Archives for the Date January 4th, 2020

“Unlike all human written language, their writing is symbolic. It conveys meaning, it does not…”

“Unlike all human written language, their writing is symbolic. It conveys meaning, it does not represent sound. Perhaps they view our form of writing as a wasted opportunity, passing every second communications channel. We have our friends in Pakistan to thank for their study on how the heptapods write. Because unlike speech, a hologram is free of time. Like their ship or their bodies. Their written language has no form or no direction. Linguists call this nonlinear orthography. Which raises the question: “Is this how they think?” Imagine you wanted to write a sentence using two hands, starting from either side. You’d have to know each word you wanted to use, as well as how much space they will occupy. A heptapod can write a complex sentence in two seconds effortlessly. It took us a month to make the simplest vocabulary.”

Ian Donnelly, Arrival, 2016 (via inthenoosphere)

the bloody cross

cb4tb:

gotham-ruaidh:

In the new Season 5 trailer, we see Jamie bathing in a stream.

The first shot shows him without three spots of blood. The second shot shows him with the spots.

What is it?

Simply put – he’s cut himself, and then made the Sign of the Cross in blood.

Why?

This passage from The Fiery Cross. I can’t wait to see it on screen.

  He took a deep, gasping breath, and poured water over himself a second time. When he bent to scoop up the third bucketful, it began to dawn on me what he was doing.  

  A surgeon scrubs before operating for the sake of cleanliness, of course, but that isn’t all there is to it. The ritual of soaping the hands, scrubbing the nails, rinsing the skin, repeated and repeated to the point of pain, is as much a mental activity as a physical one. The act of washing oneself in this obsessive way serves to focus the mind and prepare the spirit; one is washing away external preoccupation, sloughing petty distraction, just as surely as one scrubs away germs and dead skin.  

  I had done it often enough to recognize this particular ritual when I saw it. Jamie was not merely washing; he was cleansing himself, using the cold water not only as solvent but as mortification. He was preparing himself for something, and the notion made a small, cold trickle run down my own spine, chilly as the spring water.  

  Sure enough, after the third bucketful, he set it down and shook himself, droplets flying from the wet ends of his hair into the dry grass like a spatter of rain. No more than half-dry, he pulled the shirt back over his head, and turned to the west, where the sun lay low between the mountains. He stood still for a moment—very still.  

  …Jamie said something aloud in Gaelic. It sounded like a challenge—or perhaps a greeting. The words seemed vaguely familiar—but there was no one there; the clearing was empty. The air felt suddenly colder, as though the light had dimmed; a cloud crossing the face of the sun, I thought, and looked up—but there were no clouds; the sky was clear. Jemmy moved suddenly in my arms, startled, and I clutched him tighter, willing him to make no sound.  

…He took his dirk from its discarded sheath, and with no hesitation, drew the edge across the fingers of his right hand. I could see the thin dark line across his fingertips, and bit my lips. He waited a moment for the blood to well up, then shook his hand with a sudden hard flick of the wrist, so that droplets of blood flew from his fingers and struck the standing stone at the head of the pool.  

  He laid the dirk beneath the stone, and crossed himself with the blood-streaked fingers of his right hand. He knelt then, very slowly, and bowed his head over folded hands.

  I’d seen him pray now and then, of course, but always in public, or at least with the knowledge that I was there. Now he plainly thought himself alone, and to watch him kneeling so, stained with blood and his soul given over, made me feel that I spied on an act more private than any intimacy of the body. I would have moved or spoken, and yet to interrupt seemed a sort of desecration. I kept silent, but found I was no longer a spectator; my own mind had turned to prayer unintended.  

     Oh, Lord, the words formed themselves in my mind, without conscious thought, I commend to you the soul of your servant James. Help him, please. And dimly thought, but help him with what?  

  Then he crossed himself, and rose, and time started again, without my having noticed it had stopped. 

– The Fiery Cross

I hope they bring back a little of Claire voice-over.

scatterations: a-storytoldby: I know this probably won’t get…

scatterations:

a-storytoldby:

I know this probably won’t get good engagement… Because I know It’s not an  behind the scenes , or something more from last years advents… But, it’s this S1 shoot in an absolute magical country with two people who have this amazing chemistry, while one captures it on film. So therefore, it is one of my favorite photos.

Outlander pre-production promo photohoot.Sam Heughan and Caitriona Balfe by Nick Briggs

These are lovely photos. Got to admit, the magical atmosphere of Scotland and all that it represents is much missed.

Mama- I see that sophie did not take any dialect lessons over break. Sucks that even in a preview- her delivery is so monotone it takes you right out of it!

——————————————————————————————————–I’m 100% lost on sophie.  I mean these takes can’t be what the director has in mind?  Absolutely NO inflection in your voice when you’re talking about the spark that caused the American revolution?  C’MON?!!!!!  Clearly it won’t get better.  Clearly the show chose the wrong actress.   I just hope I can ignore enough that she doesn’t ruin every scene she has with j/c. 

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I still don’t understand how casting for outlander, who pretty much nails every actor Choice for this show( down to the extras ), couldn’t cast a proper bree.  😭

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These comments make me feel validated.  I wanted to like her, truly I did, once I accepted the fact that Karen Gillan wasn’t going to be the one.   I’m thinking of starting a support group.  I’m taking orders for monogrammed t-shirts if you want to add your name to the list.  So far I have @gastairfad, @judikins929, anon, anon, anon, and me.

silvercitysands:Australia is burning; this should not be… View this post on Instagram…

silvercitysands:Australia is burning; this should not be… View this post on Instagram A post shared by Matthew Abbott (@mattabbottphoto) on Dec 31, 2019 at 9:27pm PST
See this article/link for links to various donation sites:H…

The Hardest Thing: Chapter Fifteen

claryclark:

HEY LADIES!!! 

So, I know it’s been a minute, but THT is back! I meant to post at least one chapter during my Christmas vacation, but between getting engaged and then getting the flu, I never got the chance. But this chapter is pretty long so I hope that makes up for it! 

MAJOR shoutout to my betas and besties @happytoobserve​ & @lcbeauchampoftarth​ who hung in there with me through my fever-induced craziness and for helping me get my butt back into gear with writing. Love you both lots and lots! 

P.S. – since Australia is the setting of this latest chapter, I want to let all of our Aussie OL ladies know that my heart is with you and your beautiful country as you continue to endure these horrific wildfires. 

For those of you who, like me, want to donate to relief efforts but aren’t sure which charities are legit/provide the most direct aid— I’ve always found the Red Cross to be a safe bet! For more information about how to donate to the Australian Red Cross, click here

Hope y’all enjoy this new chapter! 

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: THE MAN WHO CAN’T BE MOVED 

Claire

It’s funny.

It’s hilarious, really.

I actually thought I was over him.

I woke up this morning and my heart didn’t hurt. My dreams, though they bore the shadow of red hair and sparkling blue eyes, didn’t leave me with bruises of lingering heartache.

The bleeding— I stopped it. The aching, gaping wound in the center of my chest was still there, but I was finally learning to breathe around it. Or at least, I thought I was.

Maybe I wasn’t really living. Maybe I was just coping. But, hey—

I finally learned how to be in my post-Jamie existence. I’d finally reminded myself how to breathe in and out without reminding myself to do it.

And then came the phone call.

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