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@h3apm3ch4n151m
Lesson #25 Gestalt principle/Pattern recognition
First lesson Previous lesson Next lesson
Thank you for the comic name idea @stelosia!
And as always thank you to my wonderful beta readers!
@xushibeetle
@the-asexual-winter
@h3apm3ch4n151m gestalt.......
I saw ts but always makes me cackle
Posting until we meet Ryan Gosling
Day 24
@maridrawss
OK
coltland x la la land au
reader, who wants to be an actress, was in a relationship with ryland probably while he was getting his PhD or right after that.
reader who is going through a lot while working different jobs and doing auditions and not really taking her career anywhere and thinks ryland has his head in the clouds.
ryland is just probably too busy with his research poor guy.
anyway, miscommunication, angst, angst, angst.
few months/years (?) later reader gets into the industry and meets colt cause he’s a stunt actor.
it was probably shocking to see the exact copy of her ex boyfriend but a completely different person.
even if ryland talked about having a twin (maybe he didn’t) reader never really met him.
from there idk cause that’s all I thought.
SO THIS GOT ME THINKING...
thank you my love mensbestfriend
You meet Ryland Grace in a coffee shop that smells like burnt espresso and old paper, three blocks from the university, and he's hunched over a stack of papers with a highlighter behind his ear like some kind of academic pirate. You're there to run lines for an audition you won't get. He's there because, as you'll learn, he's always there, buried under research he cares about more than he probably should.
You fall for him slow and sure, the way you fall for people who make you feel like the smartest person in the room just for asking good questions. He's brilliant. He's kind. He looks at you like you're a problem he wants to spend the rest of his life solving.
You think that's romantic, at first.
The trouble is Ryland's head lives somewhere else. It lives in labs and grant proposals and the kind of research jargon that makes your eyes glaze over no matter how hard you try to care. You tell him about callbacks and he nods and says that's great, honey in a voice that's already halfway back to whatever he was thinking about before you started talking.
You don't blame him, not really. Not out loud. He's not choosing his work over you on purpose — he's just a man with a mind that runs at a different frequency than the rest of the world, and you knew that when you fell for him.
But knowing it and living it are different animals.
You're waiting tables and doing background work and standing in line for auditions that go nowhere, watching your bank account shrink and your hope go with it, and Ryland is off changing the world one experiment at a time, and there's a version of you that starts to resent the gap between those two lives. You don't say it. You let it curdle instead, quiet and slow, the way resentment does when you're too tired to have the fight properly.
You have your head in the clouds, you tell him once, after he misses your callback because a data run went long. You don't mean it as cruelly as it lands. He looks at you like you've slapped him.
I'm trying to build something that matters, he says.
So am I, you say, and neither of you says what you're both thinking — that maybe you're building in different directions, and maybe that's the whole problem.
It ends quietly. No shouting, no big scene, which somehow makes it worse — you'd almost rather it hurt loud than fade like a stain you can't quite scrub out. He says something about needing space to focus. You say something about needing someone who's actually there. You both mean it. You're both right. That's the tragedy of it.
You don't hear about a twin brother until years later, and even then it's only a passing thing — my brother does stunt work, if you can believe it, complete opposite of me — said once, in the early days, back when you still told each other things that didn't matter yet. You forget it almost as soon as he says it. Why would you remember? You never had a reason to.
Three years pass. You get better auditions. You get worse auditions. You get some work, finally — a supporting role in a mid-budget thriller that's actually going to get a real release, the kind of thing you used to lie awake imagining. You're on set, wired on catering-table coffee and nerves, when the stunt coordinator introduces the guy doing your love interest's fall gag.
This is Colt, he says. Colt Grace.
Your stomach drops before your brain catches up.
He turns around and it's Ryland's face — Ryland's exact face, the one you used to trace with your fingertip in the dark, the one you thought you'd memorized down to the last freckle — except it isn't. The eyes are the same shape but they hold themselves differently, cockier, quicker to crinkle at the corners. The mouth curls into something looser, easier, a smile that doesn't need three seconds to arrive the way Ryland's did when he'd surface from whatever equation he was drowning in.
You okay? Colt asks, and even his voice is close enough to gut you and different enough to confuse the wound.
Fine, you say, too fast. You just — you look like someone I used to know.
Yeah, he says, easy, like this happens to him all the time, like he's used to being someone's ghost. I get that a lot. Got a twin. Ry. Smart guy, terrible taste in flannel.
You laugh before you can stop yourself, and it startles you — how easy that was, how it didn't feel like laughing at Ryland so much as laughing with something that used to be him and isn't anymore.
Small world, you manage.
Smaller than you think, he says, and there's a flicker of something in his face — surprise, maybe, or recognition — like your name just landed somewhere it shouldn't have. Like he's doing the math too. Wait. You wouldn't happen to be —
Yeah, you say, before he can finish it. I would happen to be.
You spend the rest of the shoot very carefully not thinking about the way your pulse spikes every time he's on set. You tell yourself it's the shock of it — muscle memory mistaking a face for a feeling, nothing more complicated than that. You tell yourself a lot of things.
Colt doesn't bring Ryland up again, not directly, but you catch him watching you sometimes between takes with an expression you can't quite name — not pity, not curiosity, something more careful than either. Like he already knows the shape of the story and is deciding whether he wants to hear the rest of it.
It's on the last night of the shoot, at the wrap party, when he finally asks.
You're both a little drunk on cheap champagne and the giddy relief of a project finished. He finds you by the food table, looking devastatingly ordinary in a leather jacket that shouldn't work with the string lights behind him and somehow does anyway.
So, he says. You and my brother.
Me and your brother, you agree.
Bad?
Not bad, you say, and mean it, and it surprises you how much you mean it. Just... wrong timing. Wrong frequencies. He was building a life in his head and I was trying to build one in the real world and we never quite figured out how to do both at once.
Colt nods slowly, like he's turning that over, filing it somewhere. Sounds like him, he says. He'd fall in love with a black hole before he noticed the person standing in front of him.
You're not exactly selling your own brother right now.
I love the guy, Colt says, and there's no edge to it, just plain fact. Doesn't mean I don't know him.
You look at him — really look, the way you haven't let yourself all shoot — and it hits you sideways, unwelcome and undeniable: he's not Ryland. He was never going to be Ryland wearing a different job. He's someone else entirely who happens to share a face, and the thing twisting low in your chest right now has nothing to do with nostalgia and everything to do with him, specifically, the real and current him, standing three feet away in string-light glow like he was built out of everything you didn't know you still wanted.
This is insane, you say, mostly to yourself.
What is?
Nothing. You shake your head, take a step back that you immediately regret. I should go. Early call tomorrow. Well — not tomorrow, we wrapped, but —
You're rambling, Colt says, and he's smiling now, the easy one, the one that isn't Ryland's at all.
I'm aware.
Can I get your number? he asks, and it's so simple, so unweighted by anything except itself, that you almost say yes before your brain catches up with the enormity of it — the twin brother, the ex, the whole tangled inheritance of a face you used to love on a man you're only just meeting.
I don't think that's a good idea, you say, and you don't sound convinced, not even to yourself.
Probably not, Colt agrees, unbothered, still smiling. Ask me again in a year.
You don't. Not exactly. But you also don't throw away the napkin he presses into your hand before he goes, his number scrawled under a doodle of a stick figure falling off a building — for stunt-related emergencies only, he's written beneath it, and you laugh, alone, in a parking lot that smells like cut grass and cheap champagne, and you think: oh, no.
You think: this is going to be a whole thing, isn't it.
Years Pass...
He. [ryland] finds out the rest of it in his mother's kitchen, of all places, on a Sunday he almost didn't come home for.
He's been putting off this visit for weeks — grant deadlines, a conference, the usual excuses that are true enough to hide behind — and when he finally pulls into the driveway it's already loud inside, already warm with the smell of his mother's cooking and the sound of the TV his father never turns off even when no one's watching it. He lets himself in through the side door like he has his whole life.
And then he stops in the hallway, keys still in his hand, because you're standing at his mother's stove.
You. In his mother's kitchen. Laughing at something, sleeves pushed up, hip against the counter in a way that says you've stood there before, more than once, easy as anything. And Colt is behind you, close, one hand resting flat against your lower back like it belongs there, like it's never once considered being anywhere else — and Ryland's whole body goes very, very still.
He sees the ring before anyone says a word. Small, simple, catching the kitchen light when you reach for a spice jar. He sees his mother beam at you from the table like you're already hers. He sees his father, laughing at something Colt said, looking at the two of you the exact way he used to look at Ryland and — years ago now, a lifetime ago now — you.
Nobody's told him. That's the part that guts him worst of all. Not you're getting married, not it's serious, not even a warning text. He's found out by walking into a room he thought he knew.
Ry! his mother says, delighted, already halfway out of her chair. *We didn't know you were coming — *
He says something. He doesn't know what. Some version of sorry, wasn't sure I'd make it, some version of a smile that doesn't reach anywhere near his eyes, and he sits down at the table across from the two of you because there's nowhere else to sit, and he watches.
He watches you reach for the salt and Colt hand it to you before you finish asking. He watches you two argue, easy and grinning, about whether the sauce needs more garlic — the kind of stupid domestic argument that isn't really about garlic at all, it's about the shorthand of two people who've made a hundred meals together and will make a hundred more. He watches his father ask Colt about the wedding date and watches you answer instead, already so folded into this family that the question doesn't even need redirecting.
And he can't stop his mind from doing the thing it does, the terrible unstoppable thing, running the numbers on a different equation entirely — the one he never let himself run when it might've still had a solution.
That could be me, something in him says, quiet and vicious. That could've been me.
He pictures it before he can stop himself. You in this kitchen a hundred Sundays deep, a ring on your hand that he'd chosen instead. Evening walks he never took because there was always one more page of data to look at — he sees it now, clear as anything, the two of you circling the block at dusk, his hand finding yours without having to think about it, the kind of habit he never let himself build because he was always somewhere else, some other year, some other problem. He pictures church on Sunday mornings, your shoulder against his in the pew, his mother's hand squeezing his afterward the way she's squeezing yours right now. He pictures family dinners where it's his hand that lands on the small of your back without asking, easy, unthinking, the way Colt's does now, the way his never learned to.
He pictures a version further out still, one he has no right to, one that arrives anyway — a nursery he never built, a name they never picked, small and impossible and gone before it ever had the chance to exist, and it aches in a place he didn't know was still capable of aching.
None of it happened. All of it could have.
He gave it away one lab session at a time, one missed callback, one I'm trying to build something that matters at a time, and he told himself the whole while that the thing he was building would matter more than this — more than a kitchen, more than a ring, more than a hand at the small of someone's back — and maybe it does, in the ledger the universe keeps. He doesn't know anymore. He's not sure the universe's ledger and his own ever agreed on the exchange rate.
Ry? Colt says, and Ryland realizes he's been staring, realizes his face must be doing something because his brother's easy grin has gone careful, watchful, the way it used to when they were kids and Ryland would go quiet in a way that meant something. You good?
Yeah, Ryland says, and it comes out rougher than he means it to. He clears his throat. Tries again. Yeah. Just — long week.
You look at him then, for the first time all evening, really look, and there's something in your face he can't quite read — not pity, he hopes not pity, anything but that — something closer to an old, worn kindness that used to belong entirely to him and now has to be shared, divided, handed out in careful portions to a man who gave up his claim to the whole of it.
It's good to see you, you say, and you mean it, and that's somehow the cruelest part of all — that you can say it and mean it and feel nothing underneath it but plain, uncomplicated warmth, while he sits there with an entire imagined lifetime collapsing quietly behind his ribs.
You too, he manages.
He excuses himself before dessert. Says something about an early flight that isn't entirely a lie. His mother hugs him too long at the door, the way she does when she can tell something's wrong and knows better than to ask. Colt walks him out to the car.
You sure you're good? Colt asks, and for once there's no edge to it, no old competition, just his brother, genuinely asking.
I'm happy for you, Ryland says, and it's true, mostly, the way a lot of things are true and also cost something to say. Both of you.
Colt studies him a long moment, the porch light throwing his face into the same shadows Ryland's seen in mirrors his whole life, and for once neither of them says the thing they're both thinking — that this could have gone so many other ways, that timing is the cruelest kind of physics, that some losses don't announce themselves until years later, in a kitchen, over garlic, with someone else's ring catching the light.
Drive safe, Colt says instead.
Ryland does. He doesn't remember much of the drive. Just the ring, and the hand at your back, and every Sunday he'll never get to have.
Maybe he now has a reason to say yes to the suicide mission.
10/10 ANGST !!!
City of stars... Are you shining just for me...?
thank you for the brilliant template @justcakethanks!!!
digital selfharm is real. do NOT check up on that ex-partner/ex-friend. do NOT reread those old messages/conversations that you know will hurt your feelings all over again or that will otherwise make you feel like shit. do NOT block evade to see if you’re being talked about. inhale. exhale. let it pass and you’ll be better for it.
I want to see the vampire who lives in this. I bet his name is Chad or Hunter.
And he's ready to crack open a boy with the cold ones.
@justcakethanks is this anything? /silly
Stratt looking at the recordings Grace made, going throught it, all of them, waiting for the answer to the problem plagging humanity, listening to him rambling, science, science, astrophage, science...
"So! I met an alien."
Oh he's hearing voices. He went mad. Okay. "We are trying to communicate". whatever.
Still going through the recordings, science, science, astrophage, science, I named it Rocky okay, science... he cope by inventing a friend I guess, he still look lucid enough for the mission so, we are still good, aren't we...
And then the alien actually shows up on screen "Hi, I'm Rocky, Rocky from Erid, I am not Rocky from movie no no no"
Her, alongside any person watching this, would be FLOORED XD
two of them
if dogs could use the internet and talk their incel communities would definitely have some insane shit to say about spaying and neutering [remembers this isn't normal to think about] the weather is warmer lately did anyone notice that
Not gonna lie this makes me a bit irritated. Here's the real version of this photo:
Instead of a cutesie reference to film censorship it was an explicit statement of defiance of Maryland's criminalization gay sex, which was not repealed until 2002. This wasn't a guy saying "Oh they can't put what I do in the movies according to a completely voluntary industry code" he was saying "The State of Maryland wants to put me in jail for being gay and having gay sex."
It wasn't a guy being cheeky about sex in an ambiguous, cute way. It was a man stating, in no uncertain terms, that a whole state of the United States considered him a criminal for being homosexual.
there was a great study a few years that went into the whole "ppl online are bigger jerks than irl cuz theres a virtual wall and no repercussions" and the researchers were expecting to see that be the case but it turns out that people who were really angry or argumentative online were also found to just be assholes in person and people who were pretty patient and nice online were found to be patient and nice in real person as well
and it just debunked that whole cynical idea that people will naturally be mean if theres no punishment for it
source another source
the researchers found that being online didnt make people more hostile, but that being online allowed already hostile people to dominate forum conversations, and the less aggressive people were much less likely to reply or engage, ending in just the aggressive people bickering at eachother
Someone asked me a while ago if I still had a photo of the worst sink I had ever seen while apartment hunting in Los Angeles. I assumed I deleted it so I didn't answer the ask and now it's gone, but as it turns out, yes, I do still have a photo of it.
ehhh this one isn't super original but i dont think I've seen anyone do it yet? idk man the more the merrier imo
Hugs in every form
The charmingly animated witch dance from the 1987 anime film Grimm’s Fairy Tale: The Golden Bird (グリム童話 金の鳥). Directed by the late great Toshio Hirata (平田敏夫). A hidden cartoony gem from Madhouse & Toei Animation, loosely based on the tale of The Golden Bird that was made famous by The Brothers Grimm.
Special thanks to Animation Obsessive on Twitter for bringing this movie to my attention. Follow them for more rare, interesting & underappreciated animation tidbits from around the world.
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