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Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
close your eyes,
With you right here, I'm a rocketeer,
Let's fly,
Nah I never been in space before,
But I never seen a face like yours,
You make me feel like I could touch the planets,
You want the moon, girl watch me grab it,
See I never seen the stars this close,
You got me stuck off the way you glow,
Here we go, Come with me,
There's a world out there that we should see,
Take my hand, close your eyes .
" ela não melhorou, continua sentada nas suas próprias fantasias, se continuar desse jeito, sozinha o dia inteiro ficará. oh darling! pare de finjir, os outros não percebem mais eu percebo.a sua sombra já te ameaça e você nem disso sabia, você sabe que ele sempre estará lá, mas será que você o alcançará ? aqui vamos nós de novo, será que ela não cansa de voltar sempre no mesmo lugar ? o coração já está polido e frio, lágrimas já não derramam mais em seus duros olhos castanhos. sua respiração já não fica ofegante, ela pensa demais, ele fala nada, ela derruba as torres da cidade, ele a observa, ela se sente perdida e confusa, ele sabe que sempre vai protege -la, ela dorme, ele pensa, venha até mim, ela precisa disso. talvez seja só momentâneo a dor perdida e inacabada passe, e essas rosas mortas irão se esconder junto com seus olhares.
ela está carente ? - ela nunca irá admitir, e sempre jurará que nunca vai precisar de alguém, era para ela se fortalecer com a dor e não enfraquecer, a vida deveria ensinar o que sempre ensinou . desde que eu a conheço ela nunca torce o braço, grita na raiva e gagueja nos choros de fraqueza, oh darling ! passe logo disso, pegue minha mão, feche seus olhos ....
ela sempre se pergunta se um dia os contos de fada irá visitá -la em seu mundo insensato real, ela sempre se pergunta ... ela sente raiva de não ter mais ninguém para qual ela possa colocar suas pernas encostadas ....
oh darling ! o frio passará e você verá de novo o que nunca mais vai querer sentir ... "
" she has not improved, continue to sit in their own fantasies, if it continues this way, will be alone all day. oh darling! stop pretending, others do not realize the more I percebo.a his shadow now threatens you and you do not know it, you know he'll always be there, but will you reach? here we go again, does not it tiring to go back in the same place? the heart is polished and cold, tears no longer spill over into his hard brown eyes. your breathing is no longer panting, she thinks too much, he says nothing, she drops the towers of the city, he notes, she feels lost and confused, he knows he will always protect her, she sleeps, he thinks, come me, she needs it. maybe it's only momentary pain lost and unfinished pass, and these roses will hide dead along with his looks.
he is missing? - She will never admit it, and swear you'll never ever need someone, it was for the pain and strengthen rather than weaken, life should teach what has always taught. since I know she never twist your arm, screaming in anger and stutters in the cries of weakness, oh darling! it passes soon, take my hand, close your eyes .... "
"Everybody got a weakness, hey watcha gonna do? Everybody got a weakness...my weakness is you." - Ray LaMontagne
February 10. 2019 - Song of the Day
In a moment of weakness I exposed a solid brace of b&n SD40-2's hauling a manifest train south nearing Saginaw, TX on the BNSF Ft Worth Sub way back in the spring of 2001. Too much crap in the air back then made me convert this one to black and white.
I'm shocked that my trusty Nikon N90 didn't immediately self-destruct once I exposed the precious Kodachrome 64 speed film to such trash. I despise the b&n. It's like a venereal disease that you can't get rid of and the railroad just destroys everything it touches. CB&Q, ATSF, GN. The list goes on and on.
Hopefully these SD40-2's are still working for a shortline in better looking paint. If they are still in green and black I hope they all end up at #Erman. #FTBN
11-5-2008
Both Suzy and I wish to extend our heartfelt sympathy. These mums are the last flowers in our beds. They survived killing frosts and three inches of snow. It seemed that they were meant for you. I thought this was an appropriate quote for a wonderful couple. Thumbleweed our thoughts are with you.
There is a sacredness in tears.
They are not the mark of weakness,
but of power.
They speak more eloquently
than 10,000 tongues.
They are the messengers
of overwhelming grief,
of deep contrition,
and of unspeakable love.
- Washington Irving
day 8 (Norway - Åndalsnes)
If weakness is a wound that no one wants to speak of
Then "cool" is just how far we have to fall.
And I am not immune, I only want to be loved.
But I feel safe behind the firewall.
Can I lose my need to impress?
If you want the truth
I need to confess.
I'm not alright, I'm broken inside.
And all I go through, it leads me to You.
Burn away the pride
Bring me to my weakness
'til everything I hide behind is gone
And when I'm open wide with nothing left to cling to
Only You are there to lead me on.
'Cause honestly, I'm not that strong.
That's why I need You.
It turns out that Vader isn't quite as tough as he makes out!
You can purchase greetings cards, prints and posters with this image on by following this link
*Working Towards a Better World
For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow.
Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.
A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.
A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.
When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.
A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.
So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness. -
Herman Hess
Thank you for your kind visit. Have a wonderful and beautiful day! xo💜💜
Michauline - forerunner of the penny farthing
In 1861 the French developed Pierre
and Ernest Michaux, father and son, the first
useful penny farthing, called "Michauline", with
pedal cranks on the front wheel.
The first Michauline was in
a considerable number of 200 pieces per day
built. And it was they who made the wood up
switched to steel.
However, the Michaulinen had serious ones
weaknesses: cumbersome construction,
iron tires, low gear ratio and high
frictional resistance of the bearings.
Michauline – Vorläufer des Hochrades
1861 entwickeln die Franzosen Pierre und
Ernest Michaux, Vater und Sohn, das erste
brauchbare Hochrad, "Michauline" genannt,
mit Tretkurbeln am Vorderrad.
Die erste Michauline wurde bis 1869 bereits in
einer beachtlichen Stückzahl von 200 pro Tag
gebaut. Und sie waren es auch, die von Holz auf
Stahl umstiegen.
Allerdings hatten die Michaulinen gravierende
Schwächen : schwerfällige Konstruktion,
Eisenbereifung, geringe Übersetzung und hohe
Reibungswiderstände der Lager.
“For the leaders of the people have misled them. They have led them down the path of destruction (Isaiah 9:16).” Economic crash, bank runs, dollar dead. Social chaos, rebellion rises, future gone. Rioting, looting, insurrection. Police, army, anarchy. Distraction, weakness, your enemies will attack you, they will nuke you. America will crash, America will burn.
I have a weakness for osprey in action. Someone said that the osprey they watch back east fly along and scoop the fish out of the water. I think I've seen that once. The osprey here plunge into the water and are usually completely submerged before they come back up with their catch. Quite a thrill to watch in my opinion. I like seeing the water action that flies off their wings and tail as they come out of the water. I'm guessing it's because they go under water that they need to quickly survey the surroundings when they come out. Either way, it gives us a chance to see those intense eyes.
Osprey_6909
I have a weakness for the beauty of the old advertisements that were painted on the side of buildings so long ago. Even if today the buildings have survived the bulldozers, the signs are often painted over. If the buildings are restored, they are often 'cleansed' away. Enjoy the image and go out and document the ones in your neighbourhood and destinations.
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath 'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual. This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting. In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset. Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'. This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant Tali Tamir August 2010
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath 'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual. This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting. In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset. Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'. This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant Tali Tamir August 2010
Part Two
Such intense emotions welled up inside of her as she began to see it. At first it was just teeth, an open mouth consuming EVERYTHING… a loathsome eating monster and in between those teeth were all the natural resources of the earth. Oil, coal, iron ore,wheatfields, animals, diamonds, gold, silver, copper, tin, phospherous, cadmium, zinc, forests, lakes all pouring into that hideous mouth…WANTING WANTING no matter what the cost and suffering of beings. She heard the chewing and gnashing of teeth and she despised the monster and gave him more shape and color. She wanted to see it more clearly. A huge head, tiny body, scales appeared…and huge feet…blue ones that didn’t care what it stepped on and destroyed. Arms reached out to TAKE, POSSESS, HOLD and CRUSH. Fingers extended for MORE and MORE. It became the symbol of immeasureable suffering on the planet. It contained all the selfishness, all the greed, the manipulation, the lies and insatiable lust for pleasures and profit. It was ready to shove all countries into its gluttonous jaws.
The sun appeared in the sky and in the water. Even within the lifeblood of the monster, light bubbled and moved and embraced all that was being poured into that self-serving belly. Suddenly a million stars sparkled in the night sky also beaming down onto the creature with the wide open mouth and the outstretched arms. Because those twinkling lights were too far away, the creature growled and roared ferociously threatening to devour the entirety of the heavens.
Observing this madness, she suddenly drew a line between the sky and the earth immersing half of its body in a slowly rising tide. In that exact moment, she saw with new eyes. The creature looked like it was standing in a crib like a baby screaming for its mother. She could not shake the nurturing feeling that rose inside of her. She suddenly realized that this creature had no idea of what it really wanted. It screamed out of pain and loneliness, out of weakness and desperation. She could see its powerlessness and agony. It was not the first time such a revelation moved her heart into deeper levels of understanding and compassion. It was then that the wisdom flooded into her waiting heart. Fear disappeared. She understood the enormous advantage her awareness held. No matter what happened next, she was sure that this creature had absolutely no power over her. The meaning of the words of an Ancient Master put everything into perspective.
“Forgive it, it knows not what it does.”
Click Image Below for Part One
Suspended above the city of NeoExtropia, Sky Port Bury hangs in a tangle of steel, secrets, and light. Power is traded in whispers, beauty is engineered, and loyalty runs on voltage.
When casino matriarch Vivienne Ravenwood finds a broken synthetic in a back-alley, she doesn’t call security—she takes it home. What begins as curiosity becomes obsession, and in the city’s electric heart, creation always asks for something in return.
The Ravenwood Construct Book I: Eidolon
A new series of dark cyberpunk stories from the world of NeoExtropia.
Chapter 1 – Vivienne and the First Signal
Sky Port Bury was bracing for a storm. One of the high, thin tempests that hovered instead of falling, turning the air sharp and expectant. Neon flickered against dry steel, and the freight lifts sighed somewhere below. Vivienne Ravenwood moved through the service alleys in a long red coat and a pace that kept the city from catching up.
She’d meant to cut ten minutes off her night. Instead, she found a body.
Not human. Human-shaped.
It sat propped against a dumpster, plating gone in places, framework showing like a graphite sketch under paint. The face, even half-ruined, had been engineered toward beauty—cheek geometry tuned for light, orbital wells proportioned to imply calm. Someone had cared how it would be seen. Someone else had cared less and left it here like a confession they couldn’t finish.
Vivienne crouched. Cold oil and ozone; the city’s perfume. Close up, the chassis revealed quiet wealth in its design: anti-shear anchors at the shoulders, micro-gimbal spine segments, a combat-grade pelvis coupler disguised as grace. Industrial strength folded into elegance. She traced the line of the jaw where dermal mesh had torn back from its seam. The synthetic looked like a statue interrupted.
“Who threw you away,” she murmured, “and why did your worth change?”
A small light flickered deep inside the skull cavity—nothing dramatic, a moth inside a lamp. Not power; a capacitor’s envoi. Then she heard it: two quiet tones in succession, nearly subsonic, more gesture than sound.
Da - dum.
She didn’t believe in omens. She believed in patterns. The two notes repeated, slightly lower. The second slid. A human would call it wistful. A diagnostic would call it noise.
Vivienne stood. “All right,” she told the empty air. “You’re mine.”
She called no one on the casino channels. She didn’t like paperwork in the stormlight.
Ten minutes later, a plain cargo van eased into the alley. Two of her dockhands—one old enough to know what not to see, one young enough to want a promotion—lifted the chassis under her eye. Vivienne insisted on a blanket around the torso, an absurd courtesy that made the younger man less brave and the older one less curious.
“Workshop A?” the old one asked.
“Beneath Workshop A,” Vivienne said. “And use Route Three. No cameras.”
The van pulled away, leaving the alley to its hum. Da - dum, she thought, and almost smiled.
The private lift smelled like sterilized winter. Vivienne stepped out into a room that appeared on no Ravenwood blueprint: low-lit, three gurneys, a ceiling that remembered silence, a ring of devices named with numbers because names were incriminating. Her security chief had called this place a rumor. That was the point.
“Put it there,” she said. “Arms along the sides. Head turned slightly to the left.”
The dockhands obeyed. She dismissed them with enough pay that would keep them indebted and silent—two conditions she trusted more than loyalty. When the door shut, the room felt like a stage without an audience.
The synthetic lay where she’d wanted it, as if it had chosen the pose. Vivienne circled, cataloguing: servo array graded for torsion, knuckle housings built to take a blade, throat cavity widened for a speech modulator. There was taste in the build. There was money. And there was the violence of a hurried disassembly—cut lines not unscrewed, brackets warped where patience would have sufficed.
“Who were you to them,” she asked, and the question left condensation in the air.
The platform’s diagnostic rails extended with a quiet hydraulic curtsey. She connected three lines: power, data, and truth. Power would be patient. Data would be hungry. Truth would be whatever she could prevent from being a lie.
“Shell only,” she told the system. “No core wake. Map the lattice and stop at thirty percent.” Her voice slowed when she gave orders to machines. People mistook it for tenderness. It was tuning.
Screens bloomed. The lattice unfolded in false color, a cathedral of logic in cross-section. Weathered, yes. Sabotaged, no. And there—like writing under scraped paint—an encrypted partition nested beneath the system’s scheduling layer, mislabeled as inert fabric support. Not corporate. Not Guild. Not any vendor she’d bribed.
The identifier was wrong in a specific way: too short by two characters and too symmetrical to be a mistake.
EIDOLON.
Vivienne tasted the word like a jeweler tests metal—instinct before science. She didn’t touch the encrypted partition. Not yet. Let a thing think you hadn’t noticed it and it would tell you who it was trying to impress.
“Slow copy of the surface layers,” she told the system. “And prep the dermal frame for re-anchoring.”
If she was going to keep it—and she was, after all—she would not parade a ruin. Beauty wasn’t weakness; it was armor. People got hypnotized by beauty and confessed things they didn’t mean to.
She keyed three messages, disguised as unrelated repair orders:
To Kel Foran, who fixed neural lattices because he couldn’t fix his own sleep:
Prototype drone. Mesh burn on scheduler. Need reflow and stitch, no full boot. My lab.
To Lio, who worked the port’s edges where the cameras gave up:
Collector’s piece—frame reinforcement and servo retrofit. Has to run silent. Assume nothing. Tell no one.
To the ex-Arcova engineer who changed names monthly:
Behavioral dampers and etiquette bundles for a civilian face. You don’t know what you’re working on. If you think you do, you’re wrong.
She watched each message send, tracking acknowledgments. When the room was quiet again, she lifted a tray of dermal mesh, midnight-soft and threaded with carbon shimmer. The synth’s cheekbone caught the light at the angle the mesh would lay; the room believed in symmetry and Vivienne obliged.
Then—the two-tone hum again, fainter this time, carried in the transformer’s throat. Da - dum. The second note stepped down.
“I didn’t ask you for a song,” she said.
No answer, of course. The platform hummed and waited for her to invent meaning. Vivienne set the mesh down and let her hand find the curve of its jaw, almost gentle.
“You belong to me,” she said—not loudly, not for the cameras that didn’t exist down here, not for the city that kept its own ledgers. For the room. For the machine. For herself.
Da - dum.
Visit Sky Port Bury at maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Kasieopeia/219/128/534
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath 'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual. This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting. In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset. Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'. This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant Tali Tamir August 2010
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath 'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual. This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting. In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset. Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'. This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
#niobe The tragic myth of Niobe The tragic tale of Niobe is one of the most memorable Greek myths, for Niobe's story features a striking example of the consequences of hubris, a Greek term defined as arrogance or excessive pride. This myth was popular in ancient literature, poetry, and art. Therefore, it is not a surprise that the legend of Niobe appears in one of our oldest and best sources for Greek myths, the Iliad of Homer. Discover the myth of Niobe, a tragic story The beginning of the story The tragic tale of Niobe is one of the most poignant in Greek mythology. Her father was Tantalus, king of a town above Mount Sipylus in Anatolia, but we do not know exactly who her mother was. Niobe had two brothers, Broteas and Pelops, who would later be a legendary hero and would give his name to Peloponnese. When Niobe grew up, she got married to Amphion, king of Thebes. This was a turning point in her life and a series of tragic events followed, to give her a distinct place in one of the most tragic dramas in Greek mythology. Niobe and Amphion gave birth to fourteen children, seven sons, and seven daughters. The fatal mistake and the horrible crime At a ceremony held in honor of Leto, the mother of the divine twins, Apollo and Artemis, who was also living in Thebes, Niobe, in a fit of arrogance, bragged about her fourteen children. In fact, Niobe said that she was superior to Leto, as she had fourteen children and not only two. When the twins knew this insult, they got enraged and at once, came down to Earth to kill the children of Niobe. Apollo, the god of light and music, killed all seven of Niobe's sons with his powerful arrows in front of their mother's eyes. Although Niobe was pleading Apollo to feel mercy for her last surviving son, Apollo's lethal arrow had already left his bow to find its mark with deadly accuracy, thus wiping out all the male descendants of Niobe. Artemis, the virgin goddess of nature and hunting, killed Niobe's seven daughters with her lethal arrows and their dead bodies were lying unburied for nine days. Turning into a rock Devastated by the slaughter of his children, Amphion committed suicide. Some versions say that he too was killed by Apollo when he tried to avenge his children's deaths. And so it was that Niobe's entire family had been wiped out by the gods in a matter of moments, and in deep anguish, she ran to Mount Sipylus. There she pleaded Gods to give an end in her pain. Zeus felt sorry for her and transformed her into a rock, to make her feelings of stone. However, even as a rock, Niobe continued to cry. Her endless tears poured forth as a stream from the rock and it seems to stand as a moving reminder of a mother's eternal mourning. To this day, Niobe is mourning for her children and people believe that her faint image can still be seen carved on a limestone rock cliff on Mount Sipylus, with the water that seeps out of the porous rocks bearing a strong allusion to her ceaseless tears. The meaning of the Myth The tragic tale of Niobe centered on the consequences of hybrids, a strange concept in the Greek antiquity, which said that if you act with arrogance towards the Gods, then you will be punished. Actually, Niobe's story is a classic example of the wrath of gods against human weaknesses and has been beautifully narrated in Homer's Iliad. The tale of Niobe also finds mention in Metamorphoses, a narrative poem, written by the renowned Roman poet Ovid, who, however, has inverted the traditionally accepted order and portrayed the desires and conquests of the gods with aversion, while elevating human passions to a higher level. Source: www.greeka.com
His weakness and failure gnawed at the roots of his mind until he could consider nothing else.
And a happy Christmas to you all.
Heres my LOAD page for today, showing my weakness which is definitely my children, this shows 3 out of 4, and particularly when they play nicely together.
It really does melt my heart and I could watch it all day. It makes any issues or problems that i am having just melt away.
I used this layout from pinterest as massive inspiration:
uk.pinterest.com/pin/67202219420191770/
and used papers from my counterfeit kit to complete this.
counterfeitkitchallenge.blogspot.co.uk
thanks for looking xxx
Our greatest weakness lies in giving up. The most certain way to succeed is always to try just one more time.
Hello, I have returned!
Oh, it's Ashuraman!*
We were-
Silence! I will now cue the announcer for... A LONG RAMBLING STORY OF MY PAST!
Nooooo!~!!!
Ashuraman is a member of the Six Devil Knights, before becoming a Justice Chojin.
Personality
Ashuraman starts as a typical Devil Chojin, acting in a brutal and merciless way during his fights, and adding a disturbing feature: he can take other people’s arms, technique that he uses against Terryman, both in a psychological and physical way. He is also shown to be an strategic and cunning fighter, that was even able to imitate the Kinniku Buster, giving birth to his Ashura Buster.
However, although he is supposed to not only be one of the Six Devil Knights and the prince of the Hell Realm, he has a more softer and kind side, which he always tries to hide, causing him live between the Devil Chojin and the Justice Chojin.
Appearance
He is a Devil Chojin, often blue-skinned, with six arms and three faces: one smiling, one angry, and one cold. Sometimes his skin color is changed to a light tan, giving him a more human appearance.
Relationships
Ashuraman hates weakness among the Devil Chojin. When the Seven Devil Chojin failed to stop Kinnikuman, he and the other Devil Knights decapitated them and stole their arms for Ashuraman's purposes. For some reason, he couldn't steal Buffaloman's arms. And to make matters worse for Buffaloman, Ashuraman admits that Buffaloman had the potential to be a Devil Knight before the meeting with Kinnikuman Soldier, but Buffaloman lets his emotions sway him.
Sunshine
He is absolutely loyal to General Devil and the other Devil Knights, but his strongest relationship lies with his friend Sunshine as they formed a tag team during the Dream Tag Tournament arc.
Abilities
Ashuraman has the power of stealing other Chojin arms and using them as his own. It has a weakness: if the Chojin is still alive, they can manipulate their stolen arms to their liking.
Prehistory
Twenty years previous to the events in the Survivor Match for the Kinniku Throne Arc, Ashuraman was personally trained by Samson. He is being taught the Ashura Izuna Drop, where he is warned never to let his opponent invert his technique, after having mildly injured himself.
Kinnikuman
Ashuraman is one of the Six Devil Knights during the Golden Mask Arc. He fights for Akuma Shogun, and fights against Terryman during a tournament, which ends in a double-knockout. He returns during the Dream Chojin Tag Arc, where e forms a tag-team with Sunshine as the Stray Devil Chojin Combo, and win against the New Machineguns, only to later lose against the Muscle Brothers. He will finally appear in the Survivor Match for the Kinniku Throne Arc, where he forms a part of Team Soldier, but his match against Satin Cross also ends in a double-knockout.
Golden Mask Arc
Ashuraman, with his distinctive six arms and three faces, initially appeared as one of the Devil Knights, Devil Chojin who stole the sacred Golden Mask of the Kinniku Clan. He first fought Terryman in the Five Story Ring battles inside Warsman's unconscious body. In this fight he introduced a new version of the Kinniku Buster: the Ashura Buster. If Terry were to have gone through even one Ashura Buster, his body would've been pulled apart. Luckily, Kinnikuman jumped into the ring and cushioned the blow. Terry then broke off Ashuraman's top two arms, causing his own arms to be on the verge of falling off.
It is here that Ashuraman reveals his ability to regenerate his arms by stealing the arms of others. As soon as Terry's arms fell off, they appeared on Ashuraman. He tried a second Ashura Buster on Terry, but Geronimo's tomahawks (protruding through the ring above for Terry to grab) and Buffaloman's arms (which suddenly appeared on Terry) put a stop to it. The fight eventually went out of the ring and, after Terry restarted Warsman's heart, they scramble to make it back to the ring before being counted out. With his last ounce of strength, Terry used Buffaloman's arms to stop Ashuraman from re-entering the ring, causing the match to end in a double count-out.
Because of this, he was the sole surviving Devil Knight when General Devil was revived, and when they both left Warsman's body, Ashuraman engages Kinnikuman soon afterwards, and was soon defeated by an incomplete Kinniku Driver. As punishment for his defeat, General Devil decapitates Ashuraman with his sword, and Ashuraman merges with his master's being like the others.
Deep of Muscles 12
After deciding that they will participate in the Dream Tag Tournament, Sunshine informs him that he will try to find a new technique, and also try to start an exclusive training to become stronger. Ashuraman agrees, and sees Sunshine become sand and traveling through the wind. Once Sunshine returns, he shows him his new technique, the Cursed Roller. Now they were ready to enter the tournament!
Dream Chojin Tag Arc
Ashuraman, as a part of the Stray Akuma Chojin Combo with Sunshine, takes part to the Dream Chojin Tag Tournament. The two demons, last survivors of the Golden Mask Arc concoct a plan to steal the Friendship Power of the Justice Chojin by using some cursed dolls.
They manage to steal the very emotion of friendship among the Justice Chojin, greatly weakening them, as a Justice Chojin can't fight without friendship in his heart.
As such, Ashuraman and Sunshine are able to beat effortlessly the Big Bombers and the New Machineguns, in the process turning the former friends Kinnikuman and Terryman against each other.
While during the fight against the New Machineguns Sunshine begins to believe in the power of friendship, Ashuraman keeps holding to his ideal as an uncaring, evil fiend, and by observing how the attempts made by Kinnikuman and Kinnikuman Great to save Geronimo and Terryman ended up in their cursed doll being broken, he claims the breaks are parts of a prophecy, and uses Sunshine's Cursed Roller to injure his foes where the dolls were broken: Geronimo ends up with a badly shattered right arm, and Terryman is forced to surrender his Star Emblems, or get Geronimo killed and himself decapitated.
The prophecy comes to pass in a roundabout way: Prince Kamehame, the former Kinnikuman Great, succumbs because of the strain of helping the New Machineguns and decapitates Terryman, giving him the Kinnikuman Great to allow him fight with Kinnikuman even though he lacks the Star Emblems and Kinnikuman now despises him.
During the fight between the Muscle Brothers and the Stray Akuma Chojin Combo Ashuraman is exposed to the Friendship power: he witnesses Kinnikuman and Terryman starting to mend their friendship, and sees Sunshine caring for him and even apologizing when the Cursed Roller ends up tearing off his right arms.
Ashuraman tries to still act cold and uncaring, but when Prince Kamehame's arm, who used as a replacement, rebels to his will and leads to his defeat, starts believing in friendship too, sharing with Sunshine the memories of Samson Teacher
He's then taken back to his kingdom to be healed, but escapes, still bandaged, to restore Terryman's Star Emblem and ask Harabote Muscle to reinstate The Machineguns as a team and allow them to fight together against the Hell Missionaries.
In the Hell Kingdom, his mother rationalizes his discovery of friendship by claiming Ashuraman found the Perfect Chojin a better target for his hatred than the Justice Chojin.
Chojin Blood Oath Brigade's Formation!
This story covered the formation of Kinnikuman Soldier's team in detail. Brocken Jr. and Buffaloman want to join Soldier's team, but Ashuraman and The Ninja aren't on board with that idea. According to Ashuraman, Buffaloman is too easily swayed by his emotions, which is why he never became a Devil Knight despite having exceptional talent.
Kinnikuman Soldier shows up and interrupted Ashuraman and The Ninja's departure. In response, The Ninja attempts to read Kinnikuman Soldier's mind with his Expose the Heart jutsu, but there's nothing to read. Unlike the other Fated Princes, Soldier has no ambition to destroy his opponents and take over the throne.
Ashuraman gets into a fight against Soldier, but Soldier easily fends him off. Soldier even escaped the Ashura Buster in a similar fashion to Kinnikuman and counters with a Dragon Cube Suplex. Buffaloman deduces why Soldier would pick those four. Pride is their main characteristic. According to Ashuraman, "all four chojin are bull headed guys who won't listen to anyone".
Ashuraman asks if Soldier is a fake Soldier and Soldier confirms this theory. He ambushed the real Soldier's team while they were training near Mt. Fuji and stole the real Soldier's mask. The fake Soldier explains that he joined the tournament because the Friendship Power the Justice Chojin use is a sham and that the pride that they share can bring out their true strength.
Ashuraman wants Soldier to prove why this team of outcasts would make an excellent team. Soldier tells him to be silent. A real man would never talk so much. Instead, he'd silently watch the result with his own eyes. Ashuraman follows up with his Tornado Hell, but Soldier dodges, causing the building already worn down by the Rolling Cube Suplex to collapse on top of them. Soldier heals them all with a Face Flash. With this act, Soldier convinced them to join his team for the upcoming tournament.
Survivor Match Arc
When Kinnikuman's right to the Kinniku Throne was challenged by five pretenders to the throne, Ataru Kinniku forms a team of five people to fight in a tournament to determine who shall be king of Planet Kinniku. [4] Buffaloman - sans his horns - arrives at the house of Brocken Jr., along with Ashuraman and The Ninja. Ataru asks them to join his team, as well as to meet him at Nagoya Castle in three days time, and - during that time - they watch him from a distance to ascertain his character.
After Ataru defeats Blockman and saves a boy, Ashuraman and the others decide to join his team. They proceed to enter Nagoya Castle and face against Team Phoenix, as they announce they have formed The Chojin Blood Oath Brigade. After The Ninja is defeated by Satin Cross, Ashuraman declares he is Satin Cross' next opponent and dons mechanical shoulder-pads gifted to him by the Ninja.
Ashuraman begins with a flurry of punches, but they are all evaded. He is knocked down after Satin Cross dodges a roundhouse kick, and a shoulder-tackle manages to crack Satin Cross' armor, which reveals Satin Cross' true form. Ashuraman attempts an Ashura-Buster, but - when Satin Cross tries to remove his head - the shoulder-pads on Ashuraman capture his head and prevent escape. Satin Cross counters with a Sand Cushion, which causes the ring to turn to sand and cushions the blow, softening the impact.
With Satin Cross seemingly down, despite the cushioned blow, Ashuraman adopts his Angry Face and attempts a Flying Elbow Drop from the top ropes. He then sees the eyes of Samson in Satin Cross, which forces him to deflect his blow and destroy his own elbows instead, as he shows sympathy to his once teacher and guardian. After Ashuraman breaks down with tears, Satin Cross uses a Break-Dance Shoot on him.
Satin Cross reveals that he changed after the incident at the waterfall, when Ashuraman was a child, and how he made a pact with the God of Intelligence to absorb a parasite into his body to change from Samson into Satin Cross. Satin Cross offers him the chance to join Team Phoenix, but Ashuraman feigns a handshake to crush his hand and reject the offer. Ashuraman moves his shoulder-pads to his knees for a Double Knee Drop. [8] Satin Cross attempts another Sand Cushion, but Ashuraman blows the sand away.
He performs an Ashura Izuna Drop, but Ashuraman forgets that he was taught that technique by Samson, and thus Satin Cross knows how to avoid damage from the technique. When Ashuraman attempts another Ashura Izuna Drop, Satin Cross disconnects two of his arms and extends his upper arms, which he uses to grab the ropes and reverse the move, slamming Ashuraman into the canvas. Satin Cross then uses a Demon World Swamp, which turns the canvas into a murky swamp, which connects to the Demon World.
Ashuraman then uses an improved Ashura Izuna Drop named the Azura Infinity Power.
The parasite leaves Samson's body to cushion the blow, as their body crashes against the wall. Satin Cross then uses the Triangle Dreamer, but both Satin Cross and Ashuraman collapse to the ground and are instantly knocked out, thus ending the match in a draw.
He watches as the remaining team members were defeated by Super Phoenix and his men in the Cube Match, leaving him the sole survivor. Later, when he and Kinnikuman's team ventured to the final arena, Super Phoenix activated a spiked ceiling trap to kill them all. However, Ashuraman sacrificed himself by holding the ceiling up long enough for Team Kinnikuman to escape, and was impaled. He was later revived by Suguru's Face Flash along with the rest of Kinnikuman Soldier's team.
Kinnikuman 2011 Perfect Origin Arc
During the beginning of the arc, Ashuraman shows up to sign the treaty between the Justice Chojin, Devil Chojin and the Perfect Chojin as the Devil Chojin's representative. As Ashuraman and Neptuneman had helped out Justice Chojin in their own special way, it made perfect sense to sign the treaty. However, he broke the treaty when he helps General Devil and his fellow Devil Knights invade the Chojin Graveyard.
Ashuraman vs. Justiceman
After killing countless Graveyard Demons, he enters the door for the Perfect Sixth and appears within a cave in the Demon World.
A voice calls to him and compliments his composure, where the Sixth Origin appears: Justiceman. Justiceman tells the story of Milosman, whose statue adorns the arena of Ashuraman's world, and that Milosman had his arms stolen by Ashuraman's ancestors. Ashuraman clicks his fingers an makes four screens appear about the ring within the arena, which enables them to speak to the chojin in other rings across the world, as the others also continue to participate within the tournament.
After Justiceman puts his scales on a corner-post, Ashuraman dives forward to attack. Justiceman counters before an attack can land, as he drops a high-kick to Ashuraman's upper arms. This knocks off Ashuraman's armlets, and it lands upon the scales, which strikes a balance that shows he is neither evil or good. Ashuraman proceeds to use an Ashura Six-Realm Lotus. Justiceman counters with a palm-press and a spin-kick. Ashuraman attempts an Ashura Torpedo, which is countered with a Chancery Drop.
Justiceman continues to perfectly counter Ashuraman's attacks, culminating in a double-arm suplex. Ashuraman attempts a Paramita Lariat, but this is countered with a Large Three-Arm Lock. Justiceman is able to predict with set of arms Ashuraman will use at any moment, which is due to the genetics of Milosman 'speaking' to Justiceman, and Justiceman uses a Judgement Crash. This wrenches off one of Ashuraman's arms, and a Judgement Twist removes another.
A Judgement Avalanche removes two more arms, leaving him with two arms. Ashuraman attempts an Ashura Izuna Drop, as his knees turn into hooks and hold onto Justiceman's feet, but Justiceman counters with a handstand. Justiceman attacks with a knee-strike. Buffaloman encourages Ashuraman to continue, who attempts a Lariat that misses and lands on a ring-post. This slices off Ashuraman's remaining left arm.
Ashuraman attempts a hand blow, but his arm gets entangled in the ropes. This slices off his right arm. He proceeds to grow six new arms, borrowed from various Devil Chojin. He proceeds to use a Revived Tornado Hell, which finally lands a blow on Justiceman. This is followed by an Ashura Face-Change and a Tornado Hell and an Ashura Six Realm Lotus. He lands a series of blows against Justiceman, as he leaves no openings, and follows with an Angry Suplex. This is broken by Justiceman with a Judgement Windmill.
After the attack, Ashuraman takes two corner-posts and slices indents in them. They attach to the top two ropes on each side of the ring, as he slips between them on one side to use an Ashura Flaming Bullet. The two incessantly try to counter each other's attacks during the fall, until Ashuraman uses his Ashura Buster. This is soon turned into a Blood Unit Ashura Buster. It fails to impact Justiceman, and - in anger - Ashuraman attacks Justiceman with a series of blows, but Justiceman dodges every single attack.
Justiceman proceeds to break off several of Ashuraman's arms, and destroys his various faces, until only one is left. He follows this with a Judgement Penalty. This destroys the rest of Ashuraman's arms and the final face. Justiceman is declared the victor. Despite this victory, the scales on the side of the ring declare Ashuraman innocent and Justiceman tosses back his armlet to him.
He doesn't return for the rest of the arc, but his "spirit" appears and follows Akuma Shogun out of the ring, after he defeated The Man.
Omega Centauri's Six Spears Arc
Ahuraman, now with his face bandaged, is training with some dumbbells, when suddenly, a magic barrier seals the Devil Chojin HQ.
Unnamed Arc
During the match between the Natural and Satin Cross at the Hill of Crosses, Ashuraman shows up. He calls out Satin Cross for leaving Makai without his permission. Satin Cross explains that he left Makai in order to redeem Team Intelligence as a whole. Satin Cross didn't tell Ashuraman as he felt that Ashuraman would never understand Satin Cross's resolve at all. Satin Cross came back to spit in this ridiculous world's face.
Satin Cross charges at The Natural with a Parmita Lariat. The Natural encourages this as The Natural wants more sport. The Natural catches Satin Cross and throws him aside before Satin Cross goes for a sweep kick, followed by a Tornado Hell to set up the Quadruple Buster. The Natural easily counters the Quadruple Buster by attacking Satin Cross's neck with one of his masks.
The Natural praises Satin Cross's move and notes the damage taken by Satin Cross before announcing that he will begin his counterattack. The Natural finishes off Satin Cross with a Natural Bone Crusher. During the grapple, The Natural praises Satin Cross for being the first Chojin to fight well and that it's a shame to kill him. Satin Cross admits that The Natural is right along on how The Natural is strong in comparison to him. Accepting his loss, Satin Cross is incomplete and empty. This incompleteness is what drives Chojin to evolve. Soon, a Chojin to outshine Satin Cross's imperfection will arrive and that The Natural will personally witness this.
The Natural will not forget this at all as he slams Satin Cross into the canvas. He notes that Satin Cross did well for a Chojin. Upon seeing Satin Cross's defeat, Ashuraman calls out Satin Cross's original name, Samson. The Natural retrieves the Capillaria Ray piece after finding it as one of Satin Cross's bracelets. Brocken is surprised at the piece's Now, that Satin Cross lived up to his promise, The Natural will dispose of him.
Ashuraman tries to aid Satin Cross, but Satin Cross harshly criticizes his own actions. However, Ashuraman believes that Satin Cross did well as he fought as the honorable Samson instead of his heel personality. Ashuraman cried tears of joy upon seeing that in action. Despite Ashuraman's help, Satin Cross will die soon enough. Now that Satin Cross is dying, it is up to Ashuraman to decide the Chojin world's future. And then Satin Cross passes away.
As Brocken Jr. and Ataru console Ashuraman's loss, Buffaloman and The Ninja arrive. Buffaloman notes the coincidence of the five in the same location. The Chojin Blood Oath Brigade has formed again. Ataru believes it is up to the Chojin Blood Oath Brigade to unite as one and put an end to the dangers of the Choushin. Ashuraman is the one who will step up to the plate first.
💪M💪U💪S💪C💪L💪E💪
A year of the shows and performers of the Bijou Planks Theater.
M.U.S.C.L.E. No. 70, "Ashuraman B"
Painted by Paprika, thus losing all collectible value forever.
* Ashuraman has been seen in BP 2020 Day 70!
www.flickr.com/photos/paprihaven/49087345158/
And in BP 2020 Day 152!
www.flickr.com/photos/paprihaven/51219159056/
And in BP 2022 Day 123!
Yeah. I have a definite weakness for a good donut. It doesn't help that I work every week in Tualatin, where there exist the most mouth-watering old fashioned donuts anywhere: Donut Land. Seriously. Voo Doo may be fun, Blue Star may be new... but Donut Land is the real deal. I mean, even New Seasons carries Donut Land donuts. They're not fancy, but there's a wide variety and consistent excellence to each type: maple bars, double chocolate cake, blueberry cake, apple fritters, you name it... yum. Especially when you're lucky enough to get a brand spanking new, still warm batch.
Now that I've raved about Donut Land, I have to admit that these beauties are from Blue Star Donuts, downtown. Blue Star is certainly one of the most photogenic donut places I've ever been. It's gorgeous in there. The light! So. Good.
Image made with my Hasselblad 500 C/M.
(Note: I will also give Joe's Donuts in Sandy a shout-out. They're also the real deal. But take it easy on those donuts... they seem to weigh twice as much in the stomach as they do out. Also, I've yet to try Annie's Donuts... soon, very soon.)