, her breakthrough film, was a stupid James Bond spoof, inspired by 'The adventures of Tintin'. Unfortunately, it focused on protagonist Jean-Paul Belmondo, and used Dorléac only as eye-candy. It's the first film I've seen from Brasília, just a few years after it was constructed. 2/10.

🍿

Paintings and Film X 3:

🍿 'Painting Nerds' is a YouTube channel by 2 Scottish artists, putting up intelligent video essays about the art of painting. Paintings In Movies: From '2001: A Space Odyssey' to 'Portrait of a Lady on Fire' is an insightful meditation which explores the relationship between the two art forms. Among the many examples it touches on are the canvases in Hitchcock's 'Rebecca' and 'Vertigo', 'The French Dispatch', 'Laura' and 'I'm thinking of ending things'. They even made a Wellesian trailer for that essay, When Citizen Kane met Bambi : The Lost Paintings of Tyrus Wong!

🍿 So I decided to see some of the movies mentioned above, f. ex. Hitchcock's The Trouble with Harry from 1955. Famous for being Shirley MacLaine's film debut, his first collaboration with Bernard Herrmann, and this being his only "real" comedy. However, the only engaging element among the idiotic machinations on screen were the stunning VistaVision landscapes, painted in true Vermont autumn colors.

🍿 All the Vermeers in New York is my [5th film about Vermeer, and] my first film by prolific indie director Jon Jost. The Scottish essay above interpretated it as a "Charming mirroring of art and life, but also a deeply sad film... The gallery scene shows the transmission of feeling from painting to person, and ultimately, the vast amount of space between them. It plays out the entire drama of the film in microcosm.." But that Met Gallery scene was the only outstanding one in an otherwise disjointed experiment about the NYC art world. The abrasive stockbroker who falls for a French actress at the museum and mistakes her for a woman from the painting was mediocre and irritating. 3/10.

🍿

First watch: Jim Jarmusch's Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai, an homage to Melville's Le Samouraï. An RZA mood piece about a ritualistically-chill black assassin / Zen Sensei, who communicates only with carrier pigeons, and who drives alone at night in desolate streets on mafia missions. 'Live by the Code, die by the Code'.

🍿

Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore, Scorsese's only melodrama with a female protagonist (? - haven't seen 'Boxcar Bertha' yet). It opens in a tinted Wizard of Oz scenery, and tells of an ordinary single mom who dreams of becoming a singer. Hardly a feminist story, as she navigates between one unloving husband, an abusive lover and eventually bearded Kris Kristofferson, who ends up beating her son and promises not to do it again. 3/10.

[I finally watched it because of this clip of 15-year-old Jody Foster singing Je t'attends depuis la nuit de temps on French television].

🍿

The new well-made HBO documentary The Truth vs Alex Jones. About the collective mental sickness that is Amerika. It's hard to imagine how insane are the crazies over there. 💯 score on Rotten Tomatoes.

🍿

3 more shorts:

🍿 The Most Beautiful Shots In Movie History, a little mash-up clippy from The "Solomon Society" with an evocative Perfect day cover.

🍿 Joana, a beautiful tribute of a Spanish father to his little daughter. Reminds me of better times and another daughter.

🍿 From hand to mouse, a mediocre 1944 'Looney Tune' short from Chuck Jones, with the same dynamics that the Coyote & Road Runner did much better.

🍿

Ramy Youssef X 3:

🍿 I discovered first-generation Egyptian-American stand-up comedian Ramy Youssef. In his funny 2019 special, Feelings, he comes across as a sweet dude, a sensitive, observant Muslim, on a complicated spiritual quest in New Jersey. Recommended!

🍿 Ramy was his A24 TV-series that expanded on the themes. It had more of a sitcom vibes, reminiscent of 'Master of None', another one that dealt with an unexplored ethnicity, previously marginalized. I only watched the first season, and liked how unapologetic he was in having large part of the dialogue in other languages, Arabic, French, Etc. Episode 7, "Ne Me Quitte Pas", starring his screen-mom Hiam Abbass was a terrific stand-out.

🍿 “Where were you when the floods happened in Pakistan?”

More feelings, his brand new stand up which just dropped is dark and gentle. It opens with some dark truths from his friend Steve who wants to die, and moves right into the situation in Palestine.

(Later: He hosted Saturday Night Live this weekend.)

🍿

(My complete movie list is here)

#movies #nuri bilge ceylan

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feekins · 11 months

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fell a little behind, so today imma cover the extras in Trigun vol 2 - "Day In Day Out" and "Trigun Pilot" 😁

(NOTE: I'm reading the Dark Horse [physical] and the Overhaul [online] translations side-by-side)

after all the heaviness of ch8, depending on how you look at them, these extras are either a palate cleanser or they give you a bit of whiplash 😅 personally, I enjoy them. they're good fun, and it's interesting to compare these earlier Vashs with him at the end of vol 2. now, without further ado...

DAY IN DAY OUT

(Dark Horse on left, Overhaul on right)

just an interesting little translation discrepancy here - there aren't too many context-changing ones in these extras.

oh but I do love that both translations describe how early Vash wakes up (which, judging by the clock, is 4-5am so about the time Charlie gets me up for First Breakfast) the same way - "Earlier than the rooster's crow, children on Sunday, and the morning paper."

...ah yes, the Noman's Land rooster...

[[insert Trigun character recreating the "look at all those chickens!" vine but with toma here]]

Overhaul at it again, providing more context and clarity =u= although I do think both translations, while different, give off a similar vibe, pointing out little contradictions or things that seem counter-intuitive here.

(Dark Horse on top, Overhaul on bottom)

again, similar enough imo - but I enjoy the Overhaul's translation more bc it's sillier 💕

speaking of which...

...minor translation discrepancies here, but "All Days" VS "Oldies" is cracking me up bc I think I know how Dark Horse got what they did - it's a mistake/some confusion in what foreign (to Japan) word Nightow meant!

in Japanese, "imported" words tend to be written in katakana rather than hiragana. it's kind of like how, in American English, you might see "imported" words printed in italics in some books. anyway, I looked up the Japanese word for "Oldies" and it brought up オールディーズ (literally "oorudeiizu"). and here's the thing: there's no "dee" (like in "deer") sound in Japanese. to denote that in katakana for an "imported" word, then, you'd use the character デ ("de" like in "den") + the modifier ィ ("i" like in "eerie") + symbol to indicate an elongated vowel sound. hence, "oorudeiizu" - which I guess Dark Horse then mistook, thinking it meant "All Days"

(...but if that were the case, wouldn't it originally have to be "aarudeiizu"...? dgixgujgx I'm getting sidetracked, sorry - I am ① an anthropologist who ② took some Japanese classes way back when, so I got excited 😵‍💫)

ANYWAY.

......"Sonic Sodom" eh? I mean, alright! 😆

notable translation discrepancies, but either one does its job: makes this creep seem like more of an ass

now, the second extra...

TRIGUN PILOT

first page, first translation discrepancy. it's minor, but again, the Overhaul gives us more info. second panel, first block of text. Dark Horse has "Even if we're sheltered beneath a giant umbrella, we don't know what tomorrow may hold." meanwhile, the Overhaul has "Even if we're sheltered underneath an umbrella of our old technology, we don't know what the future holds."

there's another discrepancy on the second page, second block of text. more significant difference here. Dark Horse has:

Vash the Stampede is now known as a "localized disaster."

meanwhile, the Overhaul has:

Having caused massive amounts of destruction, he is now under suspicion of being the world's first "localized disaster."

lmao what an ass

and it's interesting how we see the kind of person Count Bostalk is right from the start...

and then we have Vash dancing in listening to his transistor radio. classic. 🤣

🤨

blegh. translation discrepancy that changes the context. I already liked this bandit guy, but the Overhaul makes me like him more. less "macho" more "I HAVE to take revenge for the heinous things Bostalk did"

the pilot does such a good job setting up the complexity of the conflicts in the Trigun 'verse 💕

and I don't like this one 😑 Dark Horse's translation here is...kinda jerk-like. condescending, kinda? anyway. let me sing another love song to you, Overhaul~

finally, I had to put these panels together. the translations are close enough, so no complaints there - the sass of this exchange just didn't hit me until now. Vash is such a lil shit and I love it 💕

#trigunbookclub #text postan 2k23 #btw ty rev and everyone for your comments in the tags! 😊

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leftfield-fm · 3 months

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Scott Ross says of that evening:

The first time I dropped pills was with Brian. I think I knew even then that one day he was going to kill himself with an overdose. He went at it in a crazy way, mixing ups and downs, red pills, yellow pills, pills with stripes on them. “You ought to try this,” Brian said, handing me a fistful of multi-coloured capsules. I don’t think even he knew what they were. Somebody had given them to him and Brian was the kind to try anything. …a party was going on, had been going on for four days. Brian popped four of the pills into his mouth. “Groovy,” he said. I took two of them and they were groovy all right! When we walked back into the party a little later, I felt like I was the tallest one in the room. “Let’s go over to my hotel,” Brian said. “I’ve got some of the good stuff, straight from Mexico.” I had never smoked marijuana, but the mood I was in, anything sounded good. As Brian’s chauffeur-driven Cadillac was heading crosstown, the street-lights began to look brown to me. I figured it was the pills. But then they went out altogether. The lights in the stores were out, too. I rolled down the window. Women were screaming. “Maybe the world is coming to an end,” Brian said. The traffic lights weren’t working and the limousine slowed to a crawl. Automobile headlights were the only illumination on the streets. At last, our driver weaved his way through the snarl to the hotel. I wouldn’t have believed it. In spite of the weird, blacked-out city, there was a group of teeny-boppers in front of the main entrance waiting for Brian to come back. “There he is!” they shouted. “Quick!” said Brian. He pushed me through the service door and waved to the man on duty. Obviously, the guy had been through this before, because he had the door locked behind us almost before we were through it. He handed us a candle and showed us how to get up to the lobby since the elevators weren’t working. The lobby, too, was candle-lit. We climbed a lot of flights to Brian’s suite. We were taking our coats off when there was a knock on the door. Brian took the candle and opened it. It was Bob Dylan with a bunch of people. “It’s an invasion from Mars,” said Bob. They all came in and we stood at Brian’s windows looking out over the dark city. It was wild, like Glasgow in the war. “Let’s turn on,” said Bob. “What better time? The little green men have landed.” Brian rolled me my first marijuana cigarette. Neither he nor Bob could believe that I had never smoked pot. By now, they were saying on the transistor radio that the blackout was probably nothing more than a massive power failure. But we knew better. It was the end of the world and we were going out on cloud nine.

That night, Brian took part in a jam session with Dylan, Robbie Robertson and Bobby Neuwirth in his room. They played acoustic guitars by candle-light, but there was no power to record the music: this session was always referred to later as “The Lost Jam.”

excerpt from Bill Wyman's memoir, Stone Alone

#60s music #60s rock #brian jones #bob dylan #robbie robertson #power outage #trip report #getting high #misadventures

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absolute-immunities · 1 year

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Before we get to the geopolitics, can we have a moment to inhabit the technological sublime? Microchips are some of the most extraordinary objects humanity has ever made. Miller has a good illustration of this: the coronavirus is tiny, about a hundred billionths of a metre across, but it is a galumphing heifer of a beast compared to the smallest transistors being made in Fab 18, which are half that size. TSMC is now talking about transistor nodes in terms of three billionths of a metre. This is so small that quantum effects, which happen mostly at the subatomic level, become relevant.

The machinery needed to manufacture these extraordinarily delicate artefacts has got bigger and more complicated as the microchips have shrunk in size and increased in power. The silicon is etched onto the chips with a new technique called extreme ultraviolet lithography. Think of a microscope, which makes small things big. Now turn it round, so that the lens is making big things small. And now use that process to take a super-complex design and etch it onto an infinitesimally small microchip. That is lithography, which has been the basis of microchip manufacture ever since Jay Lathrop at TI invented it in 1958. But as the chips have got smaller, the lithography process has got more and more difficult.

At the far limit of the technology is the Dutch company ASML, the only firm in the world to have mastered EUV lithography. This process involves the production of EUV light, which in turn involves

“a tiny ball of tin measuring thirty millionths of a metre moving through a vacuum at a speed of around two hundred miles per hour. The tin is then struck twice with a laser, the first pulse to warm it up, the second to blast it into a plasma with a temperature around half a million degrees, many times hotter than the surface of the sun. This process of blasting tin is then repeated fifty thousand times per second to produce EUV light in the quantities necessary to fabricate chips.”

The company that learned how to do this is an American firm called Cymer. Their process depended on a laser so powerful it produced too much heat unless it could be cooled with fans; but the fans ran so fast they burned out their bearings; so engineers invented a process for holding the fans in mid-air, suspended by magnets. The company that invented the new laser is a German firm distractingly called Trumpf. Its development took a decade. Each laser consists of 457,329 parts. The next stage in EUV was the manufacture of a new kind of mirror, made by the German company Zeiss, the smoothest mirror ever made: if it was the same size as Germany, its smallest irregularity would be 0.1 millimetre. But the most complicated laser ever made and the smoothest mirror ever made are just two components of ASML’s lithography device. Look back over that chain: the Taiwanese company (TSMC) commissions the Dutch company (ASML) which commissions the US company (Cymer) which commissions the German company (Trumpf) and also the other German company (Zeiss). It is no wonder that ASML’s latest EUV device is ‘the most expensive mass-produced machine tool in history’.

At this point, the technological sublime and geopolitics merge. Chips are ubiquitous, but top-end chips are not: they are the product of a highly concentrated manufacturing process in which a tiny number of companies constitute an impassable global choke point. If you can’t work with ASML, you can’t make a high-end chip. If you can’t get your top-of-the-range chip made by TSMC, Samsung or Intel, there’s no point designing it, because nobody else can manufacture it.

#🥲#“Trumpf”

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zvaigzdelasas · 2 years

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The VOA ramped up its operations during the Cold War, which also increased its influence. [...] Foy Kohler, the director of VOA during the Cold War, strongly believed that the VOA was serving its purpose, which he identified as aiding in the fight against communism.[34][...] In one [allied] country, regular listeners adopted and practiced American values presented by the broadcast. [...] Kohler used all of this as evidence to claim that the VOA helped to grow and strengthen the free world. It also influenced the UN in their decision to condemn communist actions in Korea, and was a major factor in the decline of communism in the "free world, including key countries such as Italy and France.[34] In Italy, the VOA did not just bring an end to communism, but it caused the country to Americanize.[37] The VOA also had an impact behind the Iron Curtain. Practically all defectors during Kohler's time claimed the VOA helped in their decision to defect. Another indication of impact, according to Kohler, was the Soviet response. Kohler argued that the Soviets responded because the VOA was having an impact. Based on Soviet responses, it can be presumed that the most effective programs were ones that compared the lives of those behind and outside the iron curtain, questions on the practice of slave labor, as well as lies and errors in Stalin's version of Marxism.[34][...]

The Arabic service resumed on January 1, 1950, with a half-hour program. This program grew to 14.5 hours daily during the Suez Crisis of 1956, and was six hours a day by 1958.[33] Between 1952 and 1960, Voice of America used a converted U.S. Coast Guard cutter Courier as a first mobile broadcasting ship.[40]

Control of VOA passed from the State Department to the U.S. Information Agency when the latter was established in 1953[33] to transmit worldwide, including to the countries behind the Iron Curtain and to the People's Republic of China. From 1955 until 2003, VOA broadcast American jazz on the Voice of America Jazz Hour.[...]

During 1953, VOA personnel were subjected to McCarthyist policies, where VOA was accused by Senator Joseph McCarthy, Roy Cohn, and Gerard David Schine of intentionally planning to build weak transmitting stations to sabotage VOA broadcasts. However, the charges were dropped after one month of court hearings in February and March 1953.[43]

Somewhere around 1954, VOA's headquarters were moved from New York to Washington D.C. The arrival of cheap, low-cost transistors enabled the significant growth of shortwave radio listeners. During the Hungarian Revolution of 1956, VOA's broadcasts were deemed controversial, as Hungarian refugees and revolutionaries thought that VOA served as a medium and insinuated the possible arrival of the Western aid.[44][...]

In the early 1980s, VOA began a $1.3 billion rebuilding program to improve broadcast with better technical capabilities. During the implementation of the Martial law in Poland between 1981 and 1983, VOA's Polish broadcasts expanded to seven hours daily. Throughout the 1980s, VOA focused on covering events from the 'American hinterland', such as 150th anniversary of the Oregon Trail.[43] Also in the 1980s, VOA also added a television service, as well as special regional programs to Cuba, Radio Martí and TV Martí. Cuba has consistently attempted to jam such broadcasts and has vociferously protested U.S. broadcasts directed at Cuba. In September 1980, VOA started broadcasting to Afghanistan in Dari and in Pashto in 1982.[52]

During the Cold War, RFE was broadcast to Soviet satellite states, including the Baltic states, and RL targeted the Soviet Union; RFE was founded as an anti-communist propaganda source in 1949 by the National Committee for a Free Europe, while RL was founded two years later. The two organizations merged in 1976.[...]

Radio Free Europe was created and grew in its early years through the efforts of the National Committee for a Free Europe (NCFE), an anti-communist CIA front organization that was formed by Allen Dulles in New York City in 1949.[12][13] RFE/RL received funds covertly from the CIA until 1972.[14][15][...]

The United States funded a long list of projects to counter the "Communist appeal" among intellectuals in Europe and the developing world.[20] RFE was developed out of a belief that the Cold War would eventually be fought by political rather than military means.[21] American policymakers such as George Kennan and John Foster Dulles acknowledged that the Cold War was essentially a war of ideas. The implementation of surrogate radio stations was a key part of the greater psychological war effort.[18][...]

In January 1950, the NCFE obtained a transmitter base at Lampertheim, West Germany, and on July 4 of the same year RFE completed its first broadcast aimed at Czechoslovakia.[23] In late 1950, RFE began to assemble a full-fledged foreign broadcast staff, becoming more than a "mouthpiece for exiles".[24] Teams of journalists were hired for each language service, and an elaborate system of intelligence gathering provided up-to-date broadcast material. Most of this material came from a network of well-connected émigrés and interviews with travelers and defectors. RFE did not use paid agents inside the Iron Curtain and based its bureaus in regions popular with exiles.[25] [...]

Whereas Radio Free Europe broadcast to Soviet satellite countries, Radio Liberty broadcast to the Soviet Union.[29] Radio Liberty was formed by American Committee for the Liberation of the Peoples of Russia (Amcomlib) in 1951.[30][...]

Radio Liberty began broadcasting from Lampertheim on March 1, 1953, gaining a substantial audience when it covered the death of Joseph Stalin four days later. [...]

It also had a base at Oberwiesenfeld Airport on the outskirts of Munich,[33] employing several former Nazi agents who had been involved in the Ostministerium under Gerhard von Mende during World War II.[34] In 1955, Radio Liberty began broadcasting programs to Russia's eastern provinces from shortwave transmitters located on Taiwan.[35] [...]

According to certain European politicians such as Petr Nečas, RFE played a significant role in the collapse of communism [...] RFE publicized anti-Soviet protests and nationalist movements. Its audience increased substantially following the failed Berlin riots of 1953 and the highly publicized defection of Józef Światło.[43] Arch Puddington argues that its Hungarian service's coverage of Poland's Poznań riots in 1956 served as an inspiration for the Hungarian revolution that year.[44]

During the Hungarian Revolution of 1956, RFE broadcasts encouraged rebels to fight and suggested that Western support was imminent.[45] These RFE broadcasts violated Eisenhower's policy, which had determined that the United States would not provide military support for the Revolution.[46] [...]

According to Puddington, Polish Solidarity leader Lech Wałęsa and Russian reformer Grigory Yavlinsky would later recall secretly listening to the broadcasts despite the heavy jamming.[62][...]

During the Cold War RFE was often criticized in the United States as not being sufficiently anti-communist. [...]

RFE/RL received funds from the CIA until 1972.[71] The CIA's relationship with the radio stations began to break down in 1967, when Ramparts magazine published an exposé claiming that the CIA was channeling funds to civilian organizations. Further investigation into the CIA's funding activities revealed its connection to both RFE and RL, sparking significant media outrage.[72][...]

In 1976, the two radio stations merged to form Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty (RFE/RL) and added the three Baltic language services to their repertoire[...]

Funding for RFE/RL increased during the Reagan administration. President Ronald Reagan, a fervent opponent of Communism, urged the stations to be more critical of the communist regimes. This presented a challenge to RFE/RL's broadcast strategy, which had been very cautious since the controversy over its alleged role in the Hungarian Revolution.[78]

During the Mikhail Gorbachev era in the Soviet Union under Glasnost, RFE/RL benefited significantly from the Soviet Union's new openness. Gorbachev stopped the practice of jamming the broadcasts. In addition, dissident politicians and officials could be freely interviewed by RFE/RL for the first time without fearing persecution or imprisonment.[79] By 1990, Radio Liberty had become the most listened-to Western radio station broadcasting to the Soviet Union.[80]

Its coverage of the 1991 August coup enriched sparse domestic coverage of the event and drew in a wide audience.[81] The broadcasts allowed Gorbachev and Boris Yeltsin to stay in touch with the Russian people during this turbulent period. Boris Yeltsin later expressed his gratitude through a presidential decree allowing Radio Liberty to open a permanent bureau in Moscow.[82]

Following the November 17 demonstrations and brutal crackdown by Czechoslovak riot police, Drahomíra Dražská [cs], a porter at a dormitory in Prague, reported that a student, Martin Šmíd, had been killed during the clashes.[83] The Charter 77 activist Petr Uhl believed this account and passed it along to major news organizations, who broadcast it.[84] After Reuters and the Voice of America (VOA) reported the story, RFE/RL decided to run it too.[85] However, the report later turned out to be false. The story is credited by many sources with inspiring Czechoslovak citizens to join the subsequent (larger) demonstrations which eventually brought down the communist government.[86][87][88]

In addition, Pavel Pecháček, the director of RFE/RL's Czechoslovak service at the time, was mistakenly granted a visa to enter the country by the Czechoslovak authorities prior to the demonstrations. He reported live from the demonstrations in Wenceslas Square, and was virtually the only reporter covering the events fully and openly in Czech for a Czech audience.[89][...]

In 1998, RFE/RL began broadcasting to Iraq.[98] Iraqi president Saddam Hussein ordered Iraqi Intelligence Service, to "violently disrupt the Iraqi broadcasting of Radio Free Europe". IIS planned to attack the headquarters with an RPG-7 from a window across the street. Czech Security Information Service (BIS) foiled the plot.[98]

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king-of-roses-world · 1 year

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Meet Sony's first AM/FM transistor radio and, according to the company's own history, the first transistor radio in the world to include an FM band. Sony exhibited the TFM-151 at the 7th annual Audio Fair in Tokyo in October 1958

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joehaupt · 1 year

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flickr

Vintage Sony Model ICR-100 Micro Radio, AM Band, Built-In Rechargeable Battery, Ebony With Chrome Case, Made In Japan, Circa 1968 by Joe Haupt Via Flickr: The world's first IC (integrated circuit) radio.

#Vintage Sony ICR-100 Micro Radio #Vintage Sony ICR Micro Radios #Vintage Sony Radios #Vintage Transistor Radios #Transistor Radio #1960s Transistor Radios #World's First IC Integrated Circuit Radio #flickr

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onenettvchannel · 6 months

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FLASH REPORT THIS MORNING: Calambanon Radio Announcer 'DJ Johnny Walker' gunned down from an Unnamed Suspect during an Online TeleRadyo Broadcast of Gold FM (updated as final!!!)

(with reports from 106.1mhz's FMR Babe Radio: Dipolog and DWPM-AM's Radyo 630: Manila)

CALAMBA, MISAMIS OCCIDENTAL -- In a shocking and tragic incident that is recently unfolded in the morning on Sunday (November 5th, 2023 – Calamba local time)… Juan Jerrebel Anggoy Jumalon, popularly known as “DJ Johnny Walker”, a 57 y/o part-time hard-hitting local radio announcer and Disc Jockey [born on August 2nd, 1966], morning radio host and on-board provincial station manager of 94.7mhz’s Gold FM: Calamba was shot dead inside on his own home radio booth at Purok 2, Brgy. Don Bernardo A. Neri, Calamba, Misamis Occidental during an exclusive Facebook live video broadcast of his local morning radio program 'Pahapyod sa Kabuntagon’ (Early Morning). This devastating event has sent shockwaves throughout the local Calambanon community and the radio broadcasting industry in Misamis Occidental.

DJ Johnny Walker, a beloved not-so-fictional figure in the local radio scene, was a prominent personality on 94.7 Gold FM: Calamba. His real name “Juan Jerrebel Anggoy Jumalon”, was known to very few as he went by his radio alias, which had become synonymous with the morning airwaves. More than several years or decades of experience in radio broadcasting, Mr. Jumalon had become an integral part of the local community, providing entertainment, information and a sense of connection to his listeners each day.

94.7 Gold FM: Calamba is an affiliated local FM radio station of the Kalayaan Broadcasting System Inc. (KBSi), and DJ Johnny Walker played a pivotal role in its success. His morning radio program, 'Pahapyod sa Kabuntagon’ was not only known for its entertaining content but also for its community engagement, discussing local & regional issues in Misamis Occidental, and bringing the community together through various interactive segments. This made Mr. Jumalon, a cherished figure among his listeners and colleagues.

In 2014, his personal broadcasting setup of the aforesaid local FM radio station within a decade before the male suspect gunned down to Mr. Jumalon during an exclusive televised interview of DXTE-TV 8's TV5: Cagayan de Oro for News 5. In his personal health reasons back then, Mr. Jumalon was part of the Persons with Disabilities (PWD). Several years later aside from murder case, local and regional issues to be followed when discussing land and business all across the Misamis Occidental area as a motive.

Per the exclusive spot report as obtained by 106.1mhz’s Favorite Music Radio: Babe Radio Dipolog and the selected KBP-member stations in Misamis Occidental, in cooperation with DWPM-AM’s Radyo 630: Manila, when the tragic incident took place during the said LIVE Facebook video broadcast of 'Pahapyod sa Kabuntagon’ around 5:35am on that fateful Black Sunday. This was the world's first online horrific, TeleRadyo-like broadcasting history in Southern Mindanao.

Outside the CCTV video as mentioned, another suspect to be illegally trespassed, who were pretending in disguise as a local listener for a potential public service without a security guard on-duty.

Within the final moments develop, the unnamed male suspect who remains at large and carries a firearm of caliber .45 pistol, disrupted the live FM radio program and shot twice to Mr. Jumalon (even in audible transistor radio simulcast in general), leading to his untimely demise by shooting his lower lip towards his back portion head, then stealing a gold jewelry worth PHP150,000 (U$D2,682.45), and quickly fled off the scene shortly after. Overall, two or three suspects have yet to be later identified on national internet TV. The aforesaid live video on the radio station’s Facebook page on 94.7 Gold FM: Calamba, captured the horrifying event as it unfolded, leaving online viewers in shock and disbelief.

As we gather a lot of information and investigate the circumstances surrounding this tragic event, there is an outpouring of support and condolences from the listeners, avid fans, friends and colleagues of Mr. Jumalon on various disclosed social media platforms. The incident has prompted discussions about the safety of media professionals, particularly in the realm of live radio broadcasting and online media.

Local authorities in Misamis Occidental have embarked on a detailed probe, and the motive is suspected to be a work-related situation. He was now confirmed dead on arrivial (DOA) from a physician doctor named Dr. Geopeter L. Manisan at Calamba District Hospital (CDH) in National Highway, the said city.

A hot pursuit operation of the Calamba Municipal Police Station (CMPS) is on its way, in relation to a brutal murder suspect from an unidentified gun man.

The untimely demise of “DJ Johnny Walker” is a profound loss to the local radio industry and the community he served for several years or decades. His legacy as a passionate radio personality who connected with his audience on a personal level will be remembered and cherished on him. He is one of the 199th journalists killed since 1986 until the present, which includes Central Visayas, Eastern Visayas, Dumaguete City, Mabinay and Negros Oriental, as according to the National Union of Journalists of the Philippines (NUJP).

As the investigation unfolds from the Calamba-Philippine National Police, the community and his fellow broadcasters mourn the loss of a beloved figure and await justice throughout the weekend for this heinous act.

EDITOR's NOTE (as of November 7th, 2023): We edited out for clarification from our previous update, as we all learned from our media friends at Radyo 630: Manila and other KBP-member FM, AM and TV stations in Mindanao to come up with a conclusion.

Amalia Sheran Sharm, Miko Kubota and Ridley Terrance have all fully contributed to this news report.

PHOTO COURTESY for REPRESENTATION: 94.7mhz's Gold FM: Calamba via FB PHOTO BACKGROUND PROVIDED BY: Tegna

SOURCE: *https://www.facebook.com/100064859973484/posts/333407976049356 [Referenced FB News Article via DXJN-FM 105.3mhz's Radyo Bandera News FM: Cotabato] *https://www.facebook.com/100093017771931/videos/356914123385052 [Referenced FB LIVE Video via DXKB-FM 89.3mhz's Radyo Bandera Sweet FM: Cagayan de Oro] *https://www.facebook.com/100077562834152/posts/359801613281930 [Referenced Police Blotter in PR via Arianna Trisha] *https://www.facebook.com/100094088475887/posts/191863797293235 [Referenced FB News Article via DWPM-AM's Radyo 630khz: Manila] *https://www.facebook.com/100075706497836/posts/356802900186590 [Referenced FB News Article via DZMD-FM 100.7mhz's MyFM: Bataan] *https://www.facebook.com/100064616655120/posts/734630538700828 [Referenced FB News Article via The Philippine Star] *https://www.facebook.com/100047471591140/posts/865352015057177 [Referenced FB News Article via Xymon Jeremiah Pedro the 2nd] *https://www.facebook.com/100064282075832/posts/737856285033767 [Referenced FB Captioned Statement Post via Presidential Communications Office] *https://www.philstar.com/headlines/2023/11/05/2309128/misamis-occidental-radio-broadcaster-gunned-down-while-air [Referenced News Article via The Philippine Star] *https://www.facebook.com/100067938276705/posts/669891301952140 [Referenced FB Captioned PHOTO via MOPPO] *https://www.facebook.com/100067938276705/posts/669997835274820 [Referenced FB Captioned PHOTO via MOPPO] *https://www.facebook.com/100064809663843/posts/730885619081754 [Referenced FB Captioned PHOTO via Presidential Task Force on Media Security] *https://www.cnnphilippines.com/regional/2023/11/5/misamis-occidental-juan-jumalon-death.html [Referenced News Article via DXKO-TV 5's CNN Philippines: Cagayan de Oro] *https://pinoytrend.net/2023/11/05/radio-announcer-na-si-johnny-walker-pinatumba-habang-nasa-gitna-ng-kanyang-programa/ [Referenced News Article via PinoyTrend] *https://rmn.ph/radio-announcer-patay-matapos-pagbabarilin-habang-nagpoprograma-sa-calamba-misamis-occidental/ [Referenced News Article via DXDR-AM 981khz's RMN: Dipolog] and *https://remate.ph/radio-broadcaster-binaril-patay-sa-gitna-ng-programa/ [Referenced News Article via Remate]

-- OneNETnews Team

#flash report #national news #calamba #misamis occidental #police report #gunned down #suspect #johnny walker #social media #Gold FM #awareness #OneNETnews

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letmewanderinyourgarden2022 · 1 year

Text

I had reread the same paragraph in the contract I was reviewing at least 20 times in the 40 minutes that had passed. I had no idea what it said. I couldn’t keep my thoughts on the task at hand.

Well, this is fucking useless. . . I gotta get out of here for the day.

The ringing phone jarred me from planning my jailbreak.

“Hello, Sandra. . .No, not done yet. . .Yes, I know that. . .Sandra, it’s pointless for me to keep at this today. My head is just somewhere else. . .Yes, I’m aware of the deadline. . .Look, it’s Friday and I’m leaving for today. I will have my markups to you first thing Monday, OK? Trust me. You’ll have it by the time you need it. . .Yeah, I’m really OK, just a bit distracted. . .Yeah, you too. Have a good weekend. I’ll have it Monday. . .OK. Bye, Sandra.”

I turned off the computer, grabbed my bag and keys.

Goodbye, MacGregor Hamilton & Mott. See ya Monday.

The drive uptown was a fairly quick affair since there was only early afternoon traffic. Before I knew it, I had pulled into the driveway, and the familiar feeling of “being home” washed over me. Out of the car, through the front yard, up the steps, and into the door in record time, I was on a mission to gather the relief I had planned. I grabbed my cell, threw my bag and keys on the sofa, and kicked off my shoes. Finding my new favorite YouTube obsession – a selection of live No Quarters from 1975 – I readied myself for two hours of bliss. I plugged my ear pods into the phone on the way to the kitchen grooving along with Jonesy as I poured a whiskey and grabbed one of my specially prepared brownies from the fridge. With both in hand, I made myself comfortable on the front porch swing - my thinking place - lounging across the bench. As I fell back into the lavender-filled pillows, the sweet scent surrounded me, working its magic. I nibbled on the brownie and sipped the spicy liquor. The effects of the two slowly ebbed and flowed through my body, just in time for Jimmy’s solo. I melted into the music, letting it chip away at whatever had been masking the source of my preoccupation.

With Jimmy’s intense improvisation providing the backdrop, my thoughts wandered through different memories – some early ones, some later ones. The music was always there. Well. . . to be truthful, he was always there – for me. I viscerally remembered - being a very young teen, excitedly flipping through the latest fan magazine to find pictures and the scoop on the Yardbirds and the wonderful outing with my parents that resulted. Then, slightly older, I delighted to find news in my favorite - Eye Magazine - about a new band forming with the wunderkind, Jimmy Page. Those beginning chords of the first Led Zeppelin album heard on a faraway, underground radio station pulsing from the transistor radio hidden under my pillow in the wee hours of the morning have the same effect on me today. The memory had never left me from early ’69 when the stars aligned to bring me front and center to witness the undeniable alchemy of the band in person. The constants – the intricate, powerful and beautiful riffs, the JPJ and Bonham tight rhythm and the voices – both Robert’s through his lyrics and vocal artistry and Jimmy’s through his musical genius and otherworldly guitar – were the underscore of my life.

I sighed and settled back into the music. The guitar was just reaching the crescendo of the middle section of No Quarter. Those notes! Their frequencies rippled through every molecule of water in my body. Swaying in response, I considered the many times Jimmy had popped into my mind – out of nowhere – over the years.

Ha! Me and a world of other people!

How often I started to write to him to describe how his music - his playing - made me feel – the same sentiments he’d probably heard a billion times. Those missives all ended balled up in the waste bin. Eventually, the fan girl stuff went by the wayside, and rather than write to him, I made a long list of things I would ask him if I ever had the chance. It was still neatly tucked away in my desk drawer.

Maybe I should try again. . . Still a ridiculous idea. . .

I sat for a long while not thinking at all – just feeling – letting the music possess me. The recording had moved on to another gig – Vancouver. Bonham was crafting his rhythm to almost mirror the melody of Jones and Page. A warm flush crept over me from head to toe as the distorted, raw licks of the guitar sonically traveled about in my head.

It was then, in that warmth, that I revisited the very early hours of that day. Normally, I would slam the snooze button four or five times before actually waking up. That morning, however, I jolted awake at 4 a.m. with that feeling – the one that always shocked me - the intensity of whatever the dream had been – and where I never remembered one, single detail. The uneasiness immediately transformed into a peaceful, almost calming feeling that was alarming at the same time. That polarity in a matter of seconds unsettled me. It had never happened before and the contradiction had flitted its way in and out of my thoughts all day. But there on the swing, on the porch, I was able to consider it.

If I can go from totally freaked out to Zen in a matter of seconds, there must be something there to remember. Damn!

This particular NQ gig had an extended middle section. Floating along on the dreamlike, trancey groove with Jimmy’s notes soaring above, my thoughts approached and retreated from the dream. That sudden awakening had happened many times since the ’70s. For a very long time, they were years apart, until the last five years or so, when they were separated by months or sometimes only weeks. I was concerned for a while but the worry evaporated. If I was to know something, I would eventually. Maybe I was at that moment.

Ok, fine. But now what?

Lying there, totally bewildered, the pit of my stomach dropped. Something clicked! I shot straight up from the bench. THAT FEELING - when the music occupies my entire being - was in the dream. I was certain. . .and it meant Jimmy was in the dream. Again, certain. The intense peaceful feeling from the wee hours of the morning returned, but not the alarm.

Then the internal argument began.

This is all connected!! Fuck! Maybe I have to contact him. . .

No, you don’t. It’s really outrageous, Jane. He’ll think you’re nuts and obsessed.

No. . .No. . .I think I have to. If nothing else, it will be done and I can stop thinking about writing it. It's time. I'm sure.

Yeah, then you can wonder if he got it, if he read it, if he liked it, if he will write back. . . ad nauseum. . .

Maybe. . .Don’t care.

Determined, I devised a plan over the next half hour and organized all my supplies on the living room coffee table. I took my pencil and writing pad back to the swing and settled myself across the bench, knees drawn up as a writing desk. Clearing my thoughts, the words flowed surprisingly quickly. After a few edits, it was done – not too long, not too short; only mildly smart-assed; succinct and direct with some assurances. I said what I felt. It was me but I knew immediately it needed something. . .more. The idea of a design materialized - one that had meaning to me and hopefully to him. Returning inside, I searched for the writing paper I had unearthed years ago from a box in a flea market. It was perfect – antique and handmade. I settled myself comfortably on the floor, with my inks and paints arrayed on the table. I lettered my words and painted the vines and other things I found iconic. Would he recognize them if he saw them? After several hours, it was done and I was happy. It was interesting – not perfect by a long shot, but I didn’t ball it up and throw in the waste bin. With a final look, the need for sleep overwhelmed me.

As relief from the abruptness of the night before, the full, undisturbed slumber was welcomed. I awoke the next morning contented – a happy remnant of the evening. After starting the daily coffee ritual, I finished up the last piece of the letter. It needed an envelope to protect it and colorful enough to perhaps increase the odds of Jimmy’s receipt of it. In my stash, I found the red and gold arts and crafts design paper that would work very well. With the envelope made, there was a last question – should I really do this? To get guidance, I spread the scarf on the living room floor, and threw the yarrow sticks. The end result - Chi Chi. After Completion.

Things fall into a good place.

The end of darkness and the beginning of light.

The beginning of good fortune and the end of disorder.

Everything proceeds as it will.

I smiled. Decision made.

On Monday morning, I prepared the finished product to make its way to Mr. Page in care of his publishing company. Giving it one more look, it still didn’t seem “complete.” I needed to infuse myself into it somehow - so that when it was opened and read, the feeling behind it would wind its way from the paper to the person. Ridiculous as the thought might have been, I was compelled to do it. I put my hands flat on the paper allowing all the emotions that brought me there to flow through my fingertips. I willed that they would meld with the fibers of the paper to be recognized by him when he read the letter – if he read the letter. Done.

At the office, I carefully put the letter into the mailing envelope. I walked down the block to the FedEx drop-off. Surprisingly, there were no second thoughts on the way. As I stood before the box, I hesitated a moment, then opened the drawer, gently deposited the envelope and pushed shut. I heard the soft thump as it dropped to the bottom of the box.

No turning back now, Jane Mott.

I smiled all the way back to the office. Something I read in law school came to mind from some Supreme Court justice: “. . .If you want to hit a bird on the wing. . .you must be living in your eye on that bird. . .”

Bird on the wing, she is flying to greet me.

“Che Sera, Sera,” I whispered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you want a trippy experience, play the NQ 1975 compilation and watch this with the sound off 😁 [the original video posted here has disappeared 😑 but this new one is pretty cool, too.]

youtube

@firethatgrewsolow @foreverandadaydarling @laluxea @lzep @sassybouquetrunaway-universe @jimmysdragonsuit13 @jenyj89

Chapter list:

@firethatgrewsolow @foreverandadaydarling @laluxea @lzep @sassybouquetrunaway-universe @jimmysdragonsuit13 @jenyj89

#jimmy page fan fiction 2022 #jimmy page #zoso #jimmy page fanfiction #silver fox jimmy #old man jimmy #led zeppelin fanfic #let me wander in your garden-chapter one #lmwing 22 #let me wander in your garden 2022 #Youtube

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cecilysass · 2 years

Text

The Boy on the Beach (10/16)

Read on AO3 | Tagging@today-in-fic

Chapter 10: Floating in a Most Peculiar Way

The soundtrack for this chapter is two tracks: Top of the World, by the Carpenters, from their 1973 album A Song for You. The week of November 27, 1973 it was #3 on the Billboard Hot 100. Space Oddity, by David Bowie, which was released originally in 1969 in conjunction with the moon landing, but was re-released as a single in the United States in 1973, reaching #15 on the Billboard charts that year.

November 26, 1973 Chilmark, Massachusetts

The fall beach had a desolate beauty: dunes with russet-colored grasses, lightly craggy, windswept. There were only a handful of other beach goers visible, and Scully surveyed them carefully. A couple and a dog ambling along at a steady pace, headed away from them. A young man running athletic drills in the sand. A trio of young people sharing a wool blanket in the rocks at the rim of the dunes listening to music on a transistor radio.

“In the summer, they’d probably be naked,” the boy told Scully, gesturing to the young people. “We’ve got nude sunbathers here on Martha’s Vineyard, you know. It’s just like Europe or San Francisco, even though it’s Massachusetts.”

“Very impressive,” Scully said to him. But her eyes were on the athlete, making sure he looked above board. The college-age kid seemed preoccupied with his exercise, his full energy directed to his grapevine runs back and forth, but you never knew. She decided she would keep tabs on him, just in case.

“I don’t mind it. Obviously, as a growing boy, I’m pro-nudity,” the boy continued.

“Gross,” Samantha said. She looked as though she were cold, uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot, her hands deep in her pockets. Scully decided they should start walking, and so they did. She kept the athlete on their left.

“Plus, the naked beach hippies make my parents so angry,” the boy said. “Especially Dad. He says that people confuse hedonism with meaningful self-expression. He says that if the most interesting thing you can say about yourself is your nudity, then you’re not very interesting. But what if they’re not trying to be interesting? What if they’re just trying not to hide behind their clothes?”

“Fox talks a lot when he’s worried,” Samantha told Scully.

“I know,” Scully said thoughtfully, considering both of them.

“What did we come to talk about?” Samantha asked. “Shouldn’t you tell us now, Agent Scully?”

“Just Scully,” she said. “And you’re right.” She slowed her pace, slightly, hugging herself a little in the wind. “I think the first thing you need to understand is that some people will be coming to your house tomorrow night to try to … take Samantha away.” She took a breath. “I know that’s a scary thing to have to think about, Samantha, but I want you to know what’s going on.”

Samantha looked stricken. “Who are they?”

“They’re part of a group of men,” Scully bit her lip, deciding what to say carefully, “who I think are trying to give your dad a message. And that’s why you also need to understand that if something goes wrong, and they can’t take Samantha, they could decide to take Fox instead.”

The Mulder siblings were both silent. The boy matched his pace to Samantha’s and placed his hand on her shoulder wordlessly.

“I can defend you, and I am armed, but there’s only one of me,” Scully continued. “So I believe the best plan is to … leave.”

“Leave?”

“Leave. Get out of here. Get off this island, but do it unexpectedly, in secret, so even your parents are unaware.”

Scully paused, pressing her lips together, aware she was leaving grim and horrifying details out. Details she hoped the bright, sensitive Mulder children never had to know.

Such as: it’s possible your father, and maybe even your mother, actually know this is coming. So we just can’t risk tipping them off, because I can’t be absolutely certain they will be on the side of protecting you.

And: it’s possible there will be repercussions for your parents if I protect you, even terrible repercussions. But they’re adults, and these are their choices, and you are the mission, not them.

“I was thinking I could keep you a day or two, and then you could go to your grandparents in New York, if that seems reasonable to you,” Scully said.

Samantha frowned. “Won’t these men come and try to get us again later?”

“Yes,” Scully said levelly. “That’s a possibility. But I’ve got a few ideas for how we might handle that. Right now, we need to concentrate on how to get out of here tomorrow. Do you all have any money?”

“Yeah,” the boy said, deep in thought, walking closer to her. “I can get money, and if you want, we could borrow the Rothenbergs’ car? They’re neighbors who don’t live here in the off-season and they keep their Chevelle covered up in their garage. I have a key because I check on the property for them when it storms sometimes.”

“That could be useful,” agreed Scully. “Yes. I think we’ll try to leave shortly after you go to school tomorrow so that we can make as much progress as possible before we’re noticed.”

The boy nodded eagerly. “Yes, good. We can pack tonight. I’ll help you, Sam.”

“They’re going to think you kidnapped us,” Samantha said suddenly.

Scully slowly nodded. “That’s probably right.”

“Wait.” The boy looked alarmed. “That’s no good. They’ll arrest you.”

Scully smiled, constantly scanning the horizon. “I think it’s unlikely they’ll arrest me, actually. I’m fairly clever. I’ll tell you two exactly what to say to the police. And law enforcement will find no record of me at all. I don’t exist as an adult.”

“You won’t be able to come near us after that, though,” the boy said. “It’ll be dangerous.”

“Yes,” Scully agreed. “At least for a while.”

The boy looked somber, kicking the sand too energetically in exactly the way that Maggie Scully always said not to, so that the wind picked it up and it scattered against Samantha’s coat.

“We’re not going to be in my Nutcracker recital, are we?” Samantha said, realizing.

“Oh Samantha,” Scully said gently. “I don’t think you will.”

Samantha nodded, but Scully could see tears pooling in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” Scully added. “I wouldn’t ask you to miss it if I didn’t think … it was very important.”

“Yeah,” Samantha said, wiping her eyes with her sleeves.

“You’ll have other dance recitals, Samantha,” the boy said.

Samantha looked up darkly at him. “I wanted to go to this one.”

“But obviously this is a high priority, and after all, one stupid dance thing—”

“Shut up, Fox,” Samantha said.

“I’m only pointing out that—”

“I wanted to do it.” Samantha's voice sounded choked. “We were going to have a real Christmas tree on stage, and I was going to have silver glitter on my face…” She hid her face with her hands. “I just wanted to do it, so shut up,” she added, her words muffled.

There was a tightness in Scully’s chest as she watched the boy’s face, the set of his jaw. How could she ever explain why she wanted him to be nothing but endlessly kind to his sister? How could she convey to a twelve-year old boy the brokenness of a thirty-two year old man — a man who would sit on a motel room floor, speaking to his new partner in hushed tones about the defining loss of his life?

But the boy’s face softened on its own, without her saying a word. He lightly tugged on the end of Sam’s braid.

“Hey,” the boy said, and his tone was now familiar, the hopeful voice he used as an adult to promise Scully little things like cures for cancer or answers to all the questions of the universe. “When we’re done with all this, I’ll bring you back to the dance studio in Falmouth and you can put on the costume and the glitter and we will make Madame Brindell put on the dance recital again, even if it’s just you dancing.”

Samantha looked sideways at him. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely,” he nodded. “Hand to heart.”

“Maybe you’ll even dance the waltz with me?”

He smiled sheepishly. “Sure, of course, Sam.”

“Will you dance it with me now?”

The boy’s eyes bugged. “Now? On this beach?”

“Yeah,” she said. Her lips curled into a little smile.

“Well, I would,” he said, “but I can’t dance without music.”

“I’ll go ask those people on the blanket if we can borrow their radio for a minute,” Samantha said, and she tore off in a run across the beach, hopping over rocks in her way.

“Samantha,” Scully shouted futilely after her. The wind carried her voice the opposite direction.

The girl’s small shape continued across the beach, beelining towards the strangers sitting near the dunes. Scully sighed and began running after her, feeling the boy trailing behind her. Samantha approached the long-haired young people on the blanket, had some sort of conversation with them.

By the time Scully and the boy had reached her, she had the transistor radio in her hands already and was walking back towards them.

“Sam,” the boy said, his face pink, his tone a little frantic. “You can’t run off like that.”

“I got the radio,” Samantha said earnestly. “We’ll just borrow it for a few minutes.”

Samantha pulled the boy by the hand, guided him down the sand away from the dunes, about midway to the ocean. Scully visually checked in with the athlete, who was now doing sit-ups on the ground, and then wrapped her arm around herself, watching the two siblings. She wanted the boy to dance with his sister, and she didn’t mind waiting a few minutes to make sure it happened.

“Haven’t you been listening to Scully?” the boy huffed. “It’s not safe. You have to stay with us. You can’t just run off like that.”

“I’m okay,” she said. “I got music for you.” Samantha was fiddling with the controls on the radio, trying to find a radio station. She found a station and turned it up, turning to her brother mischievously and raising her eyebrows. “Ohhh. Listen to what song they’re playing, Fox.”

The boy rolled his eyes spectacularly. “I’m not dancing to that, Sam,” he said. “No way.”

“What is it?” Scully asked curiously, squatting a little to hear the small speaker better.

“The Carpenters,” Samantha said to Scully, sighing. “Fox hates them just because he knows I like them, and he’s kind of a buttmunch that way.”

“No, Samantha,” the boy said, in a patient tone. “I hate them because it’s terrible music with terrible lyrics, and because I am an older, wiser buttmunch than you.”

Samantha made a face at him but turned the dial. “We can find a station with whatever kind of weird music you like, Fox.”

“I don’t want to dance on this beach,” the boy groaned. “I’m self-conscious.”

“There’s almost no one here,” Scully pointed out.

“You’re here.”

“Oh, this isn’t even going to make the top ten of embarrassing things I’ve seen you do,” Scully assured him. “Not even top fifty.”

The boy winced, as if that didn’t comfort him. Then he leaned in to listen to the station Samantha had just tuned to.

“How’s that, Fox?” Samantha said, looking up at him, still holding the dial. “You love this song, don't you?”

The boy closed his eyes to mouth the lyrics dramatically for a few lines. Opening them, he turned to Scully. “This song is Space Oddity, by David Bowie. It’s about an astronaut who...”

“Yes, yes, ground control to Major Tom. I know,” Scully nodded, waving her hand dismissively. “You should dance with your sister.”

“This song is not a waltz,” the boy protested. “It’s going to be impossible to dance to.”

Scully was slightly unsuccessful at smothering a laugh. She wasn’t sure how anyone actually danced to Space Oddity—unless one was really, really stoned out of one’s mind, as she and Melissa had absolutely been when they memorably saw David Bowie play at the Spectrum in Philadelphia in 1983. Still, she was fascinated to see.

Samantha grasped the boy’s unwilling hands in hers.

Facing her brother, she stretched their arms out between them in an open oval. The boy, sighing, stepped in and placed his right hand on her back. She rested her left arm over his shoulder. Their other hands grabbed one another and extended outward, slowly and carefully, with strange childlike grace.

They began to glide together in a box step, only slightly awkwardly. The boy was anxiously watching his feet, his eyes sometimes shooting up to Samantha’s face, sometimes over towards Scully. Samantha was unconsciously singing the lyrics to the song under her breath, stepping with imperfect confidence. The two Mulders lurched up and down in a similar way as they stepped: an unthinking coordination in movement that, combined with the David Bowie soundtrack and the deserted beach backdrop, just slightly tinged with the soft pink of early sunset in the sky, gave the scene a sense of the uncanny. Or maybe, Scully thought, the transcendent.

She found her hands applauding for them enthusiastically almost without thinking. The boy was a respectable ballroom dancer, which was something she wished she had known, although she didn’t know why. She wasn’t one herself. There were no ballroom dance classes in her 1970s childhood. She would never have been able to dance with him, in that suburban dream world where he might have gone out dancing with his wife.

“Check ignition,” Samantha sang softly, “and may God’s love be with you.”

The music started to build, swell, imitating an astronaut’s take-off, and Samantha gripped her brother’s hands tighter and broke the pattern of the waltz step, starting to spin him around, faster and faster. He stumbled over his own feet at first, hesitant, but gradually began to play along, starting to drag her along, too.

As they gasped out laughs and spun each other in circles, Samantha began to scream, and Scully smiled, too. But the tight feeling in her chest was there again.

These two weren’t the simple past, she realized. They were also the future, the future that might have been.

She reached into her peacoat, up inside her turtleneck, and felt inside for the body cam, where she had buckled it to the holster of her gun. She slipped the body cam out.

“Wait, wait. Are you going to take a picture of us?” the boy said, seeing her pull out the body cam, instantly ceasing his spinning. He held up a palm. “No, no, no. Not me dancing.”

“That’s a camera?” Samantha said, panting, out of breath. She put her arm around her brother and smiled. “Should we pose?”

“Why don’t we all three pose?” the boy said. “Is there a timer?”

“I think there might be, actually,” Scully said, looking at the buttons on top of the body cam. She looked up and down the beach. Almost no one within easy sight. “I can set it on top of that rock over there, and maybe we can give it a try.”

***

Later, when they walked in from the beach, Scully and the boy each held Samantha’s hand between them. Samantha had returned the radio but was still giggly, goofy from the dancing and spinning, tugging playfully on their arms.

It reminded Scully of walking on the beach with her nephew Matthew in San Diego. He was so small that when his pace slowed, she and her mom could lift him by his hands high in the air, swinging him a few steps forward so that he squealed in joy. Samantha was, of course, too big for this trick.

When the dunes were underfoot, Scully stopped the children and glanced back, wanting to survey the beach one more time. The athlete seemed to have stopped for the evening, gathering together his belongings and then walking off in the opposite direction. The young people weren’t even looking at them. No one else was visible.

“What are you looking for?” the boy asked.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Anything out of place.”

“The sun’s setting,” the boy pointed out, watching her. “It’ll be dark soon.”

“Yeah,” Scully nodded. “We should try to be efficient and get home quickly.”

They began back on the winding path through the dunes, letting go of each other's hands so that they could move single file. The wind had died down, so it was very quiet, only the sound of their footsteps. Scully suddenly wrinkled her nose.

“What’s wrong?” asked Samantha, glancing behind at her.

“It’s just –” Scully made a face. She lowered her voice. “I had forgotten how, in 1973, absolutely everything smells like cigarette smoke. It’s not as common to smell smoke in 1999.”

“I don’t smell anything.” Samantha sniffed.

“Where could it be coming from?” Scully said. “There’s no one else around.”

“Maybe whoever walked along the path right ahead of us smoked,” the boy suggested.

“I didn’t notice anyone,” Scully said quietly. An icy feeling crept over her. “Still. Why not let me go first?”

She stepped in front of the children on the path, and she slid her hand casually up her turtleneck past the body cam to her holstered SIG Sauer. Very carefully, she slid it out, placing it instead in the deep pocket of her peacoat. Behind her, she could feel the boy’s eyes watching this process closely.

Their walk seemed even quieter now, if that were possible. Scully tried to tell herself the smell of smoke wasn’t getting stronger.

When they were over the dunes, she looked right and left for a sign of anyone. There was nothing but an empty road lined by a wood of trees, one small squat house shaded in the trees. No people in sight. Scully released a breath.

“Nobody here,” the boy said, his own breath mid-exhale, too. “Let’s get home fast.”

But as they began to hurry down the road, Scully realized they hadn’t noticed someone leaning against a tree.

A man in a dark suit half-obscured in shadow, casually smoking a cigarette.

When Scully noticed him, she startled, instinctively grabbing hold of both of the siblings’ arms.

“Good evening, miss,” the man said. “I didn’t mean to startle you and the children. I’m just out here indulging in a cigarette before dinner.”

Scully peered at him. At his face.

And then she forced her expressions under her control. “Good evening,” she said, a tight smile flickering across her lips.

“Enjoying your time here on Martha’s Vineyard?” the man smiled pleasantly, tilting his head slightly. “Care for a smoke?”

“I am, thank you, and no, thank you.”

The man shrugged, sucking on his cigarette and smiling ever-so-slightly.

His eyes then fell on the boy, on Samantha. The Mulder children looked back at the man with identical dazed expressions. Scully gripped them both by the arm and began to pull them along with her as she walked away.

“Well, have a nice night,” the man called courteously after her, as she marched away. “Best make it home safe before dark.”

“Yes, thank you,” Scully answered, her voice high.

Her heart was beating out of her chest now. She kept walking, willing herself not to turn around and look back at him. Keep going, keep going, keep going, she told herself. There was no sense in providing him any more information, giving him any whisper of a clue more than he had.

Because Scully felt certain about three things now.

First, that man was a younger version of the smoker. In his 40s he looked troublingly like Jeffery Spender – and yes, yes, disconcertingly, a bit like Mulder, too, although she would never admit that out loud. Never.

Second, she was certain he was there to lay eyes on the Mulder siblings, and he had. What’s more, she was pretty certain, judging from the expressions on their faces, they had some vague idea who he was, too. She would have to confirm this with them later.

Third, he had been fishing for any detail about her, because he obviously had absolutely no idea who she was. Which made her an unanticipated variable. A factor he hadn’t accounted for.

For him, this would almost certainly make her an unacceptable threat. For her, it might be her only advantage.

Berkeley, California 108 Hours After Scully Vanishes 1999

The image had come in two hours ago, when everyone else had already either retreated to Hays’ office to start looking over data for tomorrow or gone home to sleep. Mulder was the only one there, in the main lab. He had been considering going back to the motel himself for a while.

But once he heard the sound of the image beginning to fill in on the screen, that went out the window. At first it looked like it might be three strangers standing side-by-side on a beach—a woman and two children, perhaps a mother and kids.

When the whole image continued to fill in, and all the detail, he could see that the picture depicted no strangers.

No. No strangers at all.

All three people in the photo were laughing and speaking, their mouths open, like the camera had caught them unaware.

Samantha’s mouth was open the widest, almost like she was shouting something, singing maybe. She looked exactly as he remembered her looking the day of her abduction. Except she was happy.

Scully was wearing a 1970s peacoat and a turtleneck that reminded him vaguely of his mother, and she was looking towards the camera. He hadn’t seen her in days. She looked beautiful. She was also smiling, her lips slightly parted, as though she were mid-sentence.

The young Fox Mulder was unmistakably, unquestionably, looking straight at Scully. It was inconceivable to Mulder that even this very young version of himself—this kid who had so little information about the world—would know enough to look at Scully. Why would he do that? What did he even know about it? What was going through his mind? Was that instinct? Was that fate?

The three of them appeared to be holding hands. Imagine that. It was fucking staggering.

This Fox Mulder, this fortunate stranger child, got to hold hands with Samantha and Scully at the same time. Within the span of a single heartbeat. Within the span of one breath.

Mulder became aware that he was crying. It was the first new photo he’d had of Samantha in 26 years.

#x files fanfic #the x files #xfiles fanfic

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