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That's him singing. I mean, flinging his red hair around. His band, Dystopian, played a show last night.
Watch for the part when Mom gets caught in the mosh.
Some call him Bounty
Hunter... Others just call him
A nerdy daddy.
(Thanks to Caryn for letting me use her awesome shots of my new Marc Ecko Boba Fett hoodie for today's flickrblog entry! Her photostream is gorgeous, and much more visually intentional than my more narrative, stream-of-consciousness mess of photostream:
www.flickr.com/photos/13002819@N05/
I particularly love this hoodie because when it's unzipped (which I assure you it is for AT LEAST 20% of the time), it looks just like a pretty cool hoodie. This makes it a lot cooler than the X-wing Fighter, Stormtrooper or Vader ones, IMHO.
Today was a bit of a disjointed day. After a nice night hanging out with Marco, I slept in while Julie and Gail took the kid out for a stroll. Then mostly actualized an invoice from last week, sang Beatles songs to Jamie, took a nap with Jamie and the dog, played with Jamie some more. Made it to the gym for a 2 mile run at 8pm, but that was about it (the RSC closes at 9 on weekends). Also, I made a Taiwanese version of a sloppy joe—complete with mozzarella cheese!
Talked to my mom, who is doing really well all things considered. Which is a great relief. We're going to go see her on Tuesday, and I hope to get another interview done. It's been a lot of fun filming her these last few weeks; both getting to hear stories I haven't heard in a while, and the occasional new detail that really brings my mom's past to life for me in a way I don't think I've had the chance to experience yet. It's been a real treat.
Otherwise, gotta get the company with the aforementioned incredibly talented Caryn up and running, as well as begin my big push into commercials this year.
Look out!
Here. I. Come.
"Boba Fett? Boba Fett?! Where?!"
Since our town is on a river, the fire fighters also talked about water rescue. This year, they set a record for the number of rescues this fire company has made in the river.
I kept getting too bright washed out photos of him so I focused on the grass next to him and then moved the camera back onto him, and this is how it managed to do the colours hehe. His eyes are NOT that green lol!!! I'm a bit annoyed actually, as it would have been a great photo if his eyes had come out true colour.
"the hulk" is an american series from my childhood that is about a man affected by a chemical experiment gone wrong. When he gets angry his eyes go green and he then turns into a big green weight lifter looking monster, all his clothes rip as he grows into this monster and brings justice. And when he calms down, he goes back to normal (with his clothes restored somehow).
Snow topped peaks from left to right:
Far left: Lamjung Himal (6983 m) and Annapurna II / अनन्पूर्णा (7937 m)
Centre: Kang Guru (6981 m) and Chombi (6704 m)
RIght: P6479, Kechakyu Himal (5542 m) and Gyaji Kang (7074 m)
The three glaciers, from top to bottom, are the Kechahyu Khola Glacier, the Ponkar / Thoche Glacier and the Salpudanda Glacier.
Thursday 22 November 2018: Dharmasala (4460 m) - Larkya La pass (5135 m) - Bhimtang (3720 m)
Manaslu Circuit Day 15
Route: Dharmasala / Dharamshala / धर्मशाला (4460 m) - Larkya La pass (5135 m) - Bhimtang / Bimthang / Bhimthang / बिम्थंग (3720 m)
Camp: Shushma's Lodge
After 4am bed tea and breakfast, we set off in the predawn dark on the trail tracking below the glacial moraine ridge, dawn rays hitting Pangpoche, Larkya North and Manaslu.
Gradually we left the grass and soil behind, moving onto stony stretches that become bouldered. You pick out the route by the poles set up to guide winter traders through the deep, deep snow.
Hot lemon and great views from the Larke Tea Shop at 4850 m then on over the boulder field. The final approach to the pass skirted shallow lakes frozen solid, before a final climb to the prayer flags at the pass. Once there, we added our prayer flags then celebrated with “Bombay” mix and Green & Blacks mini bars of chocolate, and enjoyed a last look at the views east. Farewell Gorkha District. Hello Manang District.
The Larkya La descent was gentle to start – which was good because the views west are stupendous: Lamjung Himal (6983 m), Annapurna II (7937 m), Kang Guru (6981 m), Kechakyu Himal (5542 m), Gyaji Kang (7074 m), Nemjung (7140 m), Himjung (7092 m), Himlung (7126 m), Panbari (6905 m), with the Thoche / Ponkar Glacier and Ponkar Lake below.
But soon the path became steeper, still rocky, and we were zig zagging down into the valley towards the weird solid blue waters of Ponkar Tal, which disappeared as we got closer to the moraine walls and turned southwards - the trail follows the route of the Salpudanda Glacier which merges with the Ponkar Glacier and Kechahyu Khola Glacier a little north of Bhimtang. Rocks and silence gave way to grass, shrubs and bushes; birds reappeared.
Revitalising veg noodle soup at Dangboche Kharka, then the final downhill stretch to Bhimtang and its surreal sunshine yellow chalets.
Our tents were on the edge of one of Bimthang’s wooden fenced corals with fine views of the west face of Manaslu.
Teatime segued into rakshi time, dinner, then bed. A long day, but a great one.
Plenty of people here too - we were already heading back to the mainstream. From here on in we’d find ourselves in busier places, as we drew closer to and eventually joined the Annapurna Circuit.
Read more about my November 2018 trek in Nepal on SparklyTrainers: Manaslu & Tsum with Val Pitkethly.
Guenter Seyfferth’s annotated photos (26) View from the Larkya La descent to the west and (27) View from the campsite Bimthang (3710 m) to the south on his Manaslu Himal page have proved very helpful for captioning today’s photos!
DSC07793
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La formazione finlandese guidata da Ville Valo ha pubblicato il nuovo album dal titolo "Tears On Tape" lo scorso aprile, il disco ha messo d'accordo sia stampa che fans.
Gli HIM sono un gruppo rock finlandese di Helsinki, fondato nel 1991 dal cantante Ville Valo, dal chitarrista Lily Lazer (Mikko Lindström) e dal bassista Mige Amour (Mikko Paananen). L'attuale formazione comprende anche il tastierista Emerson Burton (Janne Johannes Puurtinen) e il batterista Gas Lipstick (Mika Kristian Karppinen). I temi toccati da questo gruppo sono principalmente l'amore e la morte. Il nome corretto della band è scritto tutto maiuscolo, in quanto formata originariamente col nome di His Infernal Majesty.
Ville Valo - voce
Lily Lazer - chitarra e voce
Mige Amour - basso
Emerson Burton - tastiere
Gas Lipstick - batteria
Whenever I see him, the only thing I can think is that he is perfection. Whether he's sleeping, dancing, sitting, talking, crying, laughing, making love, what-have-you - the reoccurring thought is that he is perfection. Flaws and favorables combined. His skin, the slope of his shoulders, the spine and meat stretched over his rib bones, the patch of hair on his stomach, his fingers, toes and tongue - I could go on for a lot longer than you might like to read. I'm not sure I could ever explain what I feel when I see him standing across a room sometimes. It's not a constant feeling, I don't think that's what love is, honestly. It comes in waves, pangs, and enters my thoughts occasionally. He wasn't what I was looking for, but he was what I found and exactly what I needed. I think maybe someday everyone will know exactly the feeling I'm talking about. I think love is the pangs, the subtle thoughts, the knowing, the reoccurring realization that you absolutely feel something so strongly for someone, that it completely washes over you. You see the innocence, the strength, the weakness - all of it, and you know it's more than what you ever wanted, or expected. I hope someday someone gets a photo of that feeling, when the exact thought hits me. When you see my eyes, you'll know. He knows, you will know, too.
#AB_FAV_DOG_CATS_🐶🐱
This was our dog, the Border collie. Pica pour les amis.
Brought him over during the days that a dog still was quarantined for 6 months, a very distressing time, but after the whole ordeal was over, he came out of it with his natural flair and more protective of us than ever.
Always with us, the car his second residence, he's chased cows into the corner of a field, seagulls into the surf, cats into trees, ladies with fur-coats into caffees.( that's a joke)
Knows the coasts of numerous countries...
He's had Cancer, three strokes, fought through it all.
A beautiful, intelligent animal, with the usual quirks, one of them being, when we were arranging and preparing the studio for clients, BG, chairs, other props, cameras, tested the lights, metering, well, as soon as he saw those flashes going off, he just knew and would go in front of the camera and sit there, correct spot, ready for the close-up Mr, Mrs Indigo.
HMMMM, well, we do have quite a number of portraits of him!
AAhhh models, he?
Thanx for viewing, M, (*_*)
R.I.P 16-12-2005 AND STILL missing him badly...
For more: www.indigo2photography.com
IT IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN (BY LAW!!!) TO USE ANY OF MY image or TEXT on websites, blogs or any other media without my explicit permission. © All rights reserved
man, woman, Border-Collie, dog, portrait, eyes, studio, square, canine, horizontal, vertical, studio, photographer, dunes, beach, "Magda indigo"
Drove him to the dentist cuz he was on drugs in preparation. He got more drugs during the 2 hours. Drove him home.
He exclaimed, "Let's go to Best Buy for a tripod!" "Let's go to Smart n Final!" I'd reply no each time, "You're going home to sleep a couple of hours." He exclaimed, "No I'm not! I don't feel like sleeping."
Came home, sat in his recliner, was soon snoring away. I didn't tell him about today's picture.
I set up the "tripod", the "studio light", the camera. I set it on the timer that will take 2 pics. But, lol, he would snore at me at each 2nd pic and I'd be struggling not to LOL, and have to pull away.
I met my fiance in the spring of 2006. I met him online, on a forum for Stephen King's Dark Tower series. I was supposed to be with someone else at the time, a relationship my heart wasn't in at all, and from his very first post to our little community, I was smitten. I broke up with the guy I was with and pined after "wander." (For the record, I was maeralyn.)
After several slow days with the two of us talking in the forums, and one eventful anniversary on the site, I sent him a private message. It was almost two in the morning, and extremely short, consisting basically of "Thanks for being on here, I think you're delightful." I stayed up for almost an hour more, agonizing, waiting for a reply. Then, he signed off the boards. I was upset, worried that it hadn't sent, that it had gone through and he ignored it, that I had made a mistake by trying to move this friendship into the "something more" territory.
I finally gave up and got ready for bed.
Just before I shut off my computer, it appeared. A reply. I was horribly nervous and thrilled.
Many more messages back of forth. Twenty or more a day, all very well thought out, each on responding to every little comment, basking as we told one another our life stories, our secrets, invited the other probe our inner workings. We eventually moved our conversations from the forums and forum mailboxes to instant messenger. Somewhere along the way, I moved from Missouri (he was, and is, in Florida) to Oregon. I had been thrilled about the move before I met Wesley, but began to have doubts. I nearly had a breakdown halfway through the move. In Nevada I realized I was relegating myself to a relationship with a man as far away from me as he could be in the continental U.S.
But I went, because it was what was best for my future, because my family was there, because my school was there.
In Oregon, I got my first cell phone. The winter of 2006, I called Wesley for the first time, and for the first time we heard the other person with whom we were so in love with. The first several minutes of conversations consisted of me verifying that we were still connected while he hyperventilated. Once he found his tongue, I was thrilled. His voice was wonderful and deep, lacking the accent I had expected. We talked for hours that first day, until both batteries had died and we were unable to move more than five feet from the plug. Our nights and weekends became veritable utopia. I told him everything, complained about my freshman college classes, described the changing seasons, listed my family problems. He told me about his frustration with his senior year in high school, told me about his cousins, how they were growing as he baby sat them, raged about the distance between us.
We were mad about each other.
In the winter of 2007, after a year and a half of being in a relationship with someone I had never physically met, I grew restless. I flirted with, and eventually dated, a different boy I'd met at work. I still talked to Wesley every night, every minute I wasn't in class, working, or with the other guy. I grew deeply depressed, I left school, and dumped the other guy.
The spring of 2008, we officially re-began a relationship that felt like it had never ended. That summer, I scrapped, and saved, and managed to buy a plane ticket. He flew out for four and a half days over Thanksgiving.
We met at the Medford airport, very late at night. His was the last plane in, and I had spent the entire day worrying over whether he would be able to land in the dense fog that covered the mountains.
When he got off the plane, I was overwhelmed. I couldn't believe it was him. All I could do was cling to him, completely ignoring everything else. His hair was long, and my face was buried in it as I fought tears. He was hyperventilating again, and I couldn't stand on my own.
The days went far too quickly, and abruptly we were back at the airport. I begged him not to leave, and, even though he's younger than me, he is the grown-up. He reminded me that he had responsibilities he had to face. He had classes and his family that deserved completion and closure, respectively. I sobbed, but he had to go. Still, I had his word that he would be back, and I had a ring. It was small, sterling silver and hand crafted with a tiny amethyst stone, not an engagement ring, but a promise one.
By now, we had a cellphone plan that allowed us to talk anytime, day or night, without costing us a fortune. So, we talked. We planned. We saved. By spring of 2009, he'd saved enough money to buy me a plane ticket.
In September of 2009, I flew to Pensacola. I was there for two of the best weeks of my life. He proposed to me--twice. I said yes. I now had a different ring, white gold, with a lovely little topaz. When it came time for me to leave, I once again, begged him. This time I begged him not to make me go. Once again, he was the adult. He reminded me that I too had a family. I had a job. I had responsibilities.
So I came back. I was miserable to be back to the grind knowing the best thing that had ever happened to me was across the country.
Then, I got a rash. It started as a tiny scratch, and grew until my entire ring finger was consumed. It turned out that I'm extremely allergic to gold. Gone then, was my ability to wear my precious ring, my promise, my visual proof of love from a man none of my friends has met. I switched back to my promise ring, and carried on.
One of the conditions of my returning to Oregon was the plan we had set, for him to get a scholarship at the university here, and to move out during the summer of 2010. We would live to together while he finished school. We would get married during the summer of 2011.
And now, and now.
He's been unable to find a job. He owes his school money, and I'm living pay-check to pay-check.
And today, it hit me.
In all likelihood, we won't be together this summer. We will probably not be able to be together until 2011.
My heart is broken.
But this letter, my love, is proof. Proof that I love you when I cannot wear your ring. Proof that even though I cannot stop crying yet, I know we'll make it through this too. Proof that I remember everything about us, that I know what we are and how worth it we are. After, what difference is half a year or a year and half when true love is what's at stake.
This is my love letter to you, Wesley.
Rewind to a miserable summer’s day in San Fransisco, 1985.
The bright blue sky is nowhere to be seen, overtook by a ruthless fog and deafening downpour, sporadically punctuated by the even louder sound of thunder.
On an upper floor of a cheap apartment complex, a six-year-old boy hides beneath a coffee table. He closes his eyes and plugs his ears, but just faintly, he hears the sound of his mother’s feet creaking the floorboards. They reach the table, toes pointed towards him, each wrapped in yellow knit yarn.
“Oh, Mal,” she sighs, a loving warmth in her cadence. She bends her knees, meets him eye-to-eye. “The weather’s got you worked up?”
He nods.
“Come ‘ere.” She reaches out to him, with both her arms. “Lemme show you something.”
“No,” he hastily replies. “I’m not going out there. It’s dangerous.”
“I promise it’s not.”
He crosses his arms, but soon after, she extends a pinkie finger - this is enough to persuade the boy. They lock pinkies, forming a swear of unbreakability. He crawls out, and she picks him up, despite a lasting look of weariness in his eyes. She walks over to the tallest window in the apartment, with a clear view of the city below.
“When I was a little girl,” she recounts, “the thunder scared me, too. I would hope, and hope, and hope for the sun to come back. But one day, I learned a new way of thinking.”
“What?”
“To love what we cannot change.”
“But what’s there to love? It’s all grey, boring, sad, loud…”
“Everything has something to love about it. The rain, it goes to the grass, and with the help of a chemical reaction from the lightning, the land is fertilized. That means the veggies can grow, and the flowers can bloom. It’s a beautiful thing, the world giving us a hand. Helping us out. And even the way it looks and sounds, I’ve learned to love those things, too. The rain is like a soothing drumbeat, the thunder and lightning are like exciting fireworks… It’s all so wonderful. If I could only teach you one thing, Malcolm, it would be this: there is always an upside, no matter the situation.”
These words touch Malcolm’s heart. All fear begins drifting from his eyes, now enlightened by a sense of wonder.
They smile to each other. She runs her fingers through his hair for a while, and he tells her, “I think I get it now.”
Time passes. Malcolm finds himself lying beneath the window, his stomach on the floorboards and his head rested on both his palms. His eyes don’t deviate from the window. With every moment, he finds a new thing to appreciate; like the traffic, jammed in the streets. ‘It’s not so bad’, he thinks to himself. From his perspective, it’s all these colourful cars in a slow parade. To some drivers, it’s not so bad, either; a family has a chat as they listen to the rain tapping on their car; a man sits alone, relaxed after a long day of work, listening to the radio and patiently waiting for the cars ahead to begin moving again, so he can complete his venture home; one young driver uses the slow of time as an excuse to confess her love to the woman in her passenger seat. These stories are real, but Malcolm makes up similar ones. After a while, he grabs his sketchbook from the shelf, and draws what he thinks the people in those stories might look like.
Behind Malcolm, his mother is laying out paperwork on the coffee table - bills, taxes, fines, so on. She rubs each of her temples, wishing hard that she could afford a bottle of ibuprofen.
But he pays no mind to her.
More time passes. Malcolm sees his favourite restaurant, through all the fog - The Quiet Ambassador. He draws the building, in as much detail as he can; the lower of brick, the upper of ridged wood, the doorway of glass, a window in the shape of a sunflower, a sign with a smiling egg yolk, and a graffiti portrait on the side wall; depicting a brave sailor, standing prideful on his bow with a rapier held tight in his fist, defending his frightened daughter from a gargantuan beast of tentacles that attempts to yank the man’s barque below the tide. That scene is something Malcolm appreciates every time he sees it, and he always finds something new to appreciate about it - like he’s doing now, on a broader scale. But with this newfound outlook, he questions now, in that bout of kraken versus seaman, who’s really the antagonist?
Behind Malcolm, there’s a knock at the door. The mother stands, walks, unlatches, opens, only to see the face of Malcolm’s father. Not a second goes by, before he begins sweating profusely, tripping on his own words, trying so hard to plead a case. Plead his innocence. Plead a right to be welcomed back into their family. Alas, he’s told again to stop following the mother and child. And the door is slammed in his face.
She’s right to set boundaries, despite his sorrows - nothing has ever seemed to work between the two. Yet part of her, always part of her, fails to let go of the fun they once had together.
All it takes for a headache to start are two thoughts contradicting one another;
I hate him, but I love him;
The mother already had a headache.
But now, she has two.
She falls to the floor, her head between her knees as she attempts to roll a blunt with a hand that shakes, uncontrollably.
Before her, Malcolm appears - he’s learned from the stories of other, and now reunites with the story of his own. He tilts his head.
He pays mind to her.
Maybe he doesn’t have her experience. Maybe he doesn’t have my vocabulary.
But he does have faith. Faith in that, he knows the right thing to do.
“Look on the upside,” he tells her. “There’s a storm going on. And storms are beautiful.”
Swing the clock hands forward - to a moment before we left off.
Malcolm and Cindy walk down a busy street, that’s getting busier by the minute; businessmen stumbling to work, older folks in pyjamas walking their dogs, graffiti artists trying to blend into the crowd as they make their way to the alleys, and many more. Some enter Dunkin’ Doughnuts, and all the various shops about, but only the most plain, unremarkable of the crowd enter the tall, grey, cylindrical skyscraper labeled Delevigne.
The Otherkind couple’s not dressed in their usual, no-frills street attire; Malcolm’s opted for a stylish black top, marmalade dress pants and a golden neck chain, while Cindy, her hair untied and unbraided, is clad in a floral dress with a violet cardigan overtop.
“…So even after you started a gang war-“
“Accidentally,” adds Malcolm.
“Sure,” Cindy giggles, “even after you accidentally started a gang war… Rip was fine with us going on a date?”
“He’s frazzled; I’m sure he would’ve said yes to anything.”
“Wow - The Rip, frazzled? Everything’s upside-down and backwards, that optimism of yours is more powerful than I thought!”
“It’s not my fault.”
“You’ve made it very clear you feel that way! I could start calling you Mr. Accidentally.”
“Upside’s fine,” Malcolm laughs, looking into her eyes but still walking toward their destination. “But for real, I think the Amy Winehouse guy was gonna start shit no matter what either of us said or did. Just the vibe he gives off; a shit-starter.”
“Oh, right, what did he look like?”
“Who?”
“The Amy Winehouse guy!”
“Oh, freaky. Real freaky, Boogieman kinda guy; eyes like The Emperor, pale blue skin, greasiest hair I’ve ever seen…”
“Judgemental much?”
“I’m not being judgmental, I’m just being accurately descriptive! Seriously, wait till you see the guy. Oh, wait, actually…” Malcolm ceases his saunter, to dig for an item from his pocket; a sort of pyramidal shape, with a thin box on both the top and the bottom, all made from a carved cyan gemstone. He presses it against his forehead, chants a brief spell. From it, with a flash of light, shoots a thin photograph. Cindy grabs it before it hits the ground, and looks at it.
This, is a memory photo - particularly, a clear image of Eldon Peck.
“Yeesh,” Cindy reacts, “you were not kidding.”
“Mhm,” Malcolm replies, beginning to walk again. Cindy follows.
“God, I hate that I can tell what he smells like; cacophony of blood, vomit, cigarettes…”
“Mhm.”
She analyzes the image for another moment or two. “…Hey, Malcolm?”
“Yeah?”
“When we go up against this guy, I think I wanna come with- and I don’t just mean sit in an alley.”
“Oh, yeah? You sure?”
“Yeah, like, I appreciate you looking out for me, but I wanna help where I can, y’know? And this guy, I’d particularly like to put a bullet in this guy’s head.”
When others on the sidewalk begin raising eyebrows and dropping jaws at that statement, Malcolm uses another pocket tool to erase it from their memories. “I was hoping we could handle this situation non-violently.”
“You told me Rip called him a ‘soul-trafficker’; I think anyone who’s an anything-trafficker should be shot - and, you know Rip doesn’t just throw around terms like that, so I feel pretty damn certain it’s accurate. Plus, you said Rip and this guy have history, yeah? Negative history?”
“‘The Otherkind’s arch-nemesis’, he called him.”
“I think we’re gonna have to kill this guy, Malcolm.”
“Damn,” Malcolm says under his breath, clicking the magic mind-wiper again. “But if you think it’s the right move, I’ll live with it.”
“Doesn’t matter what I think, either way; you know Rip.”
“Do I, though? Rip surprised me on that roof, I was able to persuade him-”
“-into a gang war. Maybe best we let the magic pedophile die, Mal, avoid the monkey’s paw shenanigans - I hardly see a downside to that.”
“…I see your point.”
The two reach their destination - The Quiet Ambassador - only for a young woman with black hair just leaving the establishment to brashly bump into Malcolm’s shoulder. He looks down at his hand, nearly stumbles, feeling as if he’s dropped the magic mind-wiper, but… He hasn’t. “That’s… Weird.”
“Oi, watch where you’re going!” Cindy shouts at the woman, before turning back to Malcolm. “That was that girl,” she whispers. “The magician girl you fought last year, remember? One Richie Rich got us to go after?”
“Right,” says Malcolm, watching as she continues to storm off. “Weird coincidence. But… I’m getting this weird sense of deja vu. Or, actually, opposite of deja vu? Not sure what you’d call it.”
“What do you mean? Cause of the girl?”
“No, not cause of the girl - cause of this,” he holds up the magic mind-wiper - fully intact. “I saw it break. I can see it so clear in my mind, it shattered on the sidewalk. But it… It didn’t.”
“Huh. Bit odd.”
“Yeah… Well. No point stressing about it,” Malcolm shrugs. “Least it didn’t break.”
The two walk through the doorway. To their right, they see a man with spiky blonde hair, scavenging through his wallet. To their left, they see a man wearing an olive baseball cap, holding an oblong duffel bag of some kind, tightly - what could be in there?
Before the duo, walks a hostess. “Hello there! Table for two, I presume?”
“Yep, I called about a reservation.”
“Ah, yes; Malcolm, was it?”
“Yep!”
“Alrighty, sit wherever you’d like.”
They do as invited, and choose a table near the back of the establishment, with a decent bay view out the window. Distantly, Malcolm sees a sort of factory building, with three smoke towers.
“This is my first time here,” says Cindy, looking over her menu.
“Oh, really? The Ambassador was my favourite growing up.”
Cindy looks up to a wood-carven sculpture in the upper-right corner of the room - in the shape of the sun, with a smiling face painted on. “That makes sense,” she snickers.
“I know off the top of my head what’s best on the menu, so if you need any help, just ask.”
“Oh, really? Did you already know what you were getting before we walked in?”
“Waffles, alamode - with cherries - and a glass of orange juice.”
Cindy laughs heartily. “Orange juice?”
“What?”
“Mimosas are on the menu!”
“So?”
“’So’? You’re 27 years old!”
“I don’t want champagne this early in the morning - I just want that sweet, sweet taste of orange juice. Good source of vitamin A, to boot.”
“Alright, alright, you do you, I’m just getting a coffee.” She looks at the menu again. “And some beans on toast, I think.”
“Beans on toast?”
“What? Nostalgia, Malcolm, childhood nostalgia!”
“Bread, beans, soup, that canned stuff is all we get most days at work! Why not treat yourself to something different? How often do we get this opportunity?”
Cindy rests her head on a limp fist, her index finger nudging her lower lip as she looks thoughtfully into Malcolm’s umber eyes. “You know what? Fuck it,” she announces at a polite volume, picking the menu back up again. “Think I’ll just have what you’re having- but, I’ll swap that OJ for a mimosa, since I, for one, could definitely use some champagne.”
A server appears at the table, visibly stressed by something that occurred at another, but she’s trying - emphasis on trying - to hide it. She pulls out her notepad. “Drinks to start?”
“Actually,” Malcolm begins, “I think we’ve figured out everything we’ll be ordering, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, go right ahead!”
Malcolm nods toward Cindy.
“I’ll have waffles alamode- with… Cherries?” She tilts her head at Malcolm, and is met with a thumbs-up. “And a mimosa to drink,” she concludes, looking back up to the server.
“And I,” Malcolm begins, “will get a black coffee, and some beans on toast. Thank you so much.”
“Alrighty, I’ll be right back,” the server assures.
Cindy bats her eyes at Malcolm. “Huh?”
“You made a switcheroo, why can’t I? I’m done being the predictable one.”
Cindy’s brows lower. “Oh my god, I haven’t been overstepping with the Upside thing, have I? I didn’t mean to make you feel like you were a cardboard cutout.”
“It’s not cause of anything you make me feel - you make me feel wonderful - I’m just, worried that maybe I am a cardboard cutout. And the last quality you’d want when going into a…” He looks behind himself, over his shoulders.“‘GW’, is predictability.”
“Uh-huh… You remember the magic mind-wiper didn’t break, right?” Cindy asks, acknowledging his hesitance to use the phrase ‘gang war’.
“Oh. Right. God, what’s going on with my head today?”
Cindy makes eye contact with the man in the olive cap, but immediately upon doing so he begins reading a newspaper - an act that’s blatant, to Cindy, as being in reaction. ‘Something’s up with that guy,’ she thinks to herself, but it doesn’t come up at the table.
“Uh… So,” says Malcolm, trying to change the subject, “you said beans on toast is nostalgic for you?”
“Think that was a given; British an’ all.”
“Sure, but it peaked my interest; you know practically all there is to know about my childhood, yet I rarely, if ever, hear about yours.”
“There’s not a lot to talk about.”
“Not true.”
“Why’s it not true?”
“You might not want to talk about it- and I won’t force you to, by the way,” he puts two palms up when he interjects himself, in a passive yet defensive gesture. “But there’s always something to talk about, when it comes to childhood. Especially if it’s one that lead to an adulthood like ours; bad lives make good stories.”
“Well.” She looks up at the ceiling, trying to decide what parts to keep in and out of the story. “I was adopted, by two chavs in Birmingham. Not quite sure what mind-fuckery took place in order for my bio mum to hand me over to them, of all people. Honestly, not sure why the two even wanted me in the first place, seeing as they were couch surfing drug dealers; one would think the stress of looking after a child would be the last thing they’d want to tack onto their already miserable lives.”
“Aren’t you being a little harsh?”
“Accurately descriptive,” she corrects, with a brief, and teetering on artificial, smirk. She lets out a sigh. “Fran and Shane, they were called - the adopters. They would squabble every day, but it wasn’t often to do with me. Rarely did they pay attention to me at all, actually. But I made friends; there was Baby, Linus, Zach, Walter… Gang of delinquents, we were. Vandals, at first. When we were old enough, we followed in Fran and Shane’s footsteps, one could say. Sold product. One day, Walter said we should use the money to go to California. Said it’s beautiful there. That we’d be better off.”
“It is beautiful here.”
“It was. Once.” She trips on a breath, but the server and hostess return before any tears start forming.
“Here you go! One mimosa, one black coffee, waffles alamode with cherries, and beans on toast - enjoy!”
“Thank you so much,” says Malcolm.
“I’m sorry,” Cindy tells Malcolm, a moment after the server and hostess walk away.
“Don’t be.” He puts out a hand, over the table. He may be muscular, but that hand, it’s that of a gentle giant; so harmless, so comforting. Cindy takes it. “I hope one day you’ll see the world as I do. Despite everything that’s bleak, despite all that we’ve gone through and will go through, there’s something so beautiful about the world we live in, and everything in it… Even beans on toast,” he laughs, moving his eyes to his plate.
She smiles earnestly, as her eyes trail from his plate to hers. She picks up her fork, uses it to rake a small portion of the vanilla ice cream onto the edge of the crispy, golden waffle. She jabs the fork deeper, separating piece from whole. She dips it into the viscous cherry grouping, crafting the perfect bite, and washing it down with the first sip of mimosa. “Holy…”
“Good, right?”
“The best. Thank you for taking me here.” As she swerves her fork back downward, a thought strikes her eyes up to meet his. “You wanna switch, though, yeah?”
“Nah, I’m good,” he assures, cutting a small square of toast topped with beans with his knife and fork, and slipping it between his teeth. He takes a gulp of coffee, but jolts it away, squinting his eyes. “I’ve aught to get used to that, though, damn... Bitter. You take it just like this?”
“Mhm. But, there is cream and sugar on the table, you know.”
“No, thanks; I wanna put myself in your shoes. See the world how you see it.”
“Thought you wanted me to see the world how you see it.”
“But I don’t wanna just, eradicate your perspective. I wanna meld, y’know? I like you a lot, Cin, I’m always eager to learn more about you.” He takes another sip from the coffee, already beginning to get a little more comfortable with the taste. “So, Fran and Shane.”
“What about ‘em?”
He shrugs. “Where’d they end up? Oh, they’re still… With us, right?”
She sighs again. “No idea, to be honest. Can’t say we really stayed in touch. If they didn’t both overdose, then they’re probably living more of the same.”
“But imagine, even for a second, that they aren’t. Imagine they, I dunno, won the lottery - or, like, moved somewhere new - turned a new leaf, beat their addictions, got stable jobs…”
“I sincerely doubt it.”
“Sure, but there’s no way of knowing. Unless you ever happen to run into them again, there’s nothing stopping us from believing any stories we wanna believe. It’s like Schrödinger’s box, yeah? Just, less animal murder.”
She holds back soft laughter, as she drinks more of her mimosa. “Happy until proven unhappy.”
“Yeah! Exactly.”
“I like that. That’s very sweet.” She taps on her cheek with two fingers sunnily, as her eyes wander across the floor. “Oh, Nikki,” she sighs with a passion, her eyes meeting her boyfriend’s yet again.
“What about my mom?” His brows go nervous, but his smile persists.
“We wouldn’t be here without her, now would we?”
“You say that like we’re brother and sister.”
“Pffft.”
“I get what you mean,” he chuckles. “I’m just being facetious.”
“Brilliant woman,” she goes on, “or, so I’m told. I hope I can meet her one day.”
“I hope so, too.”
“How is she, by the way?”
“It’s.” This might be the first time he’s frowned all day, and Cindy notices that. “Complicated.”
“Uh oh.”
“She’s okay. Don’t worry about her. Just… Can we change the subject?”
“Oh, for sure…” She nods, reaching the end of her meal. She’s never seen him that tense before. ‘Come to think of it, he’s never really mentioned where Nikki ended up. All this talk of childhood, but what ever happened between him and his mum when he grew up?’ “Oh,” she says, after a while of eating and thinking, “I stumbled on something a tad odd, on the laptop* the other day.”
*The Rip purchased a laptop for Cindy a few months ago, in order for her to check various online black markets for re-sellable magic goods. He told her that she was the only one of the three to be trusted with such a responsibility - ironically, she gets distracted on that computer rather often.
“Oh, yeah?” Malcolm asks.
“Some true crime podcast did an episode on us.”
He tilts his head.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry, it’s only got like, 30 followers, tops. All the comments are calling bullshit, too.”
“Did you listen to it? How much did they get right?”
“About 50/50. They know we’re called Otherkind, they know our boss is a walking portal, they know a bit about our operation - but they made up a bunch of other shit, like, that we’re all vampires, and that Rip’s a forest demon who lures people with drawings he puts on the trees-”
“I thought you said 50/50 - beneath all the fan-fiction, they’ve got, like, 75%!”
“Math isn’t my strong suit,” she admits, flatly.
“Just, don’t tell Rip any of this - I worry he’d look for a snitch to blame, and then…” He raises an index finger, interrupting himself. “But, hey, thirty people - not a lot, but there’s bound to be at least one criminal in there, yeah?”
“Dunno about ‘bound’, but, it’s not impossible.”
“You just said math wasn’t your strong suit, what are you doing criticizing my statistic predictions?”
“Consistency isn’t my strong suit; I’m not put together like you are, I don’t have that core philosophy you do.”
“Sure you do, you just haven’t put a label on it,” he explains, taking the last bite of his beans on toast. “I had no idea I was Upside till I met you. Backtrack, all’s I was gonna say was, maybe a pod listener’ll become a new buyer - and more money, means more money to spare, means more dates.”
“Aww.”
“By the way… Why’s it called true crime?”
“What do you mean? Seems like a perfectly fitting title to me; it’s true, and it’s crime!”
“But like, nothing else has that naming convention; ‘reality TV’ isn’t called ‘true TV’. You’d think if there’s a ‘true crime’, there would also be a ‘true sci-fi’, ‘true fantasy’-“
“What the hell would ‘true fantasy’ even be, though? I mean, it’s not like there’s real wizards, or warlocks, or-”
A smile from Malcolm brings Cindy to a pause.
“…Touché,” she says.
The server returns, takes the dishes. The food is paid for at the front counter. The couple leaves the establishment.
As Malcolm and Cindy make their way back down the street, and he rests his arm around her shoulders, she places the amble at a halt with the question:
“Can I show you something I’ve been working on?”
“Absolutely.”
They make a turn for the alleyway, eyes now on a graffito;
a picture that covers the whole wall, intricate yet crude, Baquiatesque.
It depicts screaming parents, drawn with rash, angry lines;
Scared children, running to what looks like drugs, alcohol, other dangerous habits;
Hearts of love, between figures drawn in black and white; those with beaming optimism contrasted with those that have broken spirits, in a sort of yin yang;
Magic wands, wicked witches, goblins and ghouls -
all of this, every single piece, fits together like a jigsaw - in order to create one and only word:
‘Offspring’.
“What do you think?” asks Cindy. “It’s something I’ve been working on, every chance I get. Real passion project, expression of all that I’ve been feeling lately in one piece of art, y’know? I’m real happy with it.”
“I… Wow. Just. Wow. I’m at a loss for words, Cindy.”
“You like it, huh?”
“Like it? I love it.” He notices something, something that catches him off guard a little: this was painted over the kraken mural from his youth. That might have upset the Malcolm of old, and the Malcolm of now of course still adored that mural, yet, it’s not at all hard for him to find the upside here - it’s staring him in the face. “I’m big into abstract expressionism, this might be one of my new favourite works. But hang on, ‘Offspring’ - is that a tag?”
“Something like that.”
“What’s it mean?”
“Well, it’s sort of a, what came first, chicken or the egg, thing - the answer I’d give, is neither; we’re all offsprings. As far back as you go, in all of history, there’s never one thing that came from nothing. No matter how hard you fight for identity, we’re all shackled to legacy, and lineage...”
“Hm,” he nods. “Poignant - and I thought you said you had no core philosophy.”
“Oh,” she says, surprised. “I hadn’t really thought about it in the context of, me.”
“What do you mean? You said this depicts what’s been on your mind, and I absolutely see you in this. I think we’ve found who you are, Cin; I’m Upside, and you’re Offspring.”
“Hm,” she tilts her head, viewing her own work from a new perspective. “I like that.”
“I’ve got a question, though - about the piece.”
“Yeah?”
He points to what makes up the ‘O’ in ‘Offspring’. “You said Fran and Shane’s ‘squabbling’ - love that word, by the way - never had anything to do with you, and yet, that looks like parents yelling at a kid. What’s that image mean to you? And the kid, she’s running toward… That might be a cigarette, but it might be a magic wand-”
“Malcolm, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“Oh?”
“When I told you about my childhood, I… Well, okay, most of it was true. But there was some stuff that…”
“You lied to me?”
“…”
“It’s okay if you did, I’m… I’m sure you had your reasons.”
“I was… Scared.”
“Not of me, right?”
“No, no, of course not- but there’s just this… Thing, about me, that I’ve never told anyone about in a long time. I tend to keep it a secret, but I like you a lot, Mal, so I think you deserve to know.”
“Alright. What is it?”
She pauses another long while, her eyes facing down at the pavement, her mouth sealed and stretched. “Fran and- Mum and Dad , they did their best. They really did; they gave me food, shelter, love, attention, all that, despite what they didn’t have. They resented their own parents, and it was a lifelong dream of theirs to be better than them. They absolutely achieved their goal, but I… Admittedly, I took them for granted.” She’s starting to tear up a little. “And I could’ve grown from that. It all could’ve been fine. They never blamed me for that, anyway; kids, they’re supposed to be rebellious, they understood that. But they… There’s something else, that came up. Something about me, that even they couldn’t support. When they found out about it, it was only then I’d heard them scream for the first time - and to this day, I’ve never heard anyone else scream quite like they did that night. They told me to get out. They told me they never, ever wanted to see me again. They told me I should burn.”
“Jesus, Cindy, that’s horrible! No one should ever, ever talk to a kid like that, especially not their own kid…” Sweat drips down his brow - lots of it. “…But, what was it, that made them say those things? Did you kill someone..?”
“God no!” She punches him in the chest - not exactly lightly , but light enough that he takes it without flinching. She looks up at him. “How could you ask that?”
His eyes don’t waver from hers. His visage starts perplexed, but reshapes into a grin. “You said you wanted to kill the Amy Winehouse guy, like, less than an hour ago.”
She looks back down, unable to contain her laughter, yet concealing it - mildly - via pressing her face into his chest. “Touché,” she says, for the second time this morning, more sigh-like than the last time.
“But for real,” asks Malcolm, “what was it?”
“I… Okay,” she lets out a quick exhale, and backs away from him slightly, shaking her arms about and stretching her calves. “I think it’s best I show you. Get ready, I assure you, this is… Weird. Just, take my hand.”
He takes her hand.
She says something under her breath, does some sort of hand motion.
In a poof of violet smoke, the couple finds themselves in
“A playground?” asks Malcolm. “How did you-… Where are we?”
“London! Little playground in London. I remember Mum and Dad taking me here when I was little - first park I ever went to, actually! They had to save up for a bus, but they said it was worth it, and that the parks in Birmingham were too drab for ‘a little princess’-“
“But, how did you do that - teleport, I mean. Like, did Rip give you a throw-pearl, or something?”
“I’m... Well, I’m not exactly human- or, well, I’m not a ‘homo sapien’. I’m more like Rip, you see-”
“Do the tentacle thing.”
“What?”
“Sorry, sorry,” he puts a hand to his forehead, “I’m just, a little confused, is all.”
“Well, lemme explain: biologists and historians tend to look at human evolution as a straight line, yeah?”
“Fish; fish with legs; and then at one point they realize they look a lot like fellows and blokes and such.”
“Yes, that - what not a lot of people mention, though, is that evolution began forking off in the later stages; homo sapiens make up most of the population today, but there’s a plethora of other forms our species took - like my form; I’m what’s called a ‘homo magi’; like a homo sapien, but with, y’know, magic powers.”
“And are those, like, limitless?”
“Kinda,” says Cindy, as they both start walking toward the empty structures in the playground. She steps onto the small metal carousel, kicks the ground a time or two in order for it to spin at a medium pace. “I had to learn the spells I know - it’s like, learning your first spell is learning how to walk, and then all the ones after are other, more complicated skills - like dance, or playing an instrument… Learning every spell ever is like, learning how to do every single thing the ‘normal’ body can do; learn how to do every job, skill, so on, but on an even larger scale… I think Rip might know all of them, though. Somehow.”
“Does he know you’re a homo magi?”
“No, and I’m not sure he would’ve hired me if he did; he might see another magic-user as more of a threat, compared to a ‘normal human’. I kinda think that’s why he surrounds himself with ‘normal humans’; less intimating. Deep down, I think he has a lot of fear and anxiety. I dunno. It’s just a theory I have.”
“Huh,” says Malcolm. “I never really thought about that. By the way, do we know for sure that he’s a homo magi? I mean, he doesn’t look especially human.”
“I’m… Not sure, actually. I was kinda just assuming, I’m not sure what else he could be.”
“What, are homo magis the only kinda people that can do magic?”
“For the most part; there’s some exceptions; I’ve read cases involving rituals with demon blood, which can grant powers. And, of course, there’s stuff like the tools we use, but I never took Rip to be a parlour trickster. If he’s not homo magi, then he’s, like, an entity, of some kind…” She stops spinning. “I’m sure the big question you’re wondering is, ‘why didn’t I use my powers to save Walter’.”
“That didn’t cross my mind. Even if it did, I wouldn’t have gone there.”
“Well, it’d be a fair question,” she tells him, getting up from the carousel and walking toward the swing-set - they sit beside one another. “And the answer’s,” she continues, looking forward, “I didn’t have enough experience. I didn’t know what spell could’ve saved him, and either way, I couldn’t think straight - my coordination was way off, I couldn’t get any magic words to come out… But, I’m not letting that happen again - I’m going to make sure of that.”
“I mean, that sounds good, but, just, don’t beat yourself up over what happened. Even if you were the most skilled, powerful wi-… zard there ever was, what happened wouldn’t have been your fault.”
She tilts back to him. “You’re very good with words.”
“Thank you.”
Her lip shakes. “Does it seriously not bother you?”
“What?”
“That I’m a… ‘Wizard’.”
“Cin, how could that possibly bother me?” He holds her hand. “You are the greatest person I’ve ever met, and it’d take something inconceivable for a single hole to be poked in the love I have for you. As far as I’m concerned, magic powers are just another upside; my girlfriend’s a wizard, how cool is that?”
She can’t begin to contain her tears, and yet, she smiles - wide. Widest she’s smiled in a long time. She nudges her swing toward his, and wraps her arms around him. “Thank you,” she tells him.
But.
Through her eyes in her head that lay atop his shoulder, she notices something behind the two of them - a man, on a bench.
Reading a newspaper.
She recognizes the colour of his trousers, the cap that pokes from behind the article…
It’s him .
And, he says something - one word.
And, despite how quiet he says it. Despite how distant the bench is. Despite the paper covering his mouth. The word is more than audible to Cindy’s ears. To her, it echoes.
“Witch.”
It’s enough for her to stumble out of her swing, and into the mass of pebbles that act as the floor to the playground.
“Are you okay?” Asks Malcolm, standing up from his swing.
“No.”
“Bleeding? Do you need ice?”
“No, that’s not what I…” She points toward the man on the bench. “Him,” she whispers. “He’s been following us, I’m sure of it.”
“Oh,” says Malcolm, turning his head. “We haven’t been here long, what do you mean he’s-“
“He was at the restaurant, Malcolm. He was in San Fransisco.”
“Oh.”
“What do we do?”
“Can’t you get us back to HQ?”
“What if us teleporting’s how he followed us - like, what if he’s got one of those tailer-hooks that Rip’s been warning us about?”
“Oh, shit… Uh.”
“How’s about we run in different directions, as fast as we can? Surely he can’t chase us both.”
“Alright, sounds like a plan.”
They do as agreed, but not for long; in a flash of green light, both of them return to the Otherkind headquarters.
“No!” Cindy exclaims. “No, no, no-“
“I sincerely apologize, Cindy,” says The Rip, standing before them, “but it was vital for me to put an end to your outing ahead of schedule; time is of the essence, due to the.” He looks to Malcolm. “Circumstances.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Cindy explains. “Somebody was following us! We think they had a tailer-hook!”
“…What did they look like?”
Cindy looks to Malcolm, her hand out toward him - he hands her the memory camera. She uses it on herself, and hands Rip the photo.
“…Kelly,” he growls, releasing his tendrils, and pivoting to look in all directions.
Alec reveals himself from the shadows, too - a vengeful anger in his eyes unlike any Malcolm and Cindy had ever seen in him. He uses one hand to take a pistol from his holster, and uses the other hand to open a locket that’s draped over his chest. He looks upon the picture in that locket, for quite some time. “He’s got a lot of nerve, if he’s gonna show himself here - after what he did.”
Malcolm and Cindy both wonder who’s face is in that locket, and what it was that Kelly ‘did’, but neither feel it’s the time to ask either of those questions.
“DON’T KILL ME!” a voice cries out. Out stumbles Kelly, into the middle of the room - his tailer-hook in one hand, his sword in the other, and a now-empty duffle bag dangling by its strap over his forearm. Tears are avalanching down his face.
“Is that a fairy?” Cindy whispers to Malcolm, gesturing toward Hannah - who, is tugging away desperately from Kelly’s blade, but to no success at escaping her restraints. Malcolm nods.
“Even if you managed to come up with one million reasons why I shouldn’t kill you,” The Rip tells Kelly, “it wouldn’t even be a fraction of enough to stop me.”
“I don’t need a million,” says Kelly, “I’ve got just the roight one to sway ya’! I’ve been ‘ere for bloody days, alroight?! Redone this entrance more toimes than I can count; spun ma’ sword so many toimes, I think I’ve got cahpal tunnel - and that’s just the tip of the iceberg! I’ve ‘ad my ahms and legs tahn off, ma’ stahmach burnt to bits! I been shot, stabbed, every single thing that even the sickest of sickos could possibly imagine! I may be back in one piece, but I am in AGONY - the feeling doesn’t go away, y’know! It’s loike, phanum pain, or some shite - I hate it, I hate it!!!”
“Don’t you dare pretend you’re the victim here,” says Hannah.
“Aren’t I? You just sat - flew - there, and watched!”
“You didn’t have to do any of it, though,” says Alec. “Everything you do, you choose to do it - that makes you far from a victim, dare I say the opposite of one.”
“But, I do have do it - for Mista’ Night! I’d do anything for ‘im! He’s the man who broke me outta prison, I ought to return the fava’! I’ll be ‘ere longer, if he wants me to be! Weeks? Months? Fockin’ years? I’d do it in a hahtbeat!”
One of The Rip’s tentacles shoots forth, faster than Kelly can even begin to turn his aching wrist - it wraps around his whole arm, making every inch of it immovable.
“Good luck,” says The Rip, “turning back time, now. If I’m being honest, thinking of the consequences of your theoretical infinite time loop was already giving me two or more headaches; what would happen, to the rest of the world, in that scenario? Would we all keep going back to that moment in time? Would all of this planet’s progress come to a halt, and forever be stuck in that moment? Would you be turning every single person alive right now into an immortal? I don’t think I’ve ever come to such a wall, such a lack of understanding, in all my years of being alive - what I do know, though, is that I’m not at all interested in that future, and I’d end a man’s life if it’s what I had to do to avoid it. Seems you’ve merely given me more reason to kill you, Asher Kelly - how funny is that?”
More of The Rip’s tentacles go flying at Kelly, Alec fires his gun several times.
And yet…
All the attacks are blocked off - by what seems to be an invisible force field.
“What?” asks Kelly, Hannah, Alec, Malcolm and The Rip, all in unison.
They look to Cindy - the only one who didn’t ask.
“I’m not sure,” she tells them, forcedly.
The Rip notices a few grains of white powder on the ground. “A salt circle,” he presumes, looking back up to Cindy.
‘Thank god’, she thinks to herself, silently. ‘He hasn’t caught on.’
“Cindy… Why?”
“I…” She looks to Malcolm, remembers what he told her about his encounter with Peck. “…What is it, that separates our gang from theirs? What quality?”
No one answers.
“…Decency. We don’t just, kill willy nilly - that’s what they do! They exploit, they expend, they traffic, they kill, but we, we’re better than that - we’re not ferocious predators, we’re, like, a business,” she looks to The Rip, “a family, even - I guess - anyway, we have morals, logic, decency- ”
“Are you suggesting we don’t kill him?” The Rip asks.
“Cindy, you have no idea what this man did,” says Alec.
“I didn’t say that,” Cindy tells The Rip, “all I’m saying is, if we’re to sentence him to the death penalty, the least we could do is…” She looks to Kelly. “Ask him what he wants for his last meal.”
in the 1896 Ward & Hughes stained glass within St. Peter's Church, Monks Eleigh, Suffolk
--Church Link: www.suffolkchurches.co.uk/monkseleigh.html
Cosplayer: Diego Salas Montes
Cosplay: Él - Chicas Super Poderosas (Powerpuff Girls)
AEX 22 | Santiago, Chile.
HØRE STAVE CHURCH, built around 1180
The inscription in runic letters which is carved into the stave that carries the pulpit, says; "The summer when the brothers Elling and Audun cut lumber for this church, Erling Jarl fell in Nidaros". King Sverre came through Valdres in 1177, and probably did the two brothers join him then. They promised to build the church when their enemy Erling Skakke was dead. In the year 1179 he was killed in the battle on Kalveskinnet in Nidaros, and this is what the inscription means.
From the Middle Ages and up till today the church has undergone many changes. Most extensively around 1828, when the covered aisle around the church was built into the nave. The last restoration was done in 1979, and at the same time there was done archaeological excavations. The excavations reveal that around year 1100 there was a small building on this site, built in wooden poles, probably a church or a chapel, and that earlier there had been a graveyard at the spot. The carpenters left wooden spoon, discarded pieces of wood, parts of tools, pieces of rope and iron nails. There was also found pieces of working clothes and shoes. Lumps of tar, bits of tar barrels and of fireplaces show stages of building process. The excavations also show that people have walked in and out of the church for centuries and lost small things. For instance have 365 coins been found, and among this a Danish coin, a "penning" from Viborg coined by king Magnus the Good (1042-47).
A number of improvements and recent acquisitions have been added in our century, e.g. an automatic sprinkle system that was installed in 1981. We are grateful that this House of God has survived up till today and for what our forefathers have contributed to here.
(copied information from the site of the church)
2007 - Due to coming widening of the graveyard and a new parking lot, archaeological excavations had just started. Some remains from cooking place had been found.
Okay..... I am a HUGE fan of Lance Armstrong. I named my 6-year-old after him, and he has been a huge inspiration. My favorite quote of his is: pain is temporary, quitting lasts forever. Anyway, I don't get much time to watch the news and I had NO idea he was going to be in town until I turned on the radio at work and they were reading the 8:30 a.m. news and announced he was going to be at the Capitol in Denver making a big announcement at 10 a.m.. And then after the announcement there would be an impromptu bike ride.
I sat at my desk anguishing whether I should ask to take off work or not. I hate asking for time off. I have my bike at work too. Around 9:00 I couldn't stand it anymore.... I was talking to a co-worker and I was just a nervous wreck.... I had to go. I went in to my boss (he is a great boss, and not just for letting me go to this) and I told him, "I am really embarrased to ask you this, but.... Lance Armstrong is in Denver today and I really want to go down and see him. Would it be okay if I took half a day off?" (I have to take time off anyway by the end of the year). He said fine. Whoo Hoo! Now I was really wound up! Now.... to fit my bike in my car.... it wouldn't fit and I don't have a bike rack. I tried and tried to get my bike to fit (the wheel doesn't come off) and it just wouldn't fit. By that time it was about 9:10 and I work about 10 miles out of Denver. It doesn't sound bad but there is a ton of construction on the highway right where I was going by.
So I took my bike back in to work and put it in my office. But I was going! So I zoomed down there as fast as I could. The next question was where to park. I didn't want to drive too close to the capitol because if the traffic was bad I would waste time trying to park. So I parked about a mile away at 9:42 a.m. right in front of a sign that said "no unauthorized parking". I crossed my fingers and hoped I wouldn't have a ticket or be towed. I ran a mile to the capitol area and got there a little before 10:00. This is the scene when I arrived. I am so excited about this big turnout.
I moved to the middle of the crowd and got my camera ready. The governor talked for a little bit and introduced Lance Armstrong. He announced that they are bringing a stage race back to Colorado in August 2011. I can't wait! This will be huge for the Colorado economy. They talked and answered questions for about 20-25 minutes and then told us where the start of the impromptu bike ride was. I thought, "hmmm, maybe it is good that I don't have my bike, I can go to the starting area and get some shots of him right at the front.
So I went with the crowd to the starting area. SO many people participating, it was awesome! I got to the intersection this was at, the very first Quizno's restaurant. We waited and waited for a while. A golf cart and big black SUV drove up, in which I thought Lance and the governor were in. Well, we were looking in the wrong direction. The motorcycle cops came up the street behind us and led the pack. I held my camera up and snapped a picture, but I don't even know if Lance was in it or not. Bummer!
A guy that I had been talking to was parked closer than I was and offered me a ride back to my car. So I went, and he dropped me off. Then we drove to the park where they were all going to end up. But by the time we got through traffic they were already done. Oh, well. It was a blast!
I was totally wound up the rest of the day. It was hard for me to settle down. I will be putting up more shots from this awesome day. I got back to work around 1:00.
www.cyclingnews.com/news/lance-armstrong-announces-the-qu...
... Worship him by choosing to live close to him. Each day is such an important part of a journey & although at times we may feel as if it is going nowhere in this world our spiritual journey is a totally different matter! It is taking us along a path of adventure, one that is often tough & rigorous! "Blessed are those who have learned to acclaim you, who walk in the light of Your presence oh Lord!" (Psalm 89:15) Yes even in struggles & times we are so weak we need to praise him, lift up our hands! Because by the simple act of thanksgiving we are choosing to walk in the light! How I want people to see me glow with his presence even when I feel so weak & tired from the journey! Lord let me walk in your light always! Let me shine bold & beautiful for your glory! Let my lips constantly lift up praises & adoration for who you are, thanks for who you made me to be & for having your way with my life! May I help bring joy & light to the world around me, by being me shining & sharing you! Being still, knowing & being blessed <3
Él es David Carnicer, la razón de que yo siga aquí a pesar de todos los altibajos. Mi mayor apoyo y la única persona incondicional e irreemplazable. Y aunque su galería esté hasta arriba de retratos míos, nunca se presta a posar para mi cámara. Hasta ahora. Creo que se merecía un huequito aquí.
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Explorando esto del retrato, mi primer trabajo con texturas.
Exploring about portrait, my first ps work with textures.
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Canon 50mm f/1.8
