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sapphire-weapon · 9 months

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I saw how you said that you think the Leon/Ada ship has sank & I don’t know if that is true. I think Capcom will still continue with them to some extent.

The fact that people still talk about Ada and Leon to this day, 8 years after their last appearance in 2013 (not including the remakes), strongly contradicts the opinion: “It’s getting old”. (which is one of the most used arguments i hear against aeon) Their relationship is memorable and is among the most intriguing stories in RE.

I’m pretty sure Capcom is aware of their popularity as a couple and intends to keep it a mystery/ up for interpretation for a long time more. Leon is the poster boy of RE, so to finally conclude the Ada x Leon story would make his character less interesting and they wouldn’t want that.

See the Ada and Leon fan art, memes, and video edits for yourself; they need that kind of publicity for as long as they intend to keep those two relevant in the franchise. And that’ll be a long time because Ada Wong and Leon S. Kennedy are iconic names in the video game world.

RE is doing different things too now with new characters and all, so probably when the new set of characters become the new hot deal. They’ll finally put an end to the “will they will they not”.

Oh god, Aeon fandom is here.

So uh. A few things.

People talk about old shit all the time. Dudebros still have the "Asuka or Rei?" argument. FF7 fandom is somehow still debating CloTi vs Clerith, despite CloTi basically becoming canon with Advent Children in 2005. People still ship Goku and Bulma, for god's sake. I don't understand what "people still talk about it" has to do with... literally anything. At all.

Leon is not the poster boy of RE. Chris is. If you think that Leon is the poster boy of RE, you are wildly out of touch with the wider gaming community.

Springboarding off the above two points, shipping/fanart/fanfic fandom plays a very tiny role in influencing future game development. Capcom isn't listening to shippers. Capcom is listening to YT content creators and streamers and games journalists and maybe they'll read a thread on ResetEra here and there -- because those are the people who sell their products. And those people are predominantly the ones who are sick of the Aeon melodrama and hated what RE6 did to Leon's character.

Ada's name is not iconic in the video game world. At all. AT ALL. Not a single person who doesn't play Resident Evil knows who the fuck Ada Wong is. She's not Sephiroth or Master Chief or Nathan Drake or Lara Croft or Bayonetta. She's not even Jill Valentine. Hell, even Leon's name was only iconic up until about 2010 when Chris took back over and then RE6 shit the bed. When RE4 was a cultural phenomenon, people knew who Leon was. It's been eighteen years. They don't anymore. They know Chris and Jill, if they know anyone from RE at all. And Lady D. Because of course they know Lady D. If you're having trouble discerning who in the video game world is iconic and who's not: ain't nobody on the goddamn planet was clamoring for Ada (or Leon, for that matter) to be in Smash Bros.

Capcom clearly disagrees with your assertion that not having Ada in Leon's story makes him less interesting, considering that the last three original RE storylines that they released with him in it (Vendetta, ID, and DI) didn't feature or mention her at all. If Leon and Ada never met again after RE6, I don't think a single person outside of Aeon and/or wider shipping fandom would even notice.

There's not much time left for Capcom to "keep the mystery going." Leon turned 46 this year. By the time RE9 comes out, he'll be 48. Ada will be 50. How many more titles do you realistically think those two have left in them? RE9 will probably be the finale for most of the legacy cast, if not all of them. And not a single piece of supplementary canon (lookin at you, CGI movies) leading up to RE9 has been setting up Leon and Ada's relationship to be a thing that's going to be addressed at all. The conclusion of Leon's story is going to deal with his relationship with the government -- because that is the thing that's actually fueling his character arc; not Ada.

If Capcom was truly still interested in pursuing a romantic angle between Leon and Ada, then why did the Remakes turn out the way that they did? Why remove the declaration of love? Why have Leon hold Ada at gunpoint and say he never trusted her? Why create such a hostile, antagonistic dynamic between them in RE4make? Why set up Wesker to be at the heart of Ada's character arc this time around instead of Leon?

I just. I appreciate the cordial tone of your ask. I do. I recognize and appreciate the fact that you seemingly did not come here to pick a fight. And I don't want to fight with you guys, either.

But I need you guys to actually get in touch with the reality that is the games industry and understand that, despite women actually being in the majority in terms of the statistical numbers of video game players, video game publishers still largely listen to male voices in the fanbase -- because those are the people who generally tend to make it big as streamers, content creators, and journalists.

I need you guys to play video games other than Resident Evil and gain some perspective on how insignificant your ship actually is. EagleOne fandom is very self-aware about the fact that our ship, despite having a canonical romantic angle in RE4make, is never going to be pursued outside of the one title that it's featured, because it isn't important and it doesn't fucking matter. We are waiting for our Aeon brothers and sisters in Christ to join us in the self-awareness that is the fact that ships are not what sell Resident Evil games. Aeon isn't moving units -- and was, in fact, one of the contributing factors to RE6 being deemed a failure. People don't play RE for the romance. They play RE for spooky atmospheres in which they can make badass characters do sick wrestling moves on giant fucking monsters and blow shit up with rocket launchers, and if anything gets in the way of that (like Aeon kind of did in RE6), the wider fanbase wants it removed.

But what I really need you guys to do is just... let it go and let people have fun on their own time and in their own spaces. Aren't you tired? All you do is invade other people's Twitter accounts or TikToks or Reddit posts or Tumblr ask boxes (hi) and try to push some Aeon agenda that no one outside of Aeon fandom cares about. You look like out of touch boomers just clinging to the good old days. You do.

And this is coming from the queen out of touch boomers. I am basically the embodiment of the "how do you do, fellow kids?" meme, and even I'm like "you guys need to live in the now."

Like, be honest, man. Did you really think that coming into my ask box -- me, of all people in this damn fandom -- and simply stating "um actually Aeon is super important" was going to make me go "you know what, anon, you're right, and I'm stupid for not seeing it sooner"?

Come on.

I just want you guys to be better than this. I'm tired. I'm exhausted. I don't wanna fight about this anymore or ever again. I'm here to analyze the story as it's written while taking into account wider game industry trends and practices and also provide shipping content as it pops up within the text that I'm analyzing, and that is it.

If you wanna talk about actual scripting and cinematography and the intended themes and messages of the Remakes and shit like that, I'm more than happy to have that back-and-forth with you. In fact, I would love that. I become a better analyst and critic by having those discussions with people who disagree with me.

But this? This ask?

I can't do a goddamn thing with this.

#and now im going to bed #it is so far beyond my bedtime holy shit

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ethicaltreatmentofcowplants · 7 months

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When last we left Lilac, she had just moved to StrangerVille and was experiencing all the unusual goings-on there. Considering how odd a 'normal' Sim acts, we're quite frankly unsurprised that this phenomena been unremarked upon for so long.

Oh, and she's now eating for two...

Since I figured that a pregnant Sim wouldn't be unalived by the Mother, I sent Lilac to town to investigate - and basically talk to anyone who wasn't acting weird (well, for Sim autonomy standards anyway). Well, I don't know for sure that an expectant Sim would be safe, but that was a risk that I was willing to take.

LILAC: WELL GEE, THANKS HAYLEY: (THIS ISN'T ABOUT YOU) JUST ROLL WITH IT AND GO TALK TO THE SILVER FOX NEXT TO THAT CRASHED PLANE

First stop was George Cahill. Lilac wondered if his plane, Penelope, was a reference to the Iliad, but thought it better not to ask.

LILAC: SO PEOPLE ARE STRANGE, WHEN YOU'RE A STRANGER ♫ GEORGE: WHEN YOU'RE NOT A STRANGER, TOO LILAC: WHAT'S WITH THEM SAYING STUFF LIKE 'SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS - LET ME TELL YOU HOW MUCH I LOVE FRUITCAKE!!!' IS THAT A SYMPTOM OF WHATEVER THIS IS? GEORGE: NOPE, THAT'S JUST REGULAR OLE SIM GAMEPLAY MECHANICS FOR YA. REALLY THOUGH, CAN'T STAND THE STUFF MYSELF...

We then sighted this very official looking piece of officialdom, and flagged him down for a chat.

He had the 'FLIRTY' moodlet the entire time he spoke with Lilac, but did helpfully warn her not to go too close to the unusual flora about.

LILAC: (I ALREADY TOOK A PHOTO OF ONE, BUT I'M GOING TO PRETEND THAT I KNOW ABSOLUTELY NOTHING ABOUT HOW SPORES WORK. AND THAT I'VE NEVER SEEN 'THE LAST OF US' )

Then of course, we had to make a pit stop in with this guy.

HAYLEY: .... HAYLEY: WELL, HE'S PROBABLY A BETTER SOURCE THAN FOX NEWS... LILAC: HAYLEY, MY GRANDFATHER'S LATEST HAEMORRHOID IS PROBABLY A BETTER SOURCE THAN FOX NEWS. RAISE THE BAR JUST A LITTLE, WILL YOU? HAYLEY: I CAN'T. MY BACK'S TOO SORE TO PICK IT UP FROM WHERE WE LEFT IT LYING ON THE GROUND EARLIER

He was actually pretty nice, mostly because he was trying to sell Lilac stuff (though he did give her a discount, perhaps for similar reasons to why Beardo from earlier wanted to keep on talking to her). Because I'm the one bankrolling it, she bought a few books and posters in the hopes of finding out something useful.

And that was all for StrangerVille. Lilac however has a challenge within a challenge, so we went to spend the evening in yet another locale with a secret (awoo 🐺)

#my sims #lilac moon #sims 4 gameplay #sims 4 challenge #strangerville playthrough #strangerville story #mythical strangerville #mythical family challenge #strangerville

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effigistkim · 5 months

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Why I trace some pictures

First off I have a basic fine arts degree and have been doing what I'd consider serious art since the early 90s. I also had a job with down time where I could occupy myself as long as it didn't make noise (I couldn't wear headphones either) and I could put it in my purse and take off at a moment's notice. So made the decision to draw and my default size became around 6x9" because that was all the bigger of a sketchbook I could carry.

I am late when it comes to tracing mostly because I didn't even own a projector until about 5 years ago. You can tape a piece of paper to your computer screen but not a bound book.

My basic stance on tracing other people's art work is this- It's okay once in awhile to help you learn, copying the old masters was a part of the game, as long as you credit the original artist and aren't making a profit. If it's not yours don't sell it.

Now to get in to why I trace reference photographs.

All glory to freehand Hypno-Teddy, I'm certainly familiar with the image, still have the poster, it's a perfectly fine piece. But...

What if I want to compare art supplies by doing the same picture over and over?

Tracing is going to save me a lot of heart ache.

What if it's a complicated as fuck picture?

I think I posted the photo with the photographer's mark before with several other black and white ones.

Another thing I suck at is group shots. For the love of art I can't get the people in the right place in relation to each other.

Also the size thing. I don't have much experience or muscle memory yet for things bigger than, say, A5, but I will.

And when I do a tracing I prefer to do as little as possible so I can train myself to work it out freehand.

Also I survived a traumatic brain injury when I was 19 and I don't know how the hell I manage to make art at all when I can't "see" well enough to drive or handle plutonium (the signals between my eyes and brain are messed up).

But I do know that I don't take commissions.

#art #tracing

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urban-orc · 11 months

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No answers, just anguish

I don't know exactly where in the way I got from been a 19 years old freak, with zero respect to the status quo and showing my conceptual art in vernissages or the street

to become so mentally fucked to stop making art almost at all because I think everything I do horrible.

But it happened. And I have some insights about different things that brought me to this.

First is, the last time I was called to participate in the local art circuit was during my pregnancy - because they didn't knew about it. At that time, I still presented myself as a woman, and mothers are automatically considered things that don't create.

I remember that last vernissage, and how people treated me differently when I was with my son, 50 days old, or without him.

Quite contrary, the literature gang embraced me, my kid, and whatever I did (and when I got out of the trans closet, they again was the first to embrace and rejoice, and accept me as the man I I always was). Sounded pretty logical to focus on the writing part of myself. I still did fanzines with graphic stuff, mixing drawings, collage and writing, for a while.

Other thing was the internet. No one is guilt of it, but this is a place where, for most of its history, only illustration or figurative painting got friction. Rarely sculpture, because only classic sculpture was not treated as "craft" in a pejorative way. People in the internet are still having the stupid arguments about what is art or not that the dadaism discussed more than a century ago.

And I'm awful at traditional art. I mean, I did a lot of traditional art, but woodprint and woodcut was "minor art forms", made by common people. Embroidery too. Collage is frowned upon too much, even more when shit got digital. I'm not a traditional painter, and I'm not a drawing master or illustrator.

Social class is a important thing here: after college, I had to choose, because money and time: improving drawing skills, or improving writing skills - and the second was mostly inexpensive for several factors. I missed the drawing classes, I still miss don't having them, because there is so much I can do alone, and I was at a point where someone pointing me ways was the only way to go.

But my college teachers always said that I had what is needed to make art. I knew sufficient technics to send my message, a solid research, I knew how to provoke and to touch. Art is this, much more than been just technically sound, it needs to bring comfort and discomfort, and provoke reaction.

I know all of it in a rational way (Geez, I was an art teacher for 13 years). But I don't feel like anything I can do will be relevant, because it's not illustration.

And in the webs, that is the social accepted art form. Things are getting better today, but remember I'm in this place since 96. I follow brutalist sculptors on Instagram, something that was unthinkable 20 years ago. And even today, most of the things that are not painting or illustration, are framed by the internet as craft DIY, not art pieces. Art dolls, sculpting, embroidery, printing.

Printing on t shirts to sell is great, but I want to cover a wall with dramatic shit made in 5x5 cm tacos about the experience of been othered by society. (in this case, taco is a kind of wood piece of hardwood floor, reclaimed to make woodprint)

What brings the third reason I stopped making art. Art projects are expensive. If you don't have where to show it, you don't have money to make it. But if don't have exhibitions, you cannot get a sponsorship to make other exhibitions.

I did a lot of street art because it was a way to handle this vicious circle. Not ideal, but I could make lambe-lambe, and been seen.

(lambe lambe its called wheatpaste poster in english, but I dont think its an exact translation of the cultural meaning)

But then... Chronic pain and fatigue, and there is not a single chance I will spent the dead hours of the night walking and pasting posters, with the eventual "run like hell" moment from security or cops. I just cant do it anymore, my body just collapse if I try.

I must say that as an anarchist devoted to direct action, nothing is worst than knowing I cant do it anymore. My street art was heavily political after all. Well, to me, all art is political, in a way or another. There is no neutrality, even a still-life have a political background.

I digress. But how I said. No answers, just too much anguish.

#art #making art #Slice of life #Late capitalism #identity crisis

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unsolvedrubixscube · 1 year

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Don't Let Me Get Me

Ch 9 All the Things I Couldn't Say

Sasha strolls up the sidewalk towards the studio at the perfectly reasonable hour of eight o'clock in the morning enjoying the brisk air. The last signs of the freak cold front that had washed over LA had completely vanished and the weather had returned to its overly warm self.

Three flashes going off in quick succession made Sasha’s head snap around in time to see a man, his face covered by sunglasses and a scarf, duck behind a parked car when she turns. She catches a glimpse of his camera before he gets it completely out of view. Paparazzi , Sasha identifies, unlocking the door to the studio and stepping inside.

That one is a bit late on the uptake considering it’s been two months since the leak. He’s not going to get any good pics of her crying or screaming now. The album that Bog tried to sabotage is done and ready to be released but there’s no way the cameraman could have known that. Not even Marcy or Boonchuy knows she’s planning on making the album live today. Sasha drums her fingers on her arm thinking. She wonders if something else happened this morning. Maybe the mega pastor called her a demon spawn again.

Sasha says good morning to Percy, Fen, and Toadie and actually means it as she makes her way through the tiny studio. Amazing what sleeping for forty-eight hours could. Finding Marcy working on her laptop on the breakroom’s very ugly plaid couch Sasha plops down beside her. Marcy jumps revealing how deep in concentration she was. Sasha snickers.

“Morning, nerd,” Sasha greets and hands her a pastry bag.

“Scaring people is rude, Sasha,” Marcy chides, opening the bag and pulling out a croissant.

Marcy lights up as she bites into the croissant and discovers the chocolate center. Then a look of panic appears on her face and she starts fanning her mouth. “Ah! Hot! Hot!”

Sasha laughs again, tearing off a piece of her own croissant and washing it down with a drink of protein shake. The door creaks open and Anne steps in. She takes in the scene, sighs, and hands Marcy her water bottle before taking her own pastry bag. Marcy gups down the water and gasps in relief. Anne seats herself on the other side of Marcy.

“There’s a dude hiding out by the building taking pictures.” Anne says chewing then she makes a puzzled expression and exclaims, “Ooo! Chocolate!”

“Paparazzi,” Sasha confirms, “Just cover your face and ignore him. They’ll be trying to get a cheap shot of me looking stupid to sell to the tabloids.”

Anne frowns but doesn’t argue.

“Anyways,” Sasha says, “Photos came back so we have everything we need to launch the album. I’d like to aim for the end of this week.”

“Really! They’re done?” Marcy asks, vibrating in her seat. “So it’s time to pick the cover art?”

“Yep, just sent everything over to you.”

Marcy opens her email and finds the various files from Sasha. Within seconds a number of photographs fill the screen. The first section is profile pictures of everyone for the website. Simple shots with white backgrounds focused on capturing the professionally dressed head and neck of whoever is in the frame. Percy and Boonchuy are smiling in their shots, Sasha looks bored, Bog menacing, while Marcy looks like she'd swallowed something sour but is still trying to smile.

Then comes the bright pink banners and posters for the band; energetic shots of Sasha and her bandmates with their instruments in the middle of jumping, smashing, or kicking the surroundings. For someone who knows how to look for it, it’s painfully obvious someone else had been on the bass before Marcy had been added in over them but it’s the best the photography studio could do on such short notice. Rumors will fly when someone finally catches it but it will have to do.

Lastly are the contenders for the album cover. A handful of purely artistic shots of Sasha’s electric guitar, a mic stand holding a knife, and spike-covered platform boots but the real final contenders are all shots of her crouching over the camera in a very revealing outfit.

Sasha’s barely wearing a tiny pair of jean shorts, she’s not wearing a shirt, and she’s got two push-up bras underneath the sports bra she’s aiming at the camera like a weapon. The triple bra had been uncomfortable as hell but sports bras make her flatter than a pancake so sacrifices had to be made. She’s also holding the camera at knifepoint with the expression that says she will cut you. The overall effect is sexy but fierce which is better than she normally gets so she’s pleased with it.

As the Will Cut You photo slides into view Marcy makes a choking noise while Anne sighs, again. Sasha glances over in time to see Marcy’s face trying to make several expressions at once. She feels kinda bad for springing this on Marcy. She didn’t even think to ask if Marcy was comfortable with more risque images.

“Sashaaa,” Anne groans, throwing her head back, “We talked about this. You are a role model for hundreds of thousands of little girls-”

“A position I never asked for,” Sasha snaps, “Besides, you know as well as I do, using one of these images for my album will double if not triple sales.”

“Using provocative art is a solid marketing technique,” Marcy adds, recovered enough to shift into nerd mode. “It’s eye-catching and appeals to the viewers’ base instincts creating a lasting impression.”

“Horney tax,” Sasha adds nodding in agreement.

“Fine, I get it,” Anne says with a shake of her head, “Profit is king, right? Let's just move on and figure out the fonts and cropping.”

Sasha feels the argument she had prepared die in her throat as the conversation moves on and Marcy places the various photos on a website template. Anne is strictly professional for the rest of the impromptu meeting and despite the huge success of putting the final touches on her album Sasha can’t help but feel she just missed something important.

***

Sasha lounges on her couch scrolling through the various spam, hate mail, and totally legal offers cluttering up her inboxes public and private. Behind her, Grime has taken over her apartment’s kitchen determined to make a fantastic steak dinner even without a grill insight. They are also celebrating the launch of her album but Sasha opened her big mouth and now Grime has a point to prove.

With a swipe, she deletes two messages without even opening them; a far too detailed sexual fantasy staring at her and a rant from some lady about her being pro-vaccination. Sasha is totally pro-vaccination but she can’t recall ever speaking publicly about it so she had no idea what this lady is on about. God, she can’t wait until she can hire people to filter her mail again.

The next email is actually important, a reply from Bog’s legal representative. Bog, or more likely Bog’s lawyer, had accepted Sasha’s offer to settle the affair out of court, agreeing to forfeit Bog’s earnings from the album and stay far away from all of Sasha’s future projects in exchange for Sasha keeping quiet. No one would want to hire an upstart with a history of sabotage no matter their musical skills. She’s a little sad Bog is actually being smart about this but what she gets out of the agreement is more than enough compensation.

Bog agreed to reveal if any outside parties influenced his decision to leak her album. Turns out there was. Bog had been contacted by a Levithan Label’s rep who offered to pay him a lot of money to derail Sasha’s project. Oh, the rep tried to hide it and the label’s name never came up but Bog was confident and the money trail supported his suspicions.

The rep was low enough on the totem pole that the company could claim he was working independently without upper’s knowledge or approval but the fact that the rep had been fired soon after the money was in Bog’s account was telling.

Sasha toys with the idea that Marcy might have been involved in the scheme but quickly dismisses it. Marcy just wasn’t that good of an actor and if she had wanted Sasha to fail she could have just bailed instead of helping. It was simpler and more likely that being unable to stop Sasha or Marcy Mr. Leviathan moved to target the album itself.

Her mother’s warning about Sasha not having what it takes to make it own her own and that she’d see just how much she shielded Sasha from drifts out of her memories.

Sasha scowls. Like she’d been the one needing protection when she gave that boy-band-wanna-be a black eye at thirteen for kissing her and exposed her sound director plagiarizing his work at sixteen. She’s always been a menace and it was high time the world knew it.

The next email is from a real address and has actual words in the subject line. It’s an invitation to her as a “rising star” to the upcoming Nighthawk Gala being held this spring. Nighthawk events are fancy parties for the who’s who of the American Pop Artist scene, giving them a chance to show off their success on camera and promote their next big project.

Getting an invite before her first album is even released is a big deal. It is also suspicious as hell. At least she knows why the photographer was hanging outside the studio.

Her musings are interrupted by Grime popping his head over the back of the couch and exclaiming in a very bad French accent, “Le madame’s dinner is served.”

Grime frowns down at her and says in his normal voice, “Sasha, get your shoes off the couch.”

“It’s my couch,” Sasha complains, dragging herself into a sitting position.

“You should treat your furniture with more respect,” Grime says, guiding her to the table.

“It’s a Ted’s List second-hand couch that already has stains on it. It’s not even pleather.”

Sasha slumps over her kitchen table swiping through her private email deleting junk and totally legal offers cluttering up her inbox. Across from her Grime sits crouched over his laptop probably working on something boring, like taxes.

“I need a stage name,” Sasha says

“Why?”

Because she can barely handle being called Ms. Waybright by the few people she is working with right now. Several thousand would cause her to murder somebody.

“Rebranding. Also to be cool.”

Grime grunts.

“Come ooooonnn, I need help choosing a good one. What about Bitch?”

Grime looks up. “Like the swear word?”

“Yeah, people are going to call me that anyways might as well own it.”

“The radio would have to censor it every time.”

Sasha rolls her eyes. “Well, then I’ll censor it myself and replace the I with an astrict.”

“Then they’d have to spell it every time or call you the B word.”

Sasha frowns.

“Besides, people would be weird about it.”

She sighs knowing Grime is right.

“What about Silvertongue?”

“That’s too long, besides it belongs in a fantasy novel.

“Lioness?”

“You're setting yourself up to be called the Cougar in a few decades.”

Sasha gives Grime a flat look. “That’s not helpful.”

“The Sharp?”

“Sharp what?”

“No, it's a music term.” Sasha sighs. “Forget it.”

Drumming her fingers on the table Sasha grumbles to herself trying to think of something not terrible. Some of her growing fringes droop down tickling her eyelashes. She combs it out of the way using her fingers. She needs to get her hair styled and re-dyed before she goes back into the public eye. Pausing, she stares at the bright pink strands in her fingers.

“What about pink?”

“Pink?”

“Yeah, pink, like the color.”

She likes it, simple, short, nothing obviously problematic.

“I still gotta make it cool,” Sasha muses. “Add a symbol or something like an exclamation point at the end like Shout!AtTheParty.”

Grabbing one of Grime's documents she flips it over and scrawls the word a few times. It doesn’t look quite right. Then she replaces the I with the exclamation point.

P!nk

Short, unique, and most importantly marketable.

Sasha grins.

***

Her album, her full album, goes live and Sasha buries herself in a mound of blankets with her laptop and a cup of spiked hot chocolate and stares. Sasha stares at the mostly white webpage accented with crisp letters and sharp corners of her bank account, watching the row of little red numbers as the seconds tick by. Watching as she refreshes the page over fifteen times in a minute. Watching as the little screen says she’s been inactive too long she will soon be logged out pops up. Watching as deposits come in, a scant few at first, then clusters, then dozens, then overwhelming waves. Watches as the little red numbers shrink a few digits and the tightness in her chest loosens a few notches.

Her album sells well, extremely well, hitting a million downloads within hours of the official release and Top of Pop in a matter of days. The sudden appearance and then removal of her first eight songs had thrown the music world into a frenzy and the magic word ‘free’ had spread her name further than she could have ever with paid marketing.

Censored , based on a beat designed to get stuck in one’s skull and full of forbidden words, becomes her top seller with the Fuck You Trilogy and All the Things I Couldn’t Say tailing closely behind. Sasha’s prayers that ATTICS would die a quiet death being too sad to be punk and too deep to be pop go unanswered.

To celebrate (and capitalize) on Censored’s success she makes an official music video. It’s nothing fancy, she and her band in a reputable video studio rocking out on a white backdrop in silly costumes. Percy arrives in a generic medieval jester's costume complete with a floppy hat with bells. Fen shows up in a black tee over black long sleeves, ripped black jeans, converses colored in by a marker (black) and topped off by so much eyeliner she looks like a raccoon. Marcy dresses up as an astronaut, the white fluffy suit and bubble helmet so precise Sasha wouldn’t be surprised if it was actually space worthy. Sasha is just as unsurprised that Marcy’s helmet is reflective and hides every inch of her face. Sasha comes in what she’s dubbed her Viking outfit. An absolutely not historically accurate combination of various impulse buys (leather skirt, red motorcycle boots, cape, spiked belt, and crimson scalemail) that make her feel like a Viking even if she doesn’t actually look it.

The cameras roll and they “play” their way through the song interspersed with various stunts to keep the video interesting. Percy pulls out some bean bags and manages to juggle three of them long enough to be caught on camera. Marcy initiates a wiggly impromptu dance party in the middle of the set. Fen produces a skateboard from somewhere and does a few kickflips, nearly taking out a light. Not to be outdone, Sasha does some of the kick routine she learned for Staying Popular’s cheer episodes and drops into a front split. She may or may not have immediately regretted this action.

It’s childish, it’s dumb, and everyone ends up with new scrapes and bruises, but it’s unmistakably fun.

It’s also the last project her current team tackles together. With the launch of Sasha's album also comes the end of contracts, a good number of her technicians, publistics, and musicians all choose to check out, including some Sasha knows well at this point. Fen opts to take her cut and leave. There’s no yelling or dramatic standoff this time, the keyboard player simply decides the rapid highs and lows of such a tremulous job isn’t for her. She heads off, amidst awkward well wishes and a Mexican lunch party Sasha foots the bill for.

But Fen won’t be the last to leave either and while Sasha worked very well with Marcy that’s no guarantee that they’ll be able to collaborate again. Marcy’s inbox has been flooded with requests for collaborations and commissions since the album’s official launch, to Marcy’s utter shock. Sasha had suspected that Levithan had been sitting on Marcy, hiding her name under the generic moniker of Levithan writer , using her only with internal artists. Sasha, on the other hand, had made sure Marcy’s name was plastered all over her album and marketing material, where it deserved to be.

Marcy is excited by all the attention, stressed but excited. Sasha has no doubt that she’ll get over her fears soon enough and have ample patrons to pursue whatever projects she wants, which probably won’t include her. It’s also clear that Anne will also be stepping away soon now that Sasha’s new career is clearly no longer on the brink of imploding. Which means if Sasha is going to do this she’s going to have to do it now.

Sasha reminds herself of this fact over and over as she marches through her tiny studio now cluttered with moving boxes and cleaning supplies until she reaches the office that Marcy had slowly taken over. The door is slightly ajar so that she can hear bits of a soft conversation between Marcy and Anne from inside.

Sasha realizes she’s stalling and swears at herself. God damn it, she’s going to do something nice for once in her life. Forcing down nerves, Sasha pushes the door open wide.

“Sasha!” Marcy says, a broad smile breaking across her face. Sasha can’t help but to smile back.

Anne looks up from her laptop, grins, and waves her in. There’s no hidden frustration or suspicion in the movement which is a nice change. Sasha steps in and closes the door behind her.

“What are you doing back here?” Marcy asks from where she’s sprawled over one of the arms of one of the cheap office chairs in a way that can not be comfortable. “I thought your office was all packed up? I didn’t forget to give you the hard copies of the recording, didn't I?

“Chill Marce, I got everything,” Sasha assures her. “Actually, I stopped by because I have something I needed to give you guys.”

“Oooh!” Marcy sits upright. “A gift?”

“Lunch?” Anne asks hopefully.

Sasha ignores how her heart rate kicks up a notch at Marcy’s guess.

“No, uh, it’s something specifically for you two, not the office.” Sasha takes a deep breath and is glad she practiced this little speech.“The album would have never gone this well without you two. Hell, it probably would have never happened. You’ve both been invaluable, and I wanted to properly thank you for that.”

She pulls the envelope and single ticket out of her purse and hands the first to Marcy and the second to Anne. Marcy starts tearing into the envelope after a nod of encouragement from Sasha while Anne puzzles over the ticket in her hand, reading it.

“Around two weeks ago I was invited to the Nighthawk Spring Gala. I accepted. Marcy, as a member of the band you were officially invited as well. Anne, I’m giving you my guest ticket.”

Anne looks up at her, still confused. “But that was before the album launched. Why would they invite you before they knew if it was a success?”

“Oh,” Sasha shrugs, “because of the leak I’m a hot topic, if my album did well it would be a major faux pas not to invite me. But if I flopped I’d have to show up to save face and the gala would have someone to point and laugh at.”

Anne frowns at that.

“I had to go to a lot of events like this with Andrias when I was a teen,” Marcy says, running her thumb over the glossy black and gold cardstock, her expression melancholy.

Shit. Sasha didn’t even consider that Anne or Marcy might not want to go to a gala.

“You don’t have to go,” Sasha rushes to say, “I know you can get a good chunk of change for the tickets on the internet, and even if you do go it doesn't have to go with me. But I would like you too! That’s what I'm doing. I’m inviting you to go with me.”

Sasha shuts up before she can say anything else.

“Oh,” Anne says, blinking down at the ticket like she’s seeing it in a new light.

“That could be fun,” Marcy says slowly. “To have someone to gossip and judge the crazy outfits with.”

“It’s no fun to judge alone,” Sasha agrees.

“You know,” Anne starts, “when I was a kid I always wanted to go to one of those big balls that you saw in the movies, with all the lights and dresses and dance numbers.” She gives them a hesitant smile. “This would be pretty close.”

“The event itself is going to be really shallow,” Sasha warns.

“But pretty?” Anne asks.

“But pretty,” Sasha agrees, ignoring the hope rising in her chest. “So you’ll come?”

Marcy and Anne look at each other. Marcy shrugs, Anne smiles.

“Yeah,” Anne says

“Yeah?” Sasha repeats.

“Yeah!” Marcy cheers.

***

Fen dressed up as her high school Goth self. Sasha is dressed up in her Amphibia armor.

#amphibia au #DLMGM AU #Don't Let Me Get Me AU #amphibia fanfic #my writing #sasha waybright #marcy wu #anne boonchuy

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navstuffs · 2 years

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Imagine finding this while dating Robert Pattinson

Pairing: Robert Pattinson x gn!reader

Warning: none, kinda crack fanfic

Authors note: while working on my requests i saw THIS and i couldnt let it go!! i had to write! for ppl who have requested for fanfics i havent forgotten ANY of them!!!!

You definitely had too much Robert's stuff. You considered yourself his biggest fan and together with his family kept a lot about his career: magazine covers, journals, posters from his movies, everything related to your relationship with Robert. You wonder if you shouldn't sell that box online, anonymous of course, so you could get some money when a piece of a magazine calls your attention.

You never noticed before, probably because belonged to his family's records. While your eyes scan through it you hold back a laugh.

"What is this?" You whisper, looking over your shoulder as if discovering a forbidden secret from your boyfriend.

How come you were only seeing that right now? You knew why Robert wouldn't show you. It is not something he was probably proud of. This was your opportunity to pay back all his teasing when your teenage diary was revealed to the world and your teenage crush for him was all he could talk about for weeks. You look for him around the house, hiding the article behind your back, an idea popping in your head. Time for payback.

You finally find your boyfriend sitting down on the floor near the living room's sofa. His blonde hair all pulled back as he had been messing with it so many times, his blue eyes' attention on a book. You approach him, sitting at his side. You put a hand on his shoulder, making Robert look at you. He smiles but it fades away when he notices your mischievous smirk.

"Love?"

"So, Rob, we never talked about your teenage years. It interests me to know your dating history from that time and alllll your pick-up lines."

"Why do you want to know that now, love?" Robert asks, his eyes suspicious. You with sudden questions never meant anything good for him. Especially with that malicious smile.

"Oh, nothing. I was just looking through some stuff and I found THIS!" You scream the last part, bringing the article to his face, a victorious smile on your face.

His eyes scanned through the article and you realized your boyfriend was mortified. Rob never thought he would see that embarrassing thing ever again and there you were wiggling like a prize. He looked so awful in that picture. Jeez, his teenage eyebrows time. His pink cheekbones.

"What can I say? Everyone had a cringy teenage period, babe."

"Do you believe in love at first sight, or shall I walk past again?" You attempt copying his voice, putting your hands on your hips, puffing your chest. Robert rolls his eyes, looking back to his book but you squeeze his shoulder, calling his attention again.

"Come on, Rob darling, don't be so tense. I love DJing, as well. Do you want remix in me?" You wink in his direction, the flirty smile still on your lips.

Robert chuckles, hiding his mouth with his hands. He knew this was all payback from teasing you for having a crush on him since Harry Potter's years. He didn't mind. He loved silly you the most. But two could play this game.

"Love, you shouldn't play with DJs like that. Don't you know we are very good with our fingers?" Robert provokes, his voice full of malice, getting you by surprise.

"Ohhh." You sit on his lap, throwing your arms around his neck. Before you can kiss him, he places his hand in front of your mouth, whispering:

"I believe in love at first sight. The same way you fell in love with me when I was Cedric Diggory…"

"Oh, come on Rob. Not fair" You roll your eyes. Robert tries to hold back a laugh but can't when he sees your outraged face.

"You know I'm joking, darling. This is way worse." Roberts speaks, pointing at the article in your hand.

"Worse than Edward Cullen? Kidding, kidding!" You tease, getting a surprised look from him. "But you look so cute in that picture. Fifteen-year-old Robert Pattinson is very cute. But I prefer you now, of course."

"Please. You wouldn't look at me when I was a teenager. Did you see that face? Uggghhh!"

"I will still keep this" You put it inside your pants pocket. "Besides what were you saying about DJs and their fingers?"

Robert chuckles. He knew you wouldn't let go off that easy so he didn't have a choice. Getting up with you in his arms and deciding to mock you one last time, he exclaims loudly:

"DJ ROBERT IN THE HOUSE!"

"Oh come on, Rob!"

Taglist: @uwiuwi

MASTERLIST | TAGLIST

#robert pattinson x reader #robert pattinson x you #robert pattinson x y/n #robert pattinson #robert pattinson fanfics #robert pattinson fics #robert pattinson imagine #rob pattinson #IM SO HAPPY I FINALLY GOT SILLY ROBERT OUT #cause we all know he silly/insane asf #my fanfics are getting more cray cray as time passes

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derl30 · 3 years

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ALTERED STATES REVIEW TIME!

OK, this tumblr is, today, a vehicle for me to review ALTERED STATES. And you (the one person who stumbled on this review two-hundred years from n- oh who am I kidding, when the aliens from A.I. who show up to thaw out Haley Joel Osment and the teddy bear who was the real hero of that movie find this) should be very excited about this. Because this movie is insane. And highly entertaining.

Yes, the movie poster looks like ass. If I told you this was a movie where William Hurt (not the William Hurt from that awful 90's Lost in Space remake, or the one who slept through an entire performance as Duke Leto in the Syfy miniseries of Dune. This is before the body snatchers got him) took ayahuasca and got in a isolation tank and it blew his mind so hard he started devolving into a neanderthal and creating dimensional portals and he couldn't stop because he was addicted to finding the truth of existence... Well you wouldn't get that from this poster, would you? So let's move on. Shall we?

The film opens in 1967 with William Hurt's character, psychopathologist Edward Jessup, already immersed in a sensory deprivation tank, whilst his colleague and “buddy” Bob Balaban (he's just Bob Balaban in everything I'm not giving you his character's name look it up yourself if it's bugging you so much) oversees.

Now, you may notice I put buddy in quotes. The reason for that is that Jessup is a self-obsessed ass who seemingly has no reason to be around other people unless he can expound to them one of his various monologues. Bob Balaban barely gets a word in edgewise throughout the entire film. Bob Balaban.

See, Jessup loves the sensory deprivation tank experience. Unsurprisingly, as it allows him to be completely alone with himself for hours.

Later, at perhaps the lamest party ever, a bunch of faculty are chilling out and listening to the Doors. Everyone we see is talking about Jessup. Why? Well, much as Jessup is obsessed with himself, everyone else seems to follow suit by being obsessed with him. One young woman, Emily, (Blair Brown) is introduced to him in this very shot below as he arrives at the party:

Notice how is framed in holy light? There is a closeup after, of him framed in blinding glowing light followed up with a zoom in on Emily's face, enraptured with this incredible dynamic man. So much so that the moment he tries to make a goddamn sandwich she starts grabbing his celery (get your mind out of the gutter) and flirting with him. Which for these two that means talking science, immediately. Talking more at each other than with each other. This is often the way with Paddy Chayefsky's scripts.

PAUSE

Paddy Chayefsky is doubtless one of the great American writers for the screen. He wrote Marty, The Hospital and Network (which is a fucking incredible piece of work). He got an Oscar for all three. He also wrote this movie (Altered States, remember? Good lord) and disowned it completely three weeks in to production. His scripts tend to have very intelligent, driven characters at the center, who monologue extensively at each other. These scripts are not attempting to sound naturalistic.

Ken Russell, however, directed the film. He, like Chayefsky, is top notch at what he does (Direct. I said he directed the film like a second ago, come on keep up). His films, like Women in Love, The Devils, (which was banned in several major countries upon release and has never been shown publicly in its full, uncut form (by the way it's a masterpiece)) the Who's Tommy, Gothic, and Lair of the White Worm are all fucking gonzo nuts. I mean like, when you gave this guy the reins, you were going to Overthetopsville and there will be no stops on this trip. And god bless! I love directors who GO for it!

You're getting the chance to make a movie. Stop hemming and hawing and hit me over the head with what you want to say! Film is a visual medium, USE IT!

I feel I might have made my feelings clear here. So, moving on...

Ken Russell and Paddy Chayefsky immediately started butting heads, right from the start. Chayefsky was a BIG deal, and he wanted control over the picture in a BIG way. Ken would listen to his suggestions on everything to lighting and set dressing, and politely tell him, “No.”, and continue being the director of the film. Chayefsky hated him pretty quickly.

He had much more control over films like The Hospital. Which, if you watch The Hospital, well, it shows. You've got great actors (George C. Scott, Dame Diana Rigg (Dame may be the greatest official title of all time)) saying great dialogue. But its just two very witty bitter people sort of expounding on topics and speaking at each other and suddenly admitting they are in love and discussing what drapes they will have to buy for their new home. It's utterly preposterous, and it doesn't work in the way Sidney Lumet got it to work in Network, by literally making one of the lead characters realize his life is turning into a ludicrous soap opera.

So of course Ken tried to humanize, naturalize, the dialogue sequences. And it works! The film feels more human than the Hospital or Network. Despite the fact that Jessup is literally becoming more and more inhuman throughout the film. One of the ways he does this is by having the character's eat, drink, and work on other things during the dialogue sequences. This is perfectly normal in film, it's called giving the actor “business” to do, during the scene. Chayefsky HATED this. “They are mumbling my precious dialogue! Chewing through it! Sucking it through a straw!” Sorry, Chayefsky buddy. It works for the picture. Chayefsky also felt the actors were too emotional with his dialogue. Right. See, they call that acting.

UNPAUSE

Which brings us back to the first meeting of Emily and Jessup at the party. They are eating during this important scene! I can just picture Chayefsky seeing this, and running to the studio brass to tattle and get Ken Russell fired (as he got Arthur Penn of Bonnie and Clyde fame fired before Ken Russell came on board).

Emily and Jessup are, true to Chayefsky form, extremely intelligent, driven people and hearing them discuss topics such as anthropology and schizophrenia is quite interesting. It's just that what is to come, film being a visual medium, will eclipse just about any dialogue, no matter how good, from our mind thingys.

The two give up on the science talk and go straight to banging on her couch. After, she asks what he was thinking about. His answer is priceless. “God. Jesus. Crucifixions.”

She smiles.

Bwahahaha! Oh Paddy Chayefsky, you sure know women.

He admits he used to have religious visions. She listens to him from the sweaty couch whilst he sits naked on the floor, and starts going on about his father's horrible death of cancer and his loss of faith. And he admits to her that he's a nut. Her response is to call him a fascinating bastard. I think Lucas may have taken notes for Padme and Anakin.

So naturally, they get married immediately.

But none of that matters because Jessup gets back in the sensory deprivation tank and has his first vision. A nightmare of his dying father and lost faith in christianity. It's pretty great, filled with foreboding hospital rooms, his father's face being covered in a burning Shroud of Turin, everything covered by horrible blood red clouds and then THIS FUCKING THING SHOWS UP AND ITS ALIVE AND WRIGGLING

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

excuse me...

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

The many-eyed goat is slaughtered over a gold bible and suddenly Jessups screwing Emily again and we enter a blood vessel looking thing and the vision ends and he never mentions this again. Oh. Okay,

Emily continues on about what a nut Jessup is as they make marriage plans. Her monologue:

“You're an unmitigated madman. You don't have to tell me how weird you are. I know how weird you are. I'm the girl in your bed the past two months. Even sex is a mystical experience for you. You carry on like a flagellant... Which can be very nice, but I sometimes wonder if it's me that's being made love to. I feel like I'm being harpooned by some raging monk in the act of receiving God. (Emphasis mine)

"And you are a Faust-freak Eddie! You'd sell your soul to find the great truth. Well, human life doesn't have great truths. We're born in doubt. We spend our lives persuading ourselves we're alive. And one way we do that is we love each other, like I love you. I can't imagine living without you. So let's get married, and if it turns out to be a disaster, it'll be a disaster.”

It's a disaster.

As in, by the next scene. It starts off happy enough looking, they have kids and people are smiling. And hey, wow it's seven years later! But, well, see, whoops, they are getting a divorce. Well, not they. See, he is divorcing her because he considers the seven years with her a complete waste.

She still loves him, desperately. He doesn't give a shit about her or the kids. He tells Bob Balaban this, straight up. And then starts bugging him about deprivation tanks and Hinchi Indians in South America who have sacred mushrooms that can really fuck you up.

It's at this point you would like for Jessup to be hit by a Mack truck. But the movie continues on. By the way, this is one of the kids he doesn't give a crap about:

That's right. Drew Barrymore's first role is a kid that William Hurt doesn't give a shit about. Something that William Hurt would make a career out of with narcoleptic performances in Lost in Space and Syfy's Dune. So, Emily takes the kids to Africa for her anthropology work while Jessup goes to South America to go deeper into his own creepy mind.

The Hinchi Indians agree to allow him to participate in the drug ritual. They enter their holy cave.

This shot is beautiful. At this point the film becomes increasingly gorgeous. Ken Russell has started to go into overdrive, ladies and gentlemen. Buckle. Your. Seatbelts.

The Indians grab Jessup's hand and cut him, freaking him out. They pour his blood into the drug mixture. They begin to drink. Then he takes a sip. The intensity of the film here has quadrupled. The vision begins, fireworks going off all around him. He sees cave paintings of humans and komodo dragons and this:

The proper life he left behind with Emily. He's convulsing, sweating. The Indians are all around, masked. Snakes. He's laughing in pain. Energy spills from the void. A snake under the parasol strikes and begins to strangle him. He and Emily march toward a nuclear explosion as energy pours from the cut on his hand, becoming a lizard. From within a sandstorm, Emily watches him, naked. Jessup looks at her, entranced, as the soothing sands cover them both, slowly.

It's a beautiful sequence. A perfect film sequence. I can't overstate how strong the vision sequences are from this point forward. Great visual effects work and the madman mind of Ken Russell create something unforgettable, with it's own pace, independent from the rest of the film.

Jessup awakens with a komodo dragon laying before him, ripped to pieces. The Indians and the others all claim he killed it in rage. Jessup remembers nothing, takes samples of the drug to reproduce it, and goes back home.

Back home, Jessup keeps doing as much of the drug as he can and having Bob Balaban record results. They can't up the dosage any more so Jessup hops back in to the self deprivation tank to create a more extreme experience.

In his next session, Jessup states he is having a vision of early man, hunting a deer and killing it. Suddenly he states he is one of them, killing the deer. He begins to grunt like an animal. The two pull him out. He's incredibly pale, blood seeping out of his mouth. He can't speak, and has difficulty breathing. He insists they do an X-ray. It shows that there is a vocalizing lump in the front part of his throat. Jessup claims that his body had begun to revert to a simian state. The medical doctor agrees, stating the throat X-rays looks like that of a gorilla.

Luckily his throat returns to normal. So Jessup finishes up his day by having over a student of his and sleeping with her.

Our hero, people!

At this point we hardly feel sorry for him as his body suddenly begins to twist and bulge in the middle of the night, shifting in and out of neanderthal shapes. It's a horrific sequence, disturbing as hell. You certainly didn't expect the film to shift into body horror.

Jessup feels normal after a while. but sees visions of lava explosions, the birthing of the Earth all around him. Not a good sign.

He goes to pick up Emily from the airport the next day. She asks how he is doing.

“Oh, fine.”

Yeah right.

Emily has been told what Jessup has been doing and is worried, which of course pisses off Jessup even more. The guy is obviously obsessed with reaching the truth and root of existence, much as Emily surmised earlier, and we see he has no fear of even losing his own soul, again true to her word. The only thing that allows us to give a shit about him at this point is that Emily cares for him and she's decent people, okay?

So back Jessup goes into the tank with his ayahuasca or whatever it is. Alone. The tank door opens from the inside.

The hand that pushes it open is covered in thick hair. He's devolved.

Ape-Jessup escapes the tank room and chases a janitor around the building. Again, this scene is fucking freaky as hell. We can't get a good look at this screaming animal that was Jessup.

The janitor gets a guard to help and chases after him into the boiler room, where we finally get a good look at him when he assaults the security guard and escapes.

AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

Ape-Jessup runs through the city at night, making his way to the zoo where he kills a antelope and eats it. The Ape-Jessup sequence goes on way too long, but is nonetheless unforgettable. The makeup is much more convincing than the above picture suggests, and whoever performed Ape-Jessup did an admirable job.

The cops find an unconscious Jessup in the zoo and bring him in. Emily picks him up and questions him. Jessup admits everything that he can remember. He also admits that he probably killed that security guard. And once again doesn't seem to give a shit. Prick. He calls it the most supremely satisfying time of his life.

Even Emily seems disgusted with him. But, she's also fascinated with what he's accomplished. As an anthropologist, his transformation fascinates her. And so, she agrees to help oversee his next session. Big mistake.

Before the big session Emily and Jessup romantically reconnect, and then into the climactic session we go!

Get your popcorn ready!

After a few hours in to the session, the video monitor shows Jessup begin to literally melt apart like goo, reverting to primordial ooze, the very beginning of existence. An attempt to open the isolation tank doors blasts everyone unconscious, as light and energy pour forth. Emily is the only one left. She sees Jessup's life energy pulse from within the tank.

Rain pours down around them. The pipes on the walls twist and turn like jelly. The ground is covered with a pool of swirling fog and energy. Emily advances toward the vortex of the tank.

In the emptiness of the beginning of everything, Emily seizes the energy before her and reconstitutes Jessup.

They take him home. While he sleeps, Emily rages over the fact that she loves such a insane bastard, and can't get over him. And, then, after Bob Balaban leaves, leaving Emily alone, Jessup wakes up.

He sweetly admits that the truth he learned was that there was no learnable truth, just unknowable horror, and all that's real is human experience. And he'll be a good boy from now on. Well too bad!

Because that horrible truth isn't done with him, and it's back to goo-Jessup! Emily tries to help him, grabbing him, but this in turn effects her, turning her into a shimmering lava form of herself. Both of them begin to self-destruct as Jessup, enraged, watching her in pain, struggles to retake his humanity, slamming himself into the wall, reforming himself through sheer will and physicality. He grabs her and brings her back, mirroring what she did for him during the final session. They embrace naked in the hallway. He finally admits, “I love you, Emily.”

Fade to credits.

Awww true love!

What can I say to sum up? Awesome 80's practical effects. Genius wacko go-for-it Ken Russell directing. Out of this world vision sequences. A awake and actually remarkable performance from William Hurt. An occasionally turgid but often fascinating script by the ever ornery Paddy Chayefsky. Whats not to like?

Well, the ending is a little rushed. The ape sequence goes on for a little too long and takes up perhaps too much of the films overall running time. The central love story is, well... a little hard to swallow, but hey, I guess there really is somebody out there for everyone. Even self-absorbed, deadbeat, cheating, sensory deprivation loving, ayahuasca dropping, Harvard teachers with a messiah complex!

And on that note, aliens from A.I. Artifical Intelligence, have a good day, and don't leave poor Teddy alone with no one to keep him company!

Sayonara!

#altered states #ken russell #movies #review #funny?

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lynvaren · 5 years

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would you ever consider selling your art (like on redbubble or something) bc I want that bmc voices in my head art as a poster in my room more than i want life. Or would you let me get it printed some other way and I could pay you privately? I'm not an artist so I don't know how this stuff works tbh and i dont wanna be rude/entitled or anything but I'm literally just so in love with it

Hey there! Yes I’m actually planning on opening a redbubble starting mid-May! And don’t worry; you’re not being rude at all, I’m really glad you asked! It honestly just makes me so happy you like the bmc piece that much, I’m super flattered :”))

#ask apoorva

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armory-rasa · 7 years

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Hello Gabriel! First of all, I want to say I really love your work! It's really inspiring and detailed! I wanted to ask how you set up your own business, because it seems really hard to start working and then actually get costumers. Did you make a portfolio, or was it word of mouth? I don't know if you've written about this before, so sorry if I'm just asking again. :)

Short answer: lol, I started my own business because I’m really bad at convincing people to hire me.

Long answer: STRAP IN! (This is probably more backstory than you wanted, but I promise I’ll have some advice about the how-to at the end)

So I mentioned that the first leatherworking I did was for the Hawke cosplay, and that came out reasonably well. Then a friend of mine was like, “Hey, you should use your skillz make me some leather handcuffs” and I was like, Hokay. So when people ask “How’d you get started selling kink gear?” my smartass answer is “Because D-rings come in packs of ten not packs of two.” I made a pair for my friend…. and then made four more pairs, because else what was I going to do with D-rings? And then I made an Etsy store and put them up for sale, because what use had I for four pairs of handcuffs?

…and people bought them. o_O I was like, Can you guys not see that I have sold ZERO things before? Why do you trust me to actually deliver the goods? What makes you think I have ANY idea what I’m doing??

So that was a thing that was going on in the background – I added a basic collar to my inventory and started making them in colors that you don’t normally see kink gear in, which a lot of people quite liked, and it was a nice bit of side cash, enough that the hobby was paying for itself.

Then my lawyer (who was not at that time a lawyer) moved out to California for law school and she was like “You should come to California with me, because it’s better than Texas” and I was like, Hokay. And everyone was telling me, Ohhhh, but the job market in California is so bad!, and I was like, Nah, I’ll be fine, yo.

…Aha... ahaha, about that. I wound up in a totally above-board but very sketchy-sounding arrangement with one of her professors in which my official job title was “houseboy.” We met at a gay bar called Headhunters where he was like–

The professor: “So what do you do?” Me: “I’m looking for a job.”The professor: “I’m looking for someone to clean my hot tub! I’ll start you at $12/hr.”Me: “Hokay.”

So between running his odd jobs and the money I was making selling kink gear (about $2000 over the course of that first year), I was keeping myself afloat.

Then The Hobbit happened.

I saw the posters, thought Kili was hot, decided to take a stab at his bracers. I finished the first one just before we left to go see the movie, tossed it up in the shop – and it sold before we even got out of the movie.

That was when the floodgates opened and practically overnight, leatherworking went from being a sideline gig to being my fulltime job. (To wit: I made $250 in December 2012 and *$3,500* in January 2013. That’s more money in one month than I’d made doing leatherworking the entire previous year.) People were buying Kili bracers by the dozen, and flooding me with inquiries asking, Can you do Fili’s bracers? Can you do Thorin’s bracers? Can you do Thorin’s belt? Can you do Kili’s quiver? Can you do Legolas’s bracers?

And I was like, Hokay. (The professor was bemused, and only slightly grumpy at how I suddenly had less time for him.)

Granted, that kind of boom doesn’t last, as I would learn subsequently. There’s a rush of interest when something is new, but nothing sustains that level of demand forever. I got really lucky because I happened to jump onto the Hobbit bandwagon right as it was kicking off, so my bracers were out there first, the first thing people saw when they went googling for Hobbit cosplay. Relatively few other costumers ever even bothered to make the pieces that would be competing with mine, since I’d already done them, and done them very well, (and was doing it really cheap since I didn’t know the value of my labor then), so for a while I was about the only game in town when it came to dwarf leatherworking.

Dwarf costumes kept me fed for about six months before interest started to wane, by which point I’d diversified into MCU Loki armor too. That’s been the story of my business since – keeping an eye out for new fandoms with cool costumes that are in my skillset, and being on the ball about getting them done and posted as early as possible. I cannot overstate the advantage of being the *first* one to do a costume, because there are few fandoms that have truly long-term staying power, so you have to be there when the hype is highest. (Dragon Age, Zelda, Star Wars, etc, have a core of dedicated fans who will cosplay it until their dying day, but those are low-volume markets. My Dragon Age items are not my highest sellers, they are my labors of love.)

I often start with making a small, inexpensive item from a fandom, just enough to put me on the radar when people start googling for their cosplay – like a hook to reel them in. Customers will frequently ask if you can do other pieces from the same costume or the same universe (I started with the Wonder Woman tiara, and built the rest of the set as people asked for it; likewise, the Aquaman armor grew out of a single bracer; people who have seen my Loki stuff have commissioned Enchantress and Scarlet Witch), but they won’t usually ask a Lord of the Rings leatherworker if you can do stuff from, say, Game of Thrones. (Even though I totally could if anyone ever asked for it.)

I will say that specializing in cosplay puts you at the mercy of whatever’s trending, and the lulls between fandom booms can be deadly – when your income suddenly drops from a couple thousand dollars a month to a couple hundred, you best hope you’ve got enough of a cushion to ride that out until the next boom comes along. The more fandoms you’re in, the more diverse your portfolio, the less hard those bust cycles will hit you.

My shop pretty much is my portfolio, because I don’t take anything down (except when I stopped selling kink gear) even after interest is long gone, since it still showcases the styles and techniques I can do. I have a deviantArt with my stuff, mainly because I’ve found that dA – for whatever reason – indexes in google image search faster and higher than any other social media platform. It wasn’t until about this time last year that I finally got a facebook and started making a more concerted effort to maintain a social media presence and promote my business. It’s… coming along. I’m slightly better at remembering to post these days. >_>

I think it’s less about word of mouth than about whether people can find you when they’re googling. (~Search engine optimization~ or whatever.) There are tricks you can do to get yourself ranked higher, but I’ve never tried any of that stuff, just made sure that my listings, etc, are tagged with the right keywords to get picked up when potential customers go googling.

It is hard work (I work… a lot….) but it’s also a lot of fun – there is no job I would rather be doing, and I consider myself very lucky that I’ve been able to turn my passion into my career. (Which is like the most cliched thing to say, but it’s true – there are Etsy sellers who would KILL to be able to quit their day job and focus on their hobby full-time, so I’m aware that I’ve been quite fortunate.)

Anyway. I hope you enjoyed the novel I wrote for you. :D

#Q&A #gremble: the autobiography

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multiracialmedia-blog · 7 years

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Hers for the Taking: I Don't Have the Luxury of Ignoring Rachel Dolezal

Rachel “I’m Black, bishes,” Dolezal keeps popping up to remind us how ubiquitous racism and White Supremacy are in our lives. Even with more urgent issues commanding our attention, her bold claims of racial domination run like an open app in the background, forcing our attention and draining precious energy we’d rather invest elsewhere.

Her recent headline-snatching-shenanigans include giving herself an African name, claiming she was financially destitute about to be homeless, bragging that her first Black husband couldn’t deal with her being “too Black,” and clarifying that she is Black, not African American. Now her memoir, In Full Color: Finding My Place In A Black And White World, is out, and she has books to sell.

The responses to Rachel are interesting. Many Black folks express how they are weary and ready to dismiss her—if only the media weren’t addicted to her human click-bait. In an ironic turn, Huffington Post ran an apparently serious piece titled, “Can We Please Stop Giving Rachel Dolezal A Platform?” while doing exactly that.

Even as Blackfolks drag her on social media, the deep sigh of racial exhaustion seeps through the Tweets, the memes and the hashtags. Nobody has time for Rachel’s foolishness beyond an increasingly annoyed, “Girl, bye!” followed by teeth-sucking, eye rolls, SMHs, and constant calls to just ignore her hoping maybe she’ll go away.

On the flip side, I’ve also seen Black folks who say they’re curious and are reading her book to find out more about her backstory and motives. And I’ve seen a number of Black people—mostly men—expressing support or wondering why she’s an issue. Which makes me feel the bitter sting of the Tweet that said, “How do you know Rachel Dolezal’s not Black? So many Black men are supporting her.”

Ouch! But it certainly rings true.

As a Mixed person, I share the anger, the outrage and the weariness. But I don’t have the luxury of ignoring Rachel and all that she symbolizes. While she claims to be Black it’s physically obvious that she’d never in a million years be mistaken or able to “pass” for a Black person born of two Black parents. While she claims Blackness as her desired destination, it is Biracial and ethnically-ambiguous identity that she’s trying to use as her passport and visa into all things Black.

When first confronted about her identity, Rachel cited one Black parent, not two, and repeatedly claims to be Biracial. She’s open about keeping her skin tanned or bronzed, and her hair looking as Mixed-Black as possible. So wherever she hopes to end up, she’s on my turf now. Though she’s dated and married Black men, mothered a Biracial child and tried to adopt her Black brother; though she holds a degree from Historically Black Howard University and has made a living repping Black causes, teaching Black college courses and styling Black hair, Rachel Dolezal is pimping the tragic Mulatto because she knows it provides easy entrée into the racial funhouse that seems to be her life.

I can’t brush Rachel off the way I’d like to because she is mining the fluidity of Mixed-race Ancestry and harvesting the physical ambiguities that I live with every day. I can lean to one side or the other, play with folks’ perceptions and even toy with claiming an identity that isn’t repped anywhere in my DNA, if I want to play that game. The life I’ve lived has earned me those rights. What does it mean that a Rachel Dolezal can simply lay claim to the challenges, nuances and abstract notions of my existence without ever having to pay the price of being a Person of Color in a White Supremacist society? Without having to ACTUALLY navigate ambiguity? Or any of the countless ways that Blackness and Mixedness are interwoven too tightly to separate from each other?

I’m not interested in Rachel’s reasons or rationale for her claims to Blackness. And I’m definitely not here for her as the poster child for some insane “transracial” identity. Many accuse her of being mentally ill and/or delusional. But she’s no dummy; she’s in full possession of her mind, and she knows exactly what she’s doing. I can’t predict her end game, but nobody can stop her from making these claims or from gaining a platform to do so. She’s dangerous because she’s not just a household name and a punch line; she’s the most painful kind of reminder that Whitepeople created their notions and policies around race to maintain their power and supremacy at all costs.

As if any Person of Color needed that reminder. As if we have the option to forget, even for the briefest moment of our lives. Her claims would be problematic at any time, but they have additional impact right now, when REAL Mixed-race people have a hard time inserting our voices into the public conversations taking place about our presence, our identities and our cultural choices. While most of America feels entitled to police our identities, Rachel comes along to remind Mixed and Black people alike of the power she wields—power we can neither diffuse nor vanquish. She’s the biggest most abusive Identity Cop on the block.

Those who accuse Rachel of cultural appropriation have got it all wrong. Her offense is far greater: she is colonizing Black and Mixed identity to feed her need for dominance, reminding us—even as she bleats that “race is just a social construct”—that it is White people who created the concept of race in order to build and sustain a nation upon the foundation of racism in service of capitalism. The fact that she feels justified in laying claim to Blackness—and is consistently rewarded for doing so—is the real message we have to heed.

Mixed-race people in the USA know the endless stream of looks, attitudes, questions, challenges, and appropriations that come at us from all groups—those we share DNA with and others as well. We forge our identities against the constant pressure of everyone feeling that they have the right to TELL us what we are or aren’t, where we can or can’t go, how we either must or dare not identify, where we do or don’t belong. And Rachel adds bold, highlighted headlines to mock our experiences and mine them for her own benefit.

So Rachel plants her flag and lays claim to Biracial identity en route to her promised land of faux Blackness. And Biracial America regards her warily from the front lines of the endless battle to be respected for our perpetually complex truths, ambiguous exteriors and inconvenient choices.

I cannot ignore Rachel Dolezal because she would thoughtlessly destroy me to reach the destination that she has claimed as her rightful destiny. I cannot write her off because she is sloshing around in the world I inhabit, spewing her brand of supremacy and bulldozing the nuances we Mixed folks are given to build our lives on into the rubble of her disdain.

She is Miz Anne reincarnated for the 21st century whose sole purpose is to demonstrate that every aspect of our beings is fair game in her hunt to be special. She doesn’t want to be Black; she merely wants to rape and pillage and consume Blackness in her quest for the ultimate act of White dominance: reminding us that even her most bizarre claims are considered credible and attention-worthy.

I can’t look away because she so perfectly reflects everything about America. And America so perfectly reflects everything that is Rachel Dolezal: the entitlement, the presumption of superiority, the mining of every human Black and Black-ish crop on her plantation, upon which she so greedily feeds.

The irony is that, in contrast to her dogged claims to Blackness, and in spite of the indisputable fact that she looks Blacker than I do, Rachel Dolezal is the Whitest person alive, whipping us with her arrogance, chaining us with her privilege, and choking us with her contempt as she reminds us that every aspect of our lives and our beings are hers for the taking, reality be damned.

She is here to challenge my agency and mock my Ancestors. I know precisely the dangers and problems that Rachel represents. Which is why I simply don’t have the luxury of writing her off, averting my gaze from her grotesque masquerade, or ignoring the havoc she is only too happy to wreak upon my never-ending quest to be respected for my racial and cultural truths.

So I swallow my revulsion and recycle my weariness into steely resolve to keep her bizarre contortions in my line of vision at all times. I know she is wielding the weapons designed to destroy us, and I stand on the front lines to challenge and confront what she represents. Mixed-race identity might be the bridge she wants to use to cross over, but my back won’t be lowered or bowed to assist her journey in any way.

Hers for the Taking: I Don’t Have the Luxury of Ignoring Rachel Dolezal if you want to check out other voices of the Multiracial Community click here Multiracial Media

#In Full Color #Rachel Dolezal #TaRessa Stovall

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