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pedros-mustache · 2 years

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nighthawks (18)

series masterlist || previous chapter

word count: ~4.4k+

warnings: mention of past violence/injury, language, x fem!reader

a/n: waves from the void 👋🏻 i love you all 👋🏻 disappears back into the void

beta: @againstacecilia

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-FIVE—LOCATION: INORA

The sun carves through your father’s wheat field like a blacksmith’s iron. Beneath the oppressive heat, the blue grain wilts, parched by summer’s arid climate and the sun’s unrelenting brilliance. Dry sea days, your mother used to call this time of year. The folded stalks catch the light and the wind in such a way that the field seems to rise and fall like the ocean. Wave upon wave of glittering cerulean wheat, moving, breathing, a phenomenon entirely its own, stretching to the horizon and beyond.

But folded stalks means harvest season has begun. The crop must be brought in for threshing before the weather’s intensity shrivels the wheat heads. It’s every able body to their post.

Well, every body but yours.

Upon returning from the pond, you slept restlessly. The enormity of your father’s proclamation of marriage and Din’s offer to track down Rendell Crik kept you in a perpetual loop of anxiety. You tossed and turned, and Din fought your flailing limbs all through the night. When you finally woke late and found your bed empty, you assumed Din had gone to the Sunder to tinker with a malfunctioning sensor. You assumed he was giving you space to think.

You never expected this.

Standing on the edge of the field, you lift a hand to shade your eyes from the morning sun. Sweat gathers beneath your arms, and your mouth runs dry. It’s a hot day—will be hotter by afternoon—but that’s not what has your body reacting so strongly. The heat you can stand; you are native to the fierce Inoran seasons after all. No, it’s the sight of Din Djarin dragging a scythe through your father’s wheat field that has you so affected. So afflicted.

Shirtless from the waist up, he arcs the electro-scythe through the firm stalks with ease. Back and forth, back and forth, the curved blade slices through the wheat, depositing the crop at his feet like a broken offering. His tan skin glistens under the sun-lit sky, and his tattooed-muscles contract and release with each calculated movement. A young girl carrying a basket nips at his heels, catching whatever stalks she can reach before they hit the ground. She gathers his shorn wheat as dutifully as he cuts it. He pauses every two steps to wait for her to catch up, glancing over his shoulder, and she smiles up at him, her cheeks pink from the sun. An unnatural pair—a helmeted man and barefoot child. Quite like him and Grogu.

Quite like him and you.

You love him. Not for the first time, the realization strikes you in the gut like a sucker punch. It steals the air from your lungs, and you tear your gaze away from the pastoral scene lest you shout across the field: I love you, I love you, I love you.

You are saved from yourself, from the declaration crawling its way up your throat, when your mother puts her hand on your arm. You turn.

“You seem tired, bundeet.”

Your mother smooths her hand over your shoulder. The lines by her eyes deepen as she smiles. Her touch, her soft look—she offers a warmth you never thought you’d feel from her again. You burn—happily, you burn under her gaze.

“I am,” you admit. Sweeping your gaze back in Din’s direction, you sigh. “It’s been… a weird few days.” Few months, few years. Stars, you’re tired.

Your mother follows your gaze, and she moves to stand alongside you. She crosses her arms, but she isn’t angry. She is comfortable, considerate. She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes. “Who is he to you?”

Her question doesn’t make sense at first, not with the rising heat of the day and your lack of breakfast, but then you realize she is asking about Din. She is asking about the man in the field, pausing long enough to explain the mechanics of his farming equipment to a smitten little girl.

You answer without hesitation. “He’s my partner… in all things.”

“Your father accepts him as—”

“My husband.” Shoulders dropping, you nod, a sigh parting your lips. “I know.”

She looks away from Din, brow arched. “You sound displeased.”

“No, it’s not that. I’m…” You meet her inquisitive stare. “Honestly, I can’t believe Father would care enough to accept someone as my husband. After everything that happened, everything I did, I didn’t think he would—or you would, for that matter—give me a passing thought. I guess this all feels like a dream, and I’m waiting to wake up.”

Your mother winces, the bridge of her nose wrinkling in something akin to shame. Her eyes skitter to the ground, and her arms tighten around her chest. For a moment, she is quiet, and you feel as though you have pinned her in a glass corner. Like a hunted animal, she appears small and fragile and ripe for the taking. You stand over her with a dagger of accusation, and she cowers, waiting for your killing blow. But then—she looks up, and her face is clear, her eyes shining.

“What happened was a long time ago, bundeet. We have all made our mistakes. You are not to be blamed.”

Not to be blamed… You do not—you cannot—comprehend her. After so long apart, your mother speaks a language you do not understand. Frowning, you widen your stance in resolve. Digging your heels into the earth, you position yourself before her, not as her killer, but as one seeking forgiveness.

“But I am,” you say. “I was the one who shot—”

“No.” She holds up a slim-fingered hand, and you fall silent. Eyes flashing, your mother pins you with a stern look. “You are not to be blamed for Jeelia’s death. I will not hear you say such a thing.”

“But—”

Like the swiftness of a summer storm, the harshness in your mother’s brow dissipates. She reaches for your shoulders, her face folding in contrition. “Oh, daughter,” she whispers. Tears shimmer at her eyes, clog her throat. “I am sorry. Sorry that you felt the need to save your sister when it should have been me or your father who stepped into the fight. Sorry that you thought we would not love you after it happened. Sorry that you felt that you had no home here. I cannot—” She chokes on a sob, and you bite your tongue to keep from sobbing along with her. “I cannot tell you how—how sorry I am. Do not ask for forgiveness from me. It is I who should seek forgiveness from you.”

Without warning, she crushes you to her chest, and you cling to her. Pieces of the same puzzle, returned to one another, notched together as though never apart. Your heart swells, warmth spreading through your veins like warm honey.

“I missed you, daughter,” your mother whispers.

You laugh—a brusk sound, creased with disbelief. “I missed you too.”

Over her shoulder, you see Din, see him pause and lean against the scythe and watch you embrace your mother after almost a decade apart. He pauses only a moment before returning to work. Bushels of wheat drop in his wake, loose seedlings taking to the air.

You bend your face closer to your mother’s shoulder and smile. Harvest season, you think. Let me gather what no longer serves and plant anew.

For the first time in a long time, the rock-strewn field of your heart has been tilled and tended. You hold your mother tighter.

It is time to plant anew.

Late in the night, you make your decision.

Stepping out of your childhood bedroom, you move with a single-minded focus. The crackling fire in the hearth licks at your heels, urging you forward. You straighten your spine as you approach the small gathering in the heart of your home: father, mother, partner, and friends. Everyone you care about, everyone you are willing to die protecting, here before you now.

Yes, you’ve made the right choice.

Clearing your throat, you drop the illuminated fob to the worn wood table. The hum of conversation between Din, your father, and a mending Ka’ered ceases. Your mother looks up from tinkering with a broken wire on H-Ten’s arm. Silence rings loud in your ears.

You pause, glancing between the curious faces staring at you before declaring, “I want to go get him.”

A heavy quiet swallows the cabin as the image of Rendell Crik rotates in a slow circle above the fob. Intruder, you think. The man who defamed this sacred space should never be allowed to return, not even in the form of an inanimate image.

At last, someone—your father—speaks. “No,” he says. Clipped, staunch, final. You know that tone, heard it all throughout your childhood—he will not be budged.

You frown. “Father, this isn’t a decision for you to make.”

Shaking his head, he crosses his burly arms. “No, bundeet. It’s too dangerous.”

“He killed Jeelia.”

“And I won’t let him kill you, too.”

You look at Din for support or encouragement, but he leans back in his chair, a mirror image of your father: arms folded, feet planted firmly on the floor. His helmet obscures any emotion that may play across his face, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. Leave it to him to force you before the throne of your parents like a groveling subjugate. Must you beg for permission? Humiliate yourself before them if it means they will let you go?

No, those were the old ways. When you were young and naive and foolhardy. When you needed guidance more than freedom. Now you are grown, a woman in your own right. Your decisions are your own, and Din remains quiet to allow you clarity. No possibility of undue influence or coaxing; no chance for muddled rationale. This decision—this choice to venture into the unknown chasing after your greatest foe—is entirely your own.

You square your shoulders. “I’m going whether you like it or not.” You pause, glancing at your mother. “I need to do this.”

Rising from her place in the corner, your mother steps into the conversation. Firelight illuminates the worry at her brow, the corner of her mouth. She stands beside your father, placing her hand on his shoulder. “You don’t need to do it,” she says. “We are not asking it of you.”

“No.” You give a firm shake of your head. “I want to do it—for myself. If I don’t bring Crik in for his crimes, I will never be able to rest. My soul will keep wandering until it’s done.”

Your father lowers his eyes to the table. He reaches out, picking at a wayward piece of wood lifting from the finish. His shoulders droop, resigned to the situation. When he speaks, his voice is low and quiet, thin like paper. “And what are we to do if we lose you again, child?”

Your gut twists and your nostrils flare as tears drown your eyes. How long have you waited to hear those words from your father? And the words of your mother from this morning? You have gone without their care and concern far too long. Your head swims beneath this veritable ocean of reconciliation.

At the sign of your crumbling emotion, Din leans forward. He places his forearm on the table and inclines his head. In spite of the helmet covering his face, there is no mistaking the intensity of his gaze. “No harm will come to your daughter,” he tells your father. “Not if I can help it. You have my word.”

With a singular nod, your father inhales deeply. He has accepted it: your going into the fray. No longer a child. No longer an arrow missing from his quiver. He will send you out tomorrow, loosening you from the bow like a true hunter always does. He must release you in order for you to do as you were made to do: fight for him, fight for the future.

He braces one hand on his thigh, leaning back in his chair, and narrows his eyes. “Do you have any sort of plan? Or are you going into this blind?”

Though your father’s lack of confidence in you stings, you know him well enough to note the underpinning of concern in his tone. He knows you; he raised you. He knows your penchant for rash decision making unlike any other.

Din looks at you, tilting his helmet to the side in thought. “Crick was last reported to be seen on Hoth.”

“Hoth?” Your father scoffs. “No one survives out there.”

Din nods. “Rarely. It’s a good place to hide for that reason. He’s a wanted man.”

“For what he did here? On Inora?” you ask.

“Among other things. He’s most recently wanted for murdering a senator.”

You sit in the chair beside Din as you process the information. Murdering a senator… A far greater sin than swindling a poor farming community. At least on paper. You drum your fingers over the table top, considering.

“How many fobs does he have?”

“Not sure. I had a hard time connecting with Karga to ask that same question. My guess is at least seven.”

“Lots of people would be angry enough to put a bounty on his head after killing a senator. You’ll have competition,” your father says. “But Hoth…” He shakes his head, a grimace curling his mouth. “Is it really worth it to you, bundeet? If you don’t find him, you could freeze to death and—”

“We will have all the necessary protective equipment,” Din says, cutting your father off. “Your daughter is a professional. She knows what she’s doing.”

Your father sighs, and the house seems to settle with the sound. A proud resignation: proud of you, but resigned to the possibility of your demise. You suppose that is what most parents feel when they set their child free from the nest. You’re glad you had the opportunity for a real send off from home, though. A true departure; not some terrified and ashamed vanishing act.

You reach for Din’s hand, curling your fingers around the tight leather of his glove. You give a single squeeze and a small smile. Thank you. He nods, his grip on your palm tightening in response.

You look around the table, setting your shoulders back in confidence. “Then it’s settled.” You rise from the table. “We leave for Hoth in the morning.”

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-SIX—LOCATION: THE SUNDER

The Sunder slides through the stars like a knife through warm butter. Silent and sure, taking you to your ultimate point of redemption. You recline on one of the two couches in the cockpit, eyes glazed over as you study the vast expanse of space through the viewport. Twinkling starlight and inky darkness—how different from the rolling fields and sparkling sky of Inora.

You said goodbye to your parents early in the morning, just before the sun crested the horizon. The spindly fingers of a pink dawn reached over the brightening sky as your father tugged on your braid, a farewell motion of old. Your mother pressed a parcel between your palms, the sugar bread within still warm from the oven.

You promised to return, but gave no indication of when. The Sunder and the stars and Din Djarin are your home now. You came to Inora to mend the tattered threads of your childhood, and you’ve done the best you could at pulling healing fabric through the loom. The hole is patched, perhaps a few strands hanging loose, but that’s the best you can manage in such a short period of time. It’s all you need for now.

Hours after leaving your ancestral home, with a slice of sugar bread heavy in your stomach, you listen to the silence of the ship’s cockpit. H-Ten elected to remain with your parents as a technological aide, and Ka’ered limped to the galley as soon as the turbolift opened to the annex. Leaving you and Din alone on the ship for the first time in weeks.

You forgot—forgot about so many of the little things while you were away, while you were fighting to get back to this very room.

You forgot how quiet it could be with just you and Din on the ship. Depending on your mood or Din’s disposition, that silence can speak volumes. Today there is a reflective edge to the quiet, a heavy sense of relief too.

You stand from the couch. Your arms feel heavy hanging at your sides, and the curved ceiling seems to stretch higher and higher, pushing you closer to the floor. You are small but not helpless; disconnected but not alone. You stand on the edge of an island, marooned by the mistake that dropped you here. But that island is moving, chasing after a faraway ship that will offer you safety from the storm. You are not being rescued. You are rescuing yourself.

You should speak. Before this strange, deep feeling turns your tongue to stone, you should say what foreign words are tugging at the back of your throat.

“Thank you.” Your voice splits the tranquil bubble, and Din turns in his chair as though startled.

He hesitates. “For what?”

For what? Great question. You aren’t sure. Not really.

You inhale slowly, stepping toward the pilot’s chair as you look around the room in thought. When your gaze returns to Din’s helmet, you stretch out your arm. He wavers before sliding his gloved-palm against your outstretched hand. You curl your fingers around his.

“Thank you—for everything. For coming to get me from Breeth’s. For taking me to my parents’. For not giving up on me.”

He says nothing, and you allow the words to drape over his shoulders like a hand-crafted shawl, knitted together with love, before continuing.

“You could have left me at Breeth’s. When you found out I’d screwed up, you could have left me and gone on your merry way. Even after coming to get me, we could have just gone on to the next bounty; you never had to take me to Inora. And even after that, we don’t have to take the time to bag Crik.” You shake your head in disbelief, laughing under your breath. “I don’t know why you do it, but… Thank you, Din.”

“You really don’t know why I do it?”

Rolling your eyes, you scoff, though there is something in his tone that lights your skin aflame. Something deep and significant and world-shaking. You brush the feeling aside. Not the time. Not on a hunt so important.

“You’re kind of a hard man to figure out, ya know? I like to think I know what makes you tick, but I’m just a beginner. They could write books on how to figure you out, Mandalorian.”

Ignoring your play for humor, he clears his throat. He leans forward in his chair. “Tá tú cosúil—”

The cockpit door opens on a whoosh, and Din sits back, his tongue sealed behind his lips.

You frown, heart tripping in your chest. Inoran—coming from the mouth of Din Djarin. You are like, he’d said. Like what?

You would question him if you could, but his attention is diverted, sweeping around you to land on Ka’ered, leaning against the railing that borders the two steps into the cockpit. You resist the urge to cringe at the sight of your friend. Broken. It’s the only word that comes to mind when you see him.

A vicious scar mangles the right side of Ka’ered’s face. He lost a considerable amount of his cheek in the Ashwig attack, and the best your mother could do was stitch what remained of his face together. The rudimentary surgery pulls the right side of his face taut, his mouth stretched upward as though caught by a hook. Due to the unnatural and persistent pull, his right eye twitches open and shut, the pain forever embedded in his flesh.

And his leg—

The Ashwig swallowed his left leg without pausing to take a bite. If you close your eyes, you can still hear the sound of the limb tearing from his body, of his agonized screams ripping through the clear night. Only a cauterized stump remains where his leg once was, and despite the crude prosthetic your father fashioned out of wood, Ka’ered still walks with a pronounced limp. He grips the railing as he sidesteps his way into the cockpit. The wooden boot on his false leg (an alternative to a false foot) bangs against the thinly carpeted steps. The sound rattles your bones. A death walk, surely.

You push down the lump rising in your throat and paste a shaky smile to your mouth. “Hey, Ka.” You try to force the anxiety from your voice, but both men know you well enough to sense your unease. “How are you feeling?”

Ka’ered drops to the end of the nearest couch, abandoning his cane, also a gift from your father, to the floor. He scrubs a hand down the unmarred side of his face. “Take a wild guess.”

You glance at Din, feel the shame rise to your face in a wash of heat. You don’t blame Ka’ered for the sardonic bite that has colored his words since leaving Breeth’s mansion. Anyone who survived what he did would probably be more callous than what the doctor has become. It’s just… You can’t help but feel like all of this—his mood and his injuries—are somehow your fault.

“I think we have more bacta patches in the fresher if—”

Ka’ered traps you beneath a dark look. “I’m fine, Scout.”

Point taken.

You dare to sit on the opposite side of the couch as him. Hands on your knees, your eyes wander around the cockpit, aimless and uncomfortable. Din swivels the pilot’s chair to face the flight controls. The mood is heavy.

“Seems we’re back where we started. What are you going to do with me, Mandalorian?”

Din twists far enough in the pilot’s chair to give Ka’ered a passing glance. Unflustered, as always, by someone chomping at the bit to rip him a new one. “I know someone,” he says, voice even. “He can offer you shelter for as long as you need it. A teaching job too.”

Ka’ered balks. “A teaching job?”

“Yes. Teaching medicine.”

Shoulders slumping in his seat, the doctor’s brow puckers in consideration. “Oh.” He crosses his arms and turns his gaze to the floor. “I’ll… think about it.”

Din just shrugs and returns his focus to the navigation panel.

Quiet resumes. An unfriendly quiet. You drag your teeth over your lower lip and risk a glance at your friend. Or someone who once considered you a friend.

“We need to get you a hover-chair.”

Ka’ered looks up from the floor. His eyes slide to yours. Snake’s eyes, you think—narrowed and suspicious and ready to attack. “Very funny.”

“Not a joke. Not a joke at all!” Your tongue trips over itself to right your piss-poor attempt at low-ball humor. “I mean it. It could… help you get around until you’re…”

“Normal again?” He shakes his head on a humorless snort. “You’re dreaming, kid.”

Kid. The word doesn’t possess the same affection as when Din says it.

With a sigh, you place your hand on the empty space separating you on the sofa. You lean in, lowering your voice to a hush. “Ka’ered, I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head again. “Not your fault.”

“If I hadn’t screwed up at Breeth’s, you would—”

“—have still been a slave to Breeth’s every whim. Stop apologizing for everything. My universe doesn’t shift at your every decision. I made my bed. I'm lying in it now.”

You recoil. Harsh words. Words that needle your stomach. How much of it is true? You’ve apologized more in that last week than you have in the last five years. Your outer shell of steel has gone soft and pliable, and you now stand exposed. Your soft underbelly is on display for those you care about most to strike.

You curl your arms around your middle, biting on the inside of your cheek. The urge to apologize catches at the back of your throat, but you swallow it. Maybe Ka’ered is right. Maybe the Ashwig attack isn’t your fault…

After a moment’s struggle, Ka’ered lifts himself from the couch. He tells Din he’ll think about the offer of sanctuary, but he wants to meet the man in charge before making his decision. He won’t risk falling into the hands of another Breeth. You can’t say you blame his reticence.

Watching him fumble up the stairs and into the annex is like watching a lonely blind man grope through a crowded street. You avert your eyes out of respect until you hear the cockpit door slide shut.

When Ka’ered is gone, you slip from the couch with a groan. “Well, that could have gone better.”

Din chuckles. He waves you over with a flick of his wrist, and you dutifully come to his side. “He’ll come around.”

“Maybe… maybe not.”

“He’s right, you know.” Din pokes the hip closest to his shoulder. “You apologize too much. Not everything is your fault. Things happen—with or without you.”

You ignore the comment for now.

“Who is this friend you’re talking about?” Sliding your arms around Din’s neck, you lower your chin to his shoulder. You inhale, breathing in the scent of his freshly laundered flight suit and the grease oiling the joints of his armor. Your mother did that; a parting gift. “I don’t know you to have many friends, Mando.”

“I have friends,” he mutters.

“Yeah?” You twist your face to stare into the visor of his helmet. “Name five.”

Grumbling under his breath, Din grabs your waist and pushes you over the table of his legs. He swats your ass, the movement playful. His hand cracks against the soft material of your leggings. Your gasp dissolves into a giggle as he massages his fingers into your flesh. You twist to your back, leaning forward, hands fitted around the back of his neck. If it weren’t for the helmet, you might kiss him. A simple point of connection after a few days of chaos.

“Really, Din—where are we going? You don’t know anyone who could give Ka’ered a teaching job.” Narrowing your gaze, you tilt your head to the side. “Do you?”

Din fits his hand in the small of your back as he adjusts the flight control with his knee. He nods to the ship’s viewport, indicating the course ahead. “We’re headed for the Outer Rim. To pay a visit to Luke Skywalker.”

NEXT CHAPTER

#din djarin x reader #din djarin smut #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian smut #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut

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igazikutya · 5 months

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Zajok a nappaliból – Traxelektor 2023. 11.

Actress zeneisége hallatán minden valamirevaló Túró Torka téphető fóliát ragad, és bárki, akiben csekély türk szijjártóság szunnyad, követeket rendel be, hanyatló nyugatot kiált, sátánt sejtet, innen-e. Ez a furcsa, porszemeken gördülő, selymes, száraz, de látszólag nedves, meghatározhatatlan identitású szürkés hangkép ráadásul előszeretettel párosodik mindenféle nemű és számú hangképekkel. A címadások része egy különös zárójelezett betű/szám kódolás – ( betű szám ) formátum – ami az idei római számozott Actress albumok közös ismérve. Nem jártam utána, lehet valami titkos sakkjátszma zajlik a háttérben. A LXXXVIII, azaz római Nyolcvannyolc, 13 rövid futamot tartalmaz, ötletesek, izgalmasak, néha totál megbolondulnak – haver, beragadt a hold! – máskor melankóliában eldülöngélnek, megfunk-ulnak. Mint minden Darren Jordan Cunningham kiadvány, ez is a Ninja Tune-nál jelent meg.

„Egy dialógus rögzítése, semmint kompozíciók halmaza” – ekképp jellemzi legújabb szólóalbumát Ivan Pavlov, vagy ahogy mi ismerjük CoH. Az album, egy új szintetizátor, a Silhouette Eins-szel való, éjszakákba nyúló ismerkedésének folyománya. A teszt során, egy ponton rájött, nincs egyedül: „Mintha ez a valami beszélt volna hozzám a potmétereken keresztül – az érzés nagyon intenzív volt. Nem számított, mennyire határozott, konkrét és direkt próbáltam lenni, az eredményekmindig mások voltak, válaszoknak érezték magukat. Erről azonnal az ELpH jutott eszembe.” Utóbbi lehet, némi magyarázatra szorul: az ElpH a Coil azon a filozófián alapuló zenei projektje volt, mely a zenei felszerelést teljes értékű társnak tekintette az alkotói folyamatban (megjegyezném, ők képesek voltak a Lomonoszov Egyetemig menni, hogy az ANS szintetizátorral társalogjanak). Ha nincs meg, kik voltak a Coil, nagyon érdemes utána hallgatnod, nem nagyon létezik azóta se olyan elektronikus zenei kísérletező csapat, amely ennyi mélyre jutott, és ilyen végtelenre tágította saját zenei univerzumát. Ivan és Silhouette egyszeri/egyedi élményének dacára, a Radiant Faults tökéletesen simul a CoH experimentumok sorába, és értem az ElpH párhuzamot, de hallgasd meg mondjuk személyes kedvencemet, a pHILM #1-t és érteni fogod állításomat, az azért egy teljesen más dimenzió.

Deadbeat már sokszor igazolta névválasztásának gránitkemény valóját. Scott Monteith az általam nagyra tartott oly sok kanadai elektronik-hérosz egyike, aki végre nem a nyugati Vancouverből érkezik, hanem a keleti Montrealból. Őszintén mondom, új albuma, a Kübler-Ross Soliloquies falhoz vágott, teljesen kicsinált és még élveztem is. Scott barátunk mélylélektani utazásba ránt minket, Elisabeth Kübler-Ross öt fázison át vezető modelljét alkalmazva önmagán és rajtunk. Mivel Mindenszentek / Halottak napja nemrég volt, helye és ideje is van a haldoklás öt pszichológiai fázisán – elutasítás, düh, alku, depresszió, elfogadás – való elmélkedésnek. Persze a Deadbeat lemezeknek mindig van humora – még ha az közelebb is áll a szarkazmushoz – választott zenei formulái is, bár a dub és downtempo körül csoportosulnak, szerteágazóak és sokrétűek (melyben a partnerül szegődő alkotótársaknak is – Sa Pa, Martin Bakero, Om Unit, Paul St Hillaire, The Mole… – szerepük van). Itt most nincsenek társak, de – néhány kicsit idegesítően félrement track (The Double Bong Cloud, With Grand Trepidation) ellenére – talán az egyik legmasszívabb Deadbeat albumot hallhatjuk, melynek top zsolozsmája a Huey Lewis Voters Dub (Negotiation) vala.

A The Future Sound of London diszkográfiája kezd olyan lenni, mint ezek a szuperhősös multiverzumok, innen, ahonnan szemlélem, kvázi követhetetlen. Ez most éppen az Environment 7.003, amiből volt már egytől hatig, meg 6.5, Six Plus… szóval kábé tökmindegy. FSOL, és kész. A sound változatlan, a minőség is, sok újat nem lehet elmondani – de annyira, hogy a 32 éves életműben hallható hangminták bármelyikét simán újrahasznosítják. Klasszikus idm-triphop-ambient hullámzás Mr. Dougans és Mr. Cobain elméjéből. Kit érdekel, melyik dimenzióban vagyunk? Itt és most, minden jó, úgy, ahogy van.

A rendre megismerésre méltó előadók különleges darabjait szállító (még mindig bazijó nevű) ugandai, Kampalában működő Nyege Nyege Tapes Recording újabb kazija a téma. Ráadásul Jugidzu azzal az extrával is szolgál, amiért lelkesedni szoktam, miszerint a borító tökéletesen jeleníti meg a mögöttes tartalmat. Ez a szalag/lemez ilyen, pont ilyen, vagyis sokkal jobb.

Sator Arepo az album címe, azaz Sator Négyzet, ami az egy ősi 5x5-ös latin nyelvű palindrom. Európa és a Földközi-tenger környékének számos pontján megtalálták, korai konteók köszönhetőek neki, mágikus négyzetnek tartották, mely megóv a gonoszságtól és meggyógyít a betegségektől, őrületből..

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A punk-etnomuzikológus Jugidzu, aka Julien Hairon debutalbumának választotta szimbólumaként, hogy segítségével kapcsolatba léphessen kelta őseivel, szellemi örökségével. Hairon szenvedélye a field-recordings-ek gyűjtése, bejárta a világot, és ezeket felvételeket Les Cartes Postales Sonores nevű label-jénél ötrészes sorozatként Noise On Earth címmel ki is adta 2016-ban (Cambodia, Bangladesh, Singapore, Indonesia, China) Sok műtárgy maradt a tájban, és a szellemek ereje még mindig tapintható – jegyezte fel, mikor hazatért Bretagne-ba. Ezt a kelta misztériumot hivatott képviselni számára a Sator Arepo. Ha valami Omalás múltba süppedt barangolást vártál, fájni fog. Az intezítás vetekszik Tsuzing vagy Hvad itt már tárgyalt, és hallhatott műveivel. Nehéz a mélységbe fókuszálni, ha az arcunkban pattog a valóság, pedig itt erre volna szükség. A sodró ütemek hátterében ugyanis xenharmonikus skálákon csúszkáló, drónt szövő szintetizátorok építenek ókori falakat körénk.

Azon gondolkoztam, hogy van az a nem túl erős filmtörténeti pillanat a Baljós Árnyak víz alatti, utazós jelenetében, mikor azt mondja az ifjú Obi-Wan Qui-Gon Jinn-nek, látva, mit tett Jar Jar-ral, hogy – Túlnyugtattad! Ha kreatívan kívánnám illusztrálni a The Black Dog utolsó öt évét, ezt a jelentet lassítanám le 5 százalékos sebességre, te meg nézhetnéd, hogy átérezd ezt a kínt. Mert kábé ezt tette magával a trió: a nagy ámbientes útkeresés közepette túlnyugtatta magát. Nos, úgy tűnik, lassan elindulunk kifelé a túlnyugtatottság korszakából, mert az új aktuális album, a My Brutal Life halk jelekkel ugyan, de ezt mutatja. Ezeket a jeleket, kifinomultan kimunkált, elegáns, sheffieldi típusú kompozíciókat, megtaláljátok a Traxelektorban, de album szinten is érezni némi nagyobb koherenciát, egységet. Annyit most megígérek, ha megint kijön egy lapos Black Dog lemez, a videóval fog indulni a kritikája. Az irány pedig jó, de a srácoknak Sheffieldbe azt üzenem: költözzetek el erről a lakótelepről!

Tavalyról az ajtóberúgós, tabudöntögető Patience of a Traitor LP majd az idei A Vow Not To Read EP után ez már a harmadik Saint Abdullah és Eomac kollab. Szívem szerint azt írnám – többedszer hallgatva a Chasing Stateless-t – hogy, a folyamat finomodik. De ismerve a 2+1 author jellegzetességeit, hátterét, történetét, a folytatás szerencsére megjósolhatatlan. Az iráni-síita testvérpár Mohammad és Mehdi Mehrabani-Yeganeh és az ír Ian McDonnell változatlan vehemenciával, a nyers erő és a bölcs türelem végletes vitalitásával gördítik nyakunkba a lázadó elnyomottak impulzusokban gazdag experimentumait. Az elején ez nem volt meg, de az új album kapcsán egyre többször jutott eszembe az ikonikus Fun-Da-Mental banda, de amolyan 2023-as update-ben. Az album Mike Paradinas Planet Mu-jánál jelent meg.

Az alávajazók vs nem alávajazók konfliktusa eltörpül a szóviccelők vs szóviccért ütők népe párt örök és világméretű szembenállása között. Mivel én előbbinek születtem, keserves áldozatok árán, de megtanultam, nem kell mindent közzétenni abból, amit az agyam elém dob, valamint megvan a módszertana annak is, hogyan, ha mégis. A szóvicc erőssége, pontosabban annak hatása pedig lemérhető, és négyzetesen arányos a poén elhangzása és leesése között eltelt idővel (ebben a csúcsom 3 nap). Az Oblako Maranta páros erről sejthetően mit sem tud, máskülönben nem adják ezt a címet EP-jüknek: Trance Beckenbauer. A vétkesek, az orosz Radial Gaze és olasz A-Tweed aka Antonio De Oto páros. Franz Beckenbauer egykori aranylabdás, világbajnok, többszörös BEK-győztes liberó, becenevén Kaiser, akit 2016-ban a FIFA etikai bizottsága nyolc évre eltiltott minden futballtevékenységtől, mert szerepe volt abban, hogy Oroszország és Katar vébét rendezhetett. Sepp Blatter belebukott, azóta lecserélték a hal bűzös fejét, és Szaúd-Arábia – ahol újságírókat szeletelnek fel néhanapján a királyi család megrendelésére – focivébét rendezhet 2034-ben – mi ez a szag? A szó a védelemé: pumpálós uplifting trance-ük lélekemelő, vitalizáló hatású, az agyi szinapszisokat a szívritmusra hangoló mellékhatása folytán használható levertség, búskomorság, napisajtó olvasása okozta melankólia kezelésére. A kockázatok és melléhatások tekintetében kérdezze meg orvosát, sámánját vagy közeli szóviccelőjét!

Anatolian Weapons, aki a tavalyi Top 12 LP verseny fődíját vitte el a May That War Be Cursed című remixlemez sorozatának első két darabjával, most nem vett igénybe segítséget. Aggelos Baltas legjobban működő pszeudója – és mivel nála a másik név, másik zenei stílust is jelent az elektronikán belül – a számára legjobban álló köntös, az Antolian Weapons. E név alatt most megjelent új albuma, az Earth, már harmadik. Az etnos, törzsi elektronika, melyben a techno, dub, tribal jegyei keverednek, szolgál az utazás üzemanyagul, görögünk pedig idegen vezet minket birodalmában. A legszerethetőbb benne, hogy időtlen időkbe húz, amik messzi, ki tudja hol fekvő terekbe ragadják a hallgatót, és mindezt olyan finom, természetes eleganciával teszi, mint egy szuggesztív, nagyon jó mesélő. Minél többet hallgattam, annál nehezebb volt választanom, melyik track kerüljön kiválasztásra, mert igazából nincs rossz vagy gyenge pillanata ennek a lemeznek.

Olasz kvóta Alert! Dino Sabatini a legminőségibb idm techno biztos kezű szállítójaként egy szintén hibátlan kiadványt, a Opera Quattro EP-t prezentálja nekünk. Utolsó életjele a Delsin Mantis sorozatának hatos számú darabja volt két éve, azt is nagyon szerettem. A lemez saját kiadójánál, a berlini Outis Labelnél jelent meg. A label neve a görög Oytis-ból jön, ami az Illiászban Homérosz álneve. Mikor megvakítja Polüphémosz küklopszt, annak fájdalmas kiabálására válasza többi küklopsznak – ki akar téged megölni – a válasza: Oytis – azaz Senki, így nem segítenek neki. Érdekes mellékszál, hogy nevének Utisz verziója, a magyar grafikusművész, animációsfilm-rendezőnek, Orosz Istvánnak egy gyakorta használt művészneve.

Az ausztrál/olasz/örmény queer Kristian Bahoudian, vagyis Kris Baha utolsó életjeleit 3 éve – Palais (2019, LP), Barely Alive (2020, EP), Starts To Fall (2020, EP) – adta, és különösen értékes, Angul Guzmannal és Jack Freemannel trióban vitt bandáját / side-projektjét, a Die Orangen-t is azóta jegeli (Saft 3 [2020, EP]). Mivel látom különféle bejelentkezéseit a világ távoli sarkaiból, az ok is nyilvánvaló, DJ fellépések és Live-ok követték egymást. A Kris Baha & Ghosts In The Machiиe remélem nem egy váltás, csak egy jelzés, hogy ez a Baha, nem az Baha! Ugyanis a Ghosts In The Machiиe – micsoda eredeti gondolat – az AI-paráról szól, egyfajta cyberpunk sci-fi disztópia, egy transzhumanista jövőkép, ahol az emberi tudat már csak bináris szekvencia, amit az éjájok fonnak és irányítanak. Ebben a kódolt jövőben ébred magára néhány kiválasztott tudat, akik felszabadítják a gonosz éjájok által kitörölt emberi történelem emlékeit, és átlépve az idő határait értesítik korábbi emberi énjüket. Mondanám, hogy csak ők meg le se szarják, mert fészbúkoznak és tiktokoznak, és több pénzt akarnak keresni a friss Midjourney előfizetéssel, nem érnek rá ilyen hülyeségre, mint az aggasztó jövő. De nem, nyilván heppiend lesz ennek az éjájos-mátrixos-terminátoros koktélnak a végkifejlete. Jajj. Úgy hiányolom a dinókat! Jöhetne balról egy Morpheusaurus, meg mögötte két Neoraptor, egy piros, meg egy kék!

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Zene. Az album remekül olvasztja eggyé a különféle műfajok jegyeit – ebm, drum & bass, industrial, techno, hyperpop, new wave – és tényleg érdekes húzás a jungle alapra felépített ebm a Flesh & Code-ban, de közben meg olyan, mintha Ohgr-t hallgatnék 60%-osra hígítva, zajszűrve, korhatártalanítva, és nem hat erősebben, mint egy Years of Denial album. Egy biztos: slágerekben, dallamokban nincs hiány, és a Kraak bulikban hatalmasakat fognak rá danszolni a gót ifjak és lányok, de én inkább megvárnám a remixalbumot, mert úgy érzem magam, mint rosszabb napjaim némelyikén, amikor kétszer tettem cukrot a kávémba.

Kezdjük a bemutatkozással, mert olyan régen volt. Amellett, hogy 2018 júniusában írtam két sornyit Labelle - Post-Maloya EP-jéről, a tagolatlanul kaotikus írásom alcíme ráadásul „Feledés” volt. (Ti nem ezeket a reunioniakat keresitek!)

Szóval Jérémy Labelle a Madagaszkár keleti partjaitól 600 kilométerre keletre fekvő francia gyarmat, Reunion-szigetek szülötte. A vulkáni szigetet francia telepesek lakták be a 17. században, ma többségükben afrikaiak, illetve indiaiak, pakisztániak lakják, a beszélt nyelv a francia és kreol. Déjà vud van? Nem csodálom. Három hónapja az augusztusi számban írtam bizonyos Pangar nevű őrült párosról, ők reunioni DJ-k, producerek és mulatságszervezők. A közös zenei pont, az origo pedig a madagaszkári és reunioni népek zenéje, a maloya, ami egy poliritmikus népzene, húros íjjal és dobokkal előadva. A Maloya szó varázslatot, bánatot, fájdalmat jelent, és az UNESCO kulturális örökség része.

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Labelle azonban teljesen mást hoz ki a forrásból, ő mindezt idm-elektronikába olvasztja. Az InFiné Éditions és saját kiadója, az Eumolpe gondozásában megjelent Noir Anima a hónap legkellemesebb vibe-jait hozta el, és fogja elhozni nektek is.

Megláttam az esztétikus borítót, és tudtam, valami különleges kiadvánnyal érkezik a francia Obliques és a kaliforniai Atmospheric label ajánlásával a Transversales Disques jóvoltából. A moduláris szintetizátorok két mestere, két generáció találkozik a Golden Apples of the Sun albumon. A hetvenes évek egyik elektronikus úttörője, Suzanne Ciani talán nem szorul bemutatásra, egy ötvenéves pályafutás áll mögötte, komponistaként és sound-designerként is elismert. Jonathan Fitoussi egy generációval fiatalabb, Párizsban alkotó kortárs zenész, körzővel és görbe vonalzóval megrajzolt ambientjei kivételes arányérzékről tanúskodnak. Mindkét művész kedveli a kollaborációkat. Fitoussiról Jean-Benoît Dunckel-lel (Air) közös Mirages (2019) albuma és Clemens Hourrière közösen készített Möbius átdolgozásai kapcsán (2022) olvashattatok itt.

Fültanúi lehettek azok, akik követték Jeremy Cottereau zenei fejlődéstörténetét, annak, hogyan öregszik egy jó bordói? A dj-producer francia, akit Djedjotronic néven ismerhettünk meg, korábban is mutatott érdeklődést az old school iránt, bár a korhű, klasszikus elektro mezőin honos. Douglas McCarthyval (Nitzer Ebb) haverkodni (Take Me Down), vagy Lokier társaságában a korszakos jelentőségű eredetivel közel azonos szintű feldolgozást készíteni (Are Friends Electric / Gary Numan) jól mutatnak a cv-ben. A Smog on the Dancefloor négyszámos EP-n hallhatunk 2023-ra kevert nyolcvanas évek végi new beatet, space-ebm menetelést, természetesen electrot, de kraftwerkig visszacsavarva. 4/4 – a teljes lemezt átemeltem a Traxelektorba! Az EP a barcelonai – italodiszkóra szakosodott – Italo Moderninél jött ki, akiknek tavalyi válogatásaikról olvashattatok itt.

Lynn-drum beépülő modulok kanos olvasztótégelye – nem akarod tudni! Bár a borító és a cím –Tongue In Cheeks - is piros karikás, talán nem olyan meglepő, ha a kiadó BDA neve a Bring Dat Ass-t fedi. A brooklyni Cesár Toribio szintén old-schoolban utazik, és a – talán végleg szabadságra ment – Detroit Grand Pubahs pimasz, narkotikusan túlfűtött légkörére emlékeztet, latinban.

Annyira szerettem Richie Hawtint, hogy még az alkalmilag felbukkanó ugly cymbalizmust is el tudtam neki nézni – ezen gondolkoztam Aske(Gean Oliveira Farias) Paradoxal Pulse-jának cinjeit hallgatva. A berlini Modularz sublabeljének 43. kiadványát, az Olympian 43 EP-t finom felbontású, csiszolt felületű, minimál elemekkel ötvözött technoja kiemeli az átlagtermésből.

Megjelenések:

Actress - LXXXVIII [2023, Ninja Tune][LP] Anatolian_Weapons - Earth [2023, Subject To Restrictions Discs][LP] Aske - Olympian 43 [2023, Olympian][EP] CoH - Radiant Faults [2023, Dais][LP] Deadbeat - Kubler-Ross Soliloquies [2023, BLKRTZ][LP] Dino Sabatini - Opera Quattro [2023, Outis Music][EP] Djedjotronic - Smog on the Dancefloor [2023, Italo Moderni][EP] FSOL - Environment 7.003 [2023, fsoldigital.com][LP] Judgitzu - Sator Arepo [2023, Nyege Nyege Tapes][LP] Kris Baha & Ghosts In The Machiиe - Ghosts In The Machiиe [2023, Fleisch][LP] Labelle - Noir Anima [2023, InFiné Éditions & Eumolpe][LP] Oblako Maranta - Trance Beckenbauer [2023, Thisbe][EP] Saint Abdullah & Eomac - Chasing Stateless [2023, Planet Mu][LP] Sam Goku - The Things We See When We Look Closer Remixes [2023, Permanent Vacation][S] Suzanne Ciani & Jonathan Fitoussi - Golden Apples of the Sun [2023, Transversales Disques][LP] The Black Dog - My Brutal Life [2023, Dust Science][LP] Toribio - Tongue In Cheeks [2023, BDA][EP]

offspot data

FSOL - Environment 7.003

Traxemle

jegyzet: A The Black Dog - Béton-Brut-jába belehallani az Éliás, Tóbiás, egy tál dödölle… szövegű gyerekdalt. Ez már csalhatatlan jele a szellemi leépülés kezdeteinek, de hát nekem ilyen „Brutal Life”-ra tellett csak gyerekként, hogy azon szorongtam a vidioviban, mi a heftenka lehet az a dödölle?

Traxelektor 2023 11 Spotify Playlist - link

(86/91, 7:33/7:40, 95%)(!!!)

Traxelektor Playlist 2023 11

Actress - Typewriter World ( c 8 )[LXXXVIII, Ninja Tune] Actress - Push Power ( a 1 )[LXXXVIII, Ninja Tune] Actress - Oway ( f 7 )[LXXXVIII, Ninja Tune] Actress - It's me ( g 8 )[LXXXVIII, Ninja Tune] Actress - Azd Rain ( g 1 )[LXXXVIII, Ninja Tune] Anatolian Weapons - Three Suns I [Earth, Subject To Restrictions Discs] Anatolian Weapons - Mountains [Earth, Subject To Restrictions Discs] Anatolian Weapons - Heliotrope [Earth, Subject To Restrictions Discs] Anatolian Weapons - Evolution [Earth, Subject To Restrictions Discs] Anatolian Weapons - Earthling [Earth, Subject To Restrictions Discs] Anatolian Weapons - Earth [Earth, Subject To Restrictions Discs]

Anoesis - Track Thirty 7 [Stasislogue, Cyphon] Anoesis - Space Watch [Stasislogue, Cyphon] Aske - Vault [Olympian 43, Olympian] Aske - Paradoxal Pulse [Olympian 43, Olympian] Coco Bryce - Blood Feud [Phoenix, MYOR] CoH - Nereides [Radiant Faults, Dais] CoH - Invisible Friend I [Radiant Faults, Dais] CoH - Habitable [Radiant Faults, Dais] CoH - Circuit Hum [Radiant Faults, Dais]

Coma World - Turbulance [Coma Wong, Byrd Out] Coma World - Tsunami [Coma Wong, Byrd Out] Coma World - Rings [Coma Wong, Byrd Out] Deadbeat - Tough Love (Anger I)[Kubler-Ross Soliloquies, BLKRTZ] Deadbeat - Things Fall Apart (Depression)[Kubler-Ross Soliloquies, BLKRTZ] Deadbeat - Straight No Chaser (Denial II)[Kubler-Ross Soliloquies, BLKRTZ] Deadbeat - Huey Lewis Voters Dub (Negotiation)[Kubler-Ross Soliloquies, BLKRTZ] Deadbeat - Brick Stick Blick Blade (Anger II)[Kubler-Ross Soliloquies, BLKRTZ] Dino Sabatini - Reversus Sum [Opera Quattro, Outis Music] Dino Sabatini - Plena Lunae [Opera Quattro, Outis Music] Dino Sabatini - Inenarrabilis [Opera Quattro, Outis Music] Djedjotronic feat. REIN - Smog on the Dancefloor [Smog on the Dancefloor, Italo Moderni] Djedjotronic - Not Real [Smog on the Dancefloor, Italo Moderni] Djedjotronic - Frozen [Smog on the Dancefloor, Italo Moderni] Djedjotronic - Circus [Smog on the Dancefloor, Italo Moderni] Future Sound of London, The - Drift Incline [Environment 7.003, fsoldigital.com] Future Sound of London, The - Absence Of Solution [Environment 7.003, fsoldigital.com] Future Sound of London, The - A Desolate Stretch Of Night Road [Environment 7.003, fsoldigital.com]

Galya Bisengalieva - Chagan [Polygon, One Little Independent] Galya Bisengalieva - Balapan [Polygon, One Little Independent] Gazelle Twin - Author of You [Black Dog, Invada]

Judgitzu - Vitalimetre [Sator Arepo, Nyege Nyege Tapes] Judgitzu - Sator Arepo [Sator Arepo, Nyege Nyege Tapes] Judgitzu - Miracle [Sator Arepo, Nyege Nyege Tapes] Judgitzu - Mandragore [Sator Arepo, Nyege Nyege Tapes] Judgitzu - L'or Des Fous [Sator Arepo, Nyege Nyege Tapes] Kris Baha & Ghosts In The Machiиe - Machine Dawn [Ghosts In The Machiиe, Fleisch] Kris Baha & Ghosts In The Machiиe - I've Become [Ghosts In The Machiиe, Fleisch] Kris Baha & Ghosts In The Machiиe - Flesh & Code [Ghosts In The Machiиe, Fleisch] Labelle - Turn [Noir Anima, InFiné Éditions & Eumolpe] Labelle - L'homme félin [Noir Anima, InFiné Éditions & Eumolpe] Labelle - Futurity [Noir Anima, InFiné Éditions & Eumolpe] Labelle - Danse chamane [Noir Anima, InFiné Éditions & Eumolpe] Labelle - Apporter l'amour [Noir Anima, InFiné Éditions & Eumolpe] Labelle - 34 rêves [Noir Anima, InFiné Éditions & Eumolpe]

Nathan Fake - Duskville [Guiro, Cambria Instruments] Oblako Maranta - Trance Beckenbauer [Trance Beckenbauer, Thisbe] Oblako Maranta - Analog Garbage [Trance Beckenbauer, Thisbe] Palestre - Coexistència[Sciogli Assurdi, The Trilogy Tapes]

Red Axes - Outside In [One More City, fabric Originals] Saint Abdullah & Eomac - Sag Masab [Chasing Stateless, Planet Mu] Saint Abdullah & Eomac - Pretense Of Neutrality [Chasing Stateless, Planet Mu] Saint Abdullah & Eomac - Of Christo [Chasing Stateless, Planet Mu] Saint Abdullah & Eomac - No Negotiations, No Conferences And No Dialogue [Chasing Stateless, Planet Mu] Saint Abdullah & Eomac - Frequently Fugitive [Chasing Stateless, Planet Mu] Sam Goku - Orchids (Altered by Call Super)[The Things We See When We Look Closer Remixes, Permanent Vacation] Sam Goku - Lotus Drive (Ayesha Remix)[The Things We See When We Look Closer Remixes, Permanent Vacation]

Shackleton - There Is A Seed [The Scandal Of Time, Woe To The Septic Heart!] Shackleton - The Dying Regime [The Scandal Of Time, Woe To The Septic Heart!] Shackleton & Anna Gerth - Eine Dunkle Wolke [The Scandal Of Time, Woe To The Septic Heart!] Suokas - Grains [Unreleased VII, Laes] Suokas - Collective Mindhack [Unreleased VII, Laes] Suokas - Awake [Unreleased VII, Laes] Suzanne Ciani & Jonathan Fitoussi - Rainbow Sequence [Golden Apples of the Sun, Transversales Disques] Suzanne Ciani & Jonathan Fitoussi - Oceanium [Golden Apples of the Sun, Transversales Disques] Suzanne Ciani & Jonathan Fitoussi - Golden Apples Of The Sun [Golden Apples of the Sun, Transversales Disques] Suzanne Ciani & Jonathan Fitoussi - Coral Reef [Golden Apples of the Sun, Transversales Disques] The Black Dog - Unité d’Habitation [My Brutal Life, Dust Science] The Black Dog - Postcards for Comfort [My Brutal Life, Dust Science] The Black Dog - Future Townscapes [My Brutal Life, Dust Science] The Black Dog - Beyond the Estate Agents Window [My Brutal Life, Dust Science] The Black Dog - Beton-Brut [My Brutal Life, Dust Science] The Black Dog - Asymmetrical Living [My Brutal Life, Dust Science] Toribio - Work Dat Shit ft. The Illustrious Blacks [Tongue In Cheeks, BDA] Toribio - No Pare [Tongue In Cheeks, BDA] Toribio - Cimarron Palace [Tongue In Cheeks, BDA] Toribio - Anti Narcoleptic [Tongue In Cheeks, BDA] Toupaz - Shapeshift [Peloid EP, Well Street]Toupaz - Maudlin Lakitu [Peloid EP, Well Street]

Vague Imaginaires - Voiles stellaires [L'Île Volante, Versatile] Vague Imaginaires - Onde cosmique [L'Île Volante, Versatile]

#zene #zeneajánló #underground #electronic #music #zenekritika #traxelektor #intelligent dance music #spotify #playlist #Youtube

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csacskamacskamocska · 1 year

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Már szinte minden jó

Elmentem a fiammal vacsorázni, hmmm, az nagyon jó volt. Sétáltunk és fogta a kezem. Amióta kijött a kamaszkori „jajjanya ne érj hozzám” időszakból, azóta mindig fogja a kezem. Vicces volt. Mondtam neki, hogy rendelek neki is sört, ezen röhögött, hogy ugye már nem kell az engedélyem, már felnőtt és szokott alkoholt fogyasztani. Tudom, persze, csak még sosem ittunk együtt. Sört is rendeltem, aztán vodka tonikot is rendeltem, kellemesen bejóléreztük magunkat. Rendelni nem tud. Ügyes, talpraesett, de van némi autista vonása, a kommunikáció egyes részeivel gondja van. Dekódolással is és azzal is, hogy idegenekkel beszéljen. Ha már megismert valakit, akkor mindez elmúlik és remek partner. De lassan múlik és addig filmekből ellesett (idegesítő) kommunikációs paneleket használ. Kérdeztem, hogy nem égő-e, hogy így viszolyog attól, hogy rendeljen az étteremben, mert ha randira megy, akkor ugye a domináns fellépés része, hogy a férfi rendel. Én pl kifejezetten vigyázok rá, hogy olyankor visszafogjam a lendületes ügyintézésemet. Hadd legyen férfi a férfi, a megszokott udvariassági formulák szerint. Ő olyan nőkkel randizik, akik imádnak rendelni. Pont. kész. Oké. :D Csodás módon megoldódott egy nagy nagy nehézség. Van ára is (mindennek van), de a legrosszabb variáció mégis az lett volna, ha nem oldódik meg, hanem burjánzik, sokasodik és felőrli az életem. Hálás vagyok amiért mások megoldották nekem.

Nyertem 500 forintot és nem vettem belőle újabb sorsjegyet. Önfegyelem kipipálva. Tudtam aludni.

Kaptam fizetésemelést. Nem sokat, lehetne akár nevetni is rajta, de mindenképpen az igyekezetet mutatja. A főnökeimnek nagyon szűkek a lehetőségeik és amit kaptak pénzt, elosztották köztünk. Ők tudják, hogy nehezen pótolhatóak vagyunk, csak a felsővezetés nem tudja. Nem értik, hogy nem tudunk utcáról felvenni embereket, mert ha a végzettsége megvan még akkor is 1-2 év mire önállóan dolgozni tud, addig teher a többieknek, aztán le is lép mert addigra pont meglátja, hogy semmi perspektíva nincs ebben a munkában, viszont megvan a szükséges gyakorlata, hogy 2-3x ennyi pénzért találjon munkát. Nem fizetnek sokat, így a megállapodásunk az, hogy mindegy mikor és hol, csak a meló készen legyen.

Ma meg azzal kezdődik a nap, hogy a szemembe süt a nap. És akárhogy hunyorgok, meg bújok a gép mögé, ezt valójában szeretem. :)

#félig tele #03-10

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bookgeekgrrl · 1 year

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My media this week (15-21 Jan 2023)

📚 STUFF I READ 📚

😊 Slow Change (thesurefireway) - 66K, steddie canon divergent - Eddie's life and his relationship with Steve after his 5-month stint in jail before the innocent verdict in his trial

😊 The Crime at Black Dudley (Albert Campion Mystery #1) (Margery Allingham, author; David Thorpe, narrator) - In a cozy/golden age mystery mood and she's the Queen of Crime I have read least. I wish there were more of hers on audiobook

😊 The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde (Robert Louis Stevenson) - read via Jekyll & Hyde Weekly

🥰 Call My Number (and Call Me Yours) (novacorpsrecruit) - 53K, Steddie AU - both single dads, EMT!Steve & dispatcher!Eddie - very cute

😊 The Case of the Canterfell Codicil (Anty Boisjoly Mysteries #1) (PJ Fitzsimmons, author; Tim Bruce, narrator) - So straight in the blurb for this book it says "The Case of the Canterfell Codicil is a classic, cosy, locked-room mystery written in the style of an homage to PG Wodehouse. The result, for those familiar with Wodehouse or Jerome K Jerome and Ruth Rendell or Dorothy L Sayers, is either an inexcusable offence to several beloved canons, or a hilarious, fast-paced, manor house murder mystery." It's a fairly mediocre imitation to be honest but not so terrible as to be unreadable, and it raced along nicely; ultimately I found it entertaining enough. Given the length and the price (free), I can see myself reading a few more, esp when I get into that 'i'm out of podcasts and books i really want but need something for the love of fuck' place.

😊 The King's Delight (Tales of Lilleforth Book 1) (Sarah Honey) - a light & fluffy, very mildly kinky fantasy romance

💖💖 +357K of shorter fic so shout out to these I really loved 💖💖

The Long Dark Bath-Time of the Soul (spqr) - Knives out universe: Benoit Blanc/Phillip, 7K - a hilarious possible backstory for phillip's wealth

help to make the season bright (its_tortle) - MCU: shrunkyclunks, 20K - fluffy & warm seasonal fic

The future's open wide (rainbow_nerds) - Stranger Things: Steddie, 4.7K - a lovely little fic with some closure for tommy hagan

Nothing Hurts (Like Your Mouth) (AidaRonan) - Stranger Things: Steddie, 4.1K - werewolf steve & vamp eddie - some extremely hot monsterfucking. I love a prehensile tail!

Not Fade Away (A Cover) (dorcas_gustine) - Stranger Things: Steddie, 37K - great characterizations, great story, fucking HILARIOUS

Hallmark-Adjacent (Moorishflower) - The Sandman: Dreamling, 25K - a fun, modern AU with each of them as the jilted guy in a hallmark movie, having glorious sex and a soulmate connection on a train and then some hallmark-y moments of their own

the most remarkable thing about you standing in the doorway is that it's you (greatunironic) - Stranger Things: Steddie, 34K - reread of this amazing & formative-for-the-fandom fic; still amazing

Made with Love (and Yarn) (SolarMorrigan) - Stranger Things: Steddie, 10K - super cute & fluffy, expressing love thru textile crafts

📺 STUFF I WATCHED 📺

Leverage: Redemption - s2, e10-12

Hot Ones - Viola Davis Gives a Master Class While Eating Spicy Wings

Hot Ones - Cate Blanchett Pretends No One's Watching While Eating

Hot Ones - Zoe Saldaña Gets Scorched By Spicy Wings

🎧 PODCASTS 🎧

Desert Island Discs - Steven Spielberg, director

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - Green Mill Jazz Club

Off Menu - Ep 72: Michael McKean

Renegades: Born in the USA - Money & the American Dream

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - Songs of Ice with the Places Team

Vibe Check - Mutha Needs To Arrive and Set the Table

Strange Customs - Brandon Kyle Goodman | The Paper

Switched on Pop - SZA's Endless Melody

99% Invisible #521 - A Sea of Yellow

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - Cementerio Municipal José María Azael Franco Guerrero

🎶 MUSIC 🎶

Nude On The Moon: The B-52's Anthology

Carly Rae Jepsen

Lowrider Oldies

My Mix #3

Late Night Blues

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rendellstreet · 1 year

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April 10th 1912 - Southampton, England: 12:00 p.m.

#RMS Titanic #titanicedit #perioddramaedit #filmedit #historyedit #Rendell's Gifs #My Gifs #Mine #Throws this together at last minute 'cause I'm tired from work!#I don't like how fast these loop :')#It really has been a while since I gif'd

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rockyyxroad · 1 year

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Valentine's Day - Drabble.

Valentine's Day was not an easy day for Kinsey. While she was with Gabe, she was one hundred percent into Scot They were never entirely official, but he wasn't thrilled at the idea of sharing her. Which oddly enough was what Kinsey had pitched to Scot about him and Gabe. She herself could not believe she did that, but she was full of surprises anymore. She was out with Jackie who had been seeing Tyler for a few months now and he seemed too really be into her. She was happy. None of them had any ounce of happiness for a very long time and even more so after Rendell died.

The girls had just finished up lunch. Kinsey wasn't always on good terms with the girls her brother dated back in Chicago, so it was weird yet fun to have some sort of bond with Jackie even though Kinsey hated Eden, Jackies best friend. Not to mention things were a little awkward considering what Kinsey did to Eden anyway. "How do you know what you want to get my brother for Valentines? I can never figure out what is perfect for Gabe, but with Scot … I just know what to do…" She spoke. Never really saying it out loud until now. She knew where her heart was, but she did like Gabe as well. "This holiday is so bogus" She added as she looked at Jackie.

Jackie tilted her head and laughed. "I have always believed you didn't need a special day for someone special, but it is fun to plan out a date" She added. Although she was sure she had plenty of things up her sleeve. Jackie was a go getter and that was also another thing Kinsey liked. All in all, she was happy with her brother's dating selection. She was so glad he never hooked up with Eden. Kinsey was big on family and that had been why she was the way she was. "All I know is you need to share your secret" Kinsey said as they walked off into a local store in the mall that held sales for all crafty things by the residents right here in Matheson. "Maybe something from here will be good for Gabe. I don't know much about his family or home life…" She openly admitted to Jackie. "Maybe that is why I'm so disconnected from him. I don't know much but he is always questioning my family upbringings and what not…" She walked towards the back where they had a bunch of wooden homemade signs. She loved them. This was perfect.

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brieflymaximumprincess · 2 years

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Miranda Otto and Mark Pellegrino as Nina and Rendell Locke

Locke and Key

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dearestloveliestdarcy · 3 years

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Colin Firth in The Ruth Rendell Mysteries | Episode 1

#Colin Firth #The Ruth Rendell Mysteries #He is literally so adorable in this wtffffff #and hE GETS WET AGAIN #is it in his contract or something that every piece of work he's in he has to get wet????#def not complaining tho #ALSO #if I had a nickel for every time Colin played a married character who was unable to fuck his wife for some reason #I would have two nickels #which isn't a lot but it's weird that it happened twice #my stuff #my gifs #my edit #btw I had a lot of fun making that 4th gif #very nice to watch on a loop forever #okay I'm gonna shut up now

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the-shelfish-reader · 2 years

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KING SOLOMON’S CARPET

By Ruth Rendell (writing as Barbara Vine)

Ah, Ruth Rendell makes her first appearance (but not her last) in this blog. She’s famous in her native Great Britain, but I’ve never met anyone else who ever heard of her. She died in 2015, leaving an enormous body of work. All of it was published under her own name and a pseudonym, Barbara Vine. It took me a while to figure out the differences between a Rendell book and a Vine book—I loved ALL the Vine books, but I found fewer Rendell that I enjoyed. I first read Ms. Vine’s work upon the release of A Dark Adapted Eye, a tour-de-force of psychological suspense that was very different from Ms. Rendell’s well-known series of Inspector Wexford detective novels. She wrote other books under her own name that weren’t part of the detective series, some of which are every bit as suspenseful and psychologically complex as her pseudonym’s, and those I have all read.

Vine’s books are interested in the lives of ordinary people surviving, usually in London—either struggling economically, or, more likely, because of mental illness. Or both. She delves into the personalities of these people and she explores why they make the choices they make—and their various quirks, eccentricities, addictions, and delusions—with a thoroughness that’s riveting. I’m a psychologist’s daughter, so this is my jam. I love her careful reveal of how all these disparate lives with their attendant problems come together to form an engrossing story. No matter how I try, I can’t guess what the common thread will be amongst the characters, but they always evolve into a complete tapestry that touches them all with tragic and often profound consequences.

This particular story isn’t one I consider among her best, but it sucked me in all the same. It’s set in l988 London, where AIDS was making its way through the gay community and Communism seemed to be dying out, although it is NOT an AIDS-crisis story. The title refers to this:

It’s the London Transport Underground, familiarly known as the “tube.” A vast, interconnected system of trains, sometimes underground, sometimes not, that Londoners use to go everywhere it does. This book’s characters all use the Tube, some live near its stations and tracks, one is obsessed with it, some work in it, some commit crimes on it, and some die because of it.

“While they waited on the platform Jarvis told them about King Solomon’s carpet. This magic carpet of green silk was large enough for all the people to stand on it. When ready, Solomon told it where he wanted it to go and it rose in the air and landed everyone at the station they wanted. He said the tube reminded him of this carpet and elaborated his theme, but they were not listening.”

Jarvis Stringer has inherited the old Cambridge School building. His parents had run a school for girls after the war, so it was constructed with dozens of rooms and a bell tower, from which his father hung himself when Jarvis was a boy. At the start of this story, Jarvis hasn’t anywhere else to live. He received a small inheritance along with the school, which provides basic sustenance, but Jarvis needs money. Jarvis needs money because his hobby (obsession) is the study of major metropolitan subway systems of the world. Traveling is expensive, even for someone as frugal as Jarvis. He’s already been to New York to ride and inspect the world’s largest, he attended the opening of Atlanta’s MARTA, and has marveled at San Francisco’s BART, which has the deepest track in the world under its bay. He badly wants to visit Omsk and see the rumored many new stations and expansions of its system, and at the beginning of this book, he’s saving his money. He’s a kind man, even if nearly everyone would consider him eccentric. Jarvis doesn’t mind. While saving for his planned trip to Russia, he’s writing a book: a complete history of the London Underground. This takes up most of his time, sitting in his room in the School, typing. He is only vaguely aware of his surroundings, for he lives in his own head much of the time.

Jarvis decides to rent the rooms of the School for extra income. He charges rents so absurdly low as to guarantee a ready supply of tenants. These people, their backgrounds, their chance meetings, their passions and betrayals, their inadequacies and desires, all join together at the School. These connections, both planned and spontaneous, form the plot of this novel.

Occupants of The School:

Tina is Jarvis’s cousin. Her mother Cecelia and Jarvis’s father were siblings. Tina has two children, a 9-year-old boy named Jasper and a younger girl, Benavida. As the novel opens, all three have moved into the school with Jarvis. Tina doesn’t know who the fathers of her children are, as she has slept with every man she has ever met, including cousin Jarvis, long ago when they were teenagers. Tina’s mother, Cecelia, lives within walking distance of the School, but they don’t get along very well due to Tina’s aforementioned propensity for casual sex and lax attitudes towards disciplining her children. Cecelia disapproves of nearly everything about Tina, but she has learned to censor herself so she can continue seeing her grandchildren.

Tom is a talented singer and flutist, a musical prodigy who could play a little piano and trumpet, too. Tom attended the prestigious Guildhall School of Music and Drama, and flourished there. One day, instead of making the complicated train journey from visiting his grandmother’s house in Ealing back to London, he accepts a ride on the back of a motorcycle from his gran’s neighbor. They hadn’t gone a mile when the crash happened. The driver died under a lorry’s wheels, but Tom was thrown clear of the wreckage and hit his head on a tree. He spent six months in hospital with many broken bones and emerged, after several surgeries, with a permanently crooked little finger on his left hand. He has lost his place at school, he’s depressed, he has trouble concentrating, migraines, black thoughts, and rages (it’s obvious Tom has suffered a Traumatic Brain Injury, which wasn’t yet a thing when this novel was written.) He ends up busking in the stations of the Underground, trying to regain his former ability to play the flute.

Alice is 24, a gifted violinist, wife, and mother of a baby girl. Her marriage is loveless, and she felt nothing but guilt at being a mother whose heart wasn’t completely engaged by her baby. She longs to play her violin well enough to join an orchestra that would travel and perform regularly. Motherhood is incompatible with her ambition, so she leaves her family a note that she won’t be returning, and escapes to London with just £100.

Jed is a volunteer Safeguard on the tube. Safeguards are to England what the Guardian Angels are to New York: men who ride the trains, looking for trouble to stop. His passion, however, is his pet hawk, Abelard. Jed always smells of the rancid meat he feeds Abelard, so people generally avoid him, and he takes Abelard with him everywhere he goes, except on his nighttime train rides with the Safeguards.

All of these people, each unknown to the others (except Jasper and Tina), move into the School, and they all live together comfortably enough. Jarvis originally met Tom while walking through a tube station when he stopped to hear Tom’s classical trio busking. Jarvis met Jed on the tube, late at night during one of Jed’s Safeguard patrols. Because neither Tom nor Jed had a permanent place to stay, and because Jarvis was a kind man, he invited them both to move into the School. Alice, the runaway wife and mother, is the next to move in. Just after leaving her husband and daughter, upon arrival in London, she hears Tom’s voice and flute in the tube station. She recognizes the piece, she has her violin, and almost without meaning to, she joins in with the buskers. Tom falls in love with her the minute he sees her, and invites her to come live at the School. Tom and Alice are a couple from that moment on, but while Tom is madly in love, Alice is not—she just felt she had no alternative.

There is almost always an older, judgmental person in Barbara Vine’s books; one who feels superior enough to try to impose their views on other people, who manipulates and lies with equanimity, and we are definitely meant to dislike that character. In this book, it’s Tina’s mother, Cecelia. However, in this case, we are also meant to sympathize with and understand her frustration with her daughter. We are gradually, in small increments, given to understand that Cecelia and her best friend since school days, Daphne (both are in their seventies), are in love. Neither one is aware of it, exactly, and nothing physical ever happens. No words are spoken between them of this kind of love. They’re content to visit each other once a week and talk on the phone at exactly the same time every night. Cecelia is acutely aware of how the world perceives her:

“She might not have been there for all the notice they took of her. However, Cecelia was used to that and did not even mind much. She knew very well that the least noticeable, the most invisible and indifferently regarded of all human beings, is an old woman.”

Cecelia is old-fashioned, judgmental, and disapproving, yes; she also exhibits personal growth and self-awareness that were previously unknown to us as the story unfolds.

Terrible things have happened, are happening, on the tube.

The book opens with an account of an afternoon in the life of a much-pampered, privileged, wealthy woman who had always been “delicate” and fussed over due to her “heart murmur.” This unnamed woman takes a taxi to Harrod’s to buy a dress for a party that night. It’s a beautiful dress of pure white, heavily embellished and embroidered. On a whim, she decides to do what common people do and take the tube home. But she’s never been on it in her life, gets hopelessly lost, train after train, disembarking and waiting, shivering, on the platform, then getting back on another and being surrounded by rush hour commuters, squashed between them in the car. She spirals, hyperventilating, panicking, feeling suffocated, and her heart stops. The carrier bag she’d been holding, the one containing the white dress, had been trampled upon and nearly left on the train, but it was returned to her family, along with her body.

That opening vividly illustrated how frightening the tube can be, and imparts dread. Who was she? Why was the dress described so thoroughly? So she had a panic attack brought on by the crowd, which brought on a fatal heart attack, which is tragic for sure, but she has no connection to any of the characters. The significance of this event won’t be revealed until the end, and even then, you have to work a little bit for the connection, but when it comes, it’s just ANOTHER thread neatly woven into the tapestry that is this story. And there are many.

Tina’s son Jasper “sledges.” Sledging is riding face down on the top of a subway car itself. It’s illegal, and it’s dangerous. Jasper is nine years old, smokes regularly, has a tattoo of a lion on his back that nobody knows about, and cuts school so much he’s being suspended. Tina loves him in her own distracted way, but she doesn’t know where he is most of the time, doesn’t know (or doesn’t care?) about his truancies, doesn’t worry, and isn’t home herself for days at a time. Tina knows her mum lives just a short walk away, and she takes Cecelia’s proximity and availability for granted. Jasper’s fellow delinquents have been cutting class to hang out on the tube, generally being nuisances, annoying other riders, and smoking. One of them describes sledging and claims to have done it himself from one station to the next. Very quickly, Jasper becomes a veteran sledger who knows the tunnels and clearances of the tube, and he’s very good at it and never gets caught. But one of his mates, simply to avoid being dubbed “chicken,” attempts his first sledge ride while Jasper is sitting in the car below. The train had to slam on its brakes and come to an emergency stop while in a tunnel, on tracks high above the subterranean depths of older, deeper tunnels. The boy was flung from the roof and killed, right before Jasper’s eyes. By the end of the book, it seems likely that Jasper, too, will suffer from PTSD. That’s really unfortunate, as Tina will never notice.

Jarvis literally knows nothing about his tenants or what they do under his roof. He departs London for Russia about halfway through the book, and doesn’t return until after the climactic event occurs. But it’s through his obsession with subway systems and the book he’s writing about the London Underground that we are able to read various facts and trivia about the tube. I found these sections fascinating. Gradually, these sections become smaller, but contain more gruesome details. A huge fire at King’s Cross station destroyed much of it and killed 30 people. A train full of riders crashed head-on into a blocked-off tunnel and killed 50. Air raids during WWII caused massive amounts of people to seek shelter in the stations of the Underground; still, Luftwaffe bombs struck their targets, obliterating them and the people sheltering within. But there had never been a successfully-detonated bomb placed into the Underground by a person or people (this was written long before 7/7/05).

Everything this author does is in gradual increments that can go two ways when they’ve accumulated into a giant reveal: either it’s like a light appears and illuminates the truth of a character or situation, or it’s like all light is extinguished and you might feel a tight ball of dread that lodges behind your ribs because you know disaster is coming. Rendell/Vine is a MASTER at this.

The final character to enter this story, Axel Jonas, a man who apparently torments tube commuters for fun, encounters Jasper rather dramatically in a tube station just as Jasper flings himself off the top of the subway car, narrowly avoiding being decapitated by a steel overhang at the entrance to the tunnel ahead. Axel starts a conversation with the boy about his sledging, then offers to take him for pizza. Jasper is perpetually hungry, and he’s inclined to like this man because he doesn’t chide Jasper for sledging. Axel asks Jasper a litany of questions about the tube itself, specifically whether or not Jasper knows anything about “ghost stations,” or stations long closed and unused that trains never stop for. Some of these stations supposedly have ventilation shafts that go right up through the centers of office buildings. Jasper replies that Jarvis could tell him, Jarvis is his mum’s cousin, he knows everything about the tube, he and his family live with Jarvis at a school, Jarvis has even gone to Russia to see their subways, and then he gives Axel his last name. Jasper tries to memorize the man’s face with its cornflower-blue eyes, short dark beard, and short black hair, so he can tell Bienvida all about their strange lunch.

Axel turns up at the School. Alice, the only one home, answers the door. Axel pretends to know Jarvis, pretends he spoke to Jarvis before he left for Russia and rented a room from him. Alice accepts this (everything in the School is done on impulse without much deep thought), and Axel moves in. Alice is immediately entranced by Axel’s blue, blue eyes, and his mysterious nature, and eventually they begin an secret affair, in the rooms just above the room she shares with Tom.

What is gradually revealed is Axel’s sinister plan. He wants, badly, to destroy the Underground, or at least cripple it so badly that it stops running, hopefully forever. He uses Alice’s infatuation, Tom’s friendship, and Jasper’s youth in his attempt to accomplish this goal. Axel never tells anyone what he’s doing. He hides every part of it from his fellow inhabitants of the School, and selects Tom to be his unwitting accomplice in his mission. None of the characters have any idea of his plan.

Alice, lovesick and yearning, picks a night Axel is out, and goes through his suitcases, drawers, and cupboards. She doesn’t suspect him of anything, but is desperate to learn who he really is, where he’s from, and what he might be hiding from her. She finds, but does not recognize it for what it is, a heavy plastic bag taped shut that’s full of some kind of liquid. She seals it back up and returns it to the closet so that Axel won’t know she’s snooped. The room smells strongly of petrol afterwards. Oddly, she also finds, in an old, stained carrier bag hanging in the closet, a a beautiful dress of pure white, heavily embellished and embroidered, and she wonders: is this a gift for herself? There is a small photograph in his suitcase of a lovely woman with his same dark hair and cornflower-blue eyes, and Alice knows immediately the photo is of his sister.

Reading this was a bit like I imagine heaven to be. My heaven, anyway. I raced through the last parts of the book as the stakes got higher and higher, and the narrative thread got tighter. And as usual with Ruth Rendell, I marveled at the seemingly effortless way she weaves separate storylines together to create a cohesive, propulsive suspense novel. So much suspense! I won’t detail how the story ends, but you can guess, I think. I enjoyed this re-read!

#book report #King Solomon’s Carpet #Barbara Vine #Ruth Rendell #fiction: psychological suspense #7/10 stars (only to leave room for her best)

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