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Assault On Various Fronts Pt 11

It was another inn. This time with a headboard for a bed.

So... that was already a plus in regards to... well... freedom of movement.

My new scarf had been folded and put into my travel back. It was a thoughtful gift and I did not want it to get harmed.

#SamilnGabe #assaultsonvariousfronts #801 words

Section 5 - D2

D2 IS NOW COMPLETED.

#801 words #noPIM #PIMject #cpfc #engineering #engineering project #waves pending #WE OUT HERE IN THIS BIHH #Gucci is back

Started D2 and its going well so far finna try and complete it by monday so i have a few days to proof read it though.

#801 words #noPIM #PIMject #waves pending #engineering #engineering project #GUCCI IS FREE

The Last Day of Pompeii

Like many other painters of his time Karl Briullov spent his youth abroad, traveling after the finishing of his studies to Rome and other places of culture. Painted in 1830 from sketches he made during his trip in 1828 Briullov’s The Last Day of Pompeii was one of the first Russian artworks to achieve acclaim abroad (Rice, 1959). Inspired by the neoclassical revival of the time as well as the beginnings of romanticism in art Briullov captures the typical essence of what a dramatic historical painting of the era would be. Briullov’s painting would inspire Pushkin and others to write (Rice, 1959) and paint with the same level of historical accuracy and detail. While none of his other works would achieve the acclaim of The Last Day of Pompeii Briullov’s contribution to art and history is valuable as an example of how the 19th century perceived ancient Rome.

With a passion for historical accuracy in his painting Briullov studied texts concerning ancient Rome and Pompeii including the writings of Pliny the Younger. While the accuracy of the clothing is questionable the actions of the people fleeing the imminent death Vesuvius would bring are painted in ways excavations have confirmed as true(Luongo). Excavations began in the 16th century and were still underway at the time of Bruillov’s visit in the 1800s. As a result, Bruillov was able to make extensive peremptory studies of artifacts and scenery before he painted the final product (Rice, 1959). Archeological excavations have confirmed that people did indeed attempt to take statues, jewelry and various household goods with them as they left the city, some of which were abandoned as they realized the danger of the situation. Evidence of individuals with children has been found showing that parents indeed sheltered their children as fire and volcanic rock rained from the sky. While initially hailed as the epitome of Romanticism, Bruillov’s work also has many aspects of the Historic and Dramatic periods of art that followed in the later 19th century (Blakesley, 2000). While the first impression of his painting is one of chaos closer analysis shows a more detailed story. The falling statues in the right corner of the painting capture the sense of destruction both of the city but also in the people’s faith in the gods they thought watched over them. The idea of showing the end of an era through the destruction of a city representing the values held in it was a novel one for the time. Later art depicting the fall of Rome would take this motif. New ideas and the beginning of the industrial age were rapidly changing the face of Europe while in many ways Russia stagnated due to non-industrialization and its status as an absolute monarchy. Whether Bruillov meant to call out to the idea of Russia being personified as one of the individuals remaining in the destruction refusing to leave; while the populace of the city or world changes and moves away from old ideas and ways of life is unknown. However, the metaphorical representation of such ideas was not uncommon in art work of the time and at the very least the crumbling of the building representing the government and arts of the society seems to indicate some larger idea to the view than just destruction. The man carrying the girl in the left corner of the painting attests to this as she is wearing a bridal crown, implying their recent if not immediate marriage preceding the eruption and the destruction of the family and potential futures as a result of her death. In regards to other individuals portrayed in the painting, it is known that the woman with the two daughters in the left corner is the Countess Samoilova who the artist considered his muse (Blakesley, 2000). Whether the children painted with her are representations of her actual children is unknown, however, rumors of her dalliance with the artist could have been represented by her presence in the scene of unfolding calamity (Rice, 1959). Perhaps the rocks and fire raining down as she attempts to shelter the children represent more than just physical harm and actually represent slander and gossip she must endure. The man fleeing with the older woman in the right corner is presumed to be a representation of Pliny the Younger attempting to flee with his mother from the devastation (Blakesley, 2000). This inclusion a nod to the individual whose writing had inspired Bruillov’s art. In the crowd to the left Bruillov also painted a self-portrait placing himself as an individual leaving the devastation. Whether this is symbolic of his fleeing the stagnation of the Russian art world or of his leaving the old ways and world to embrace the life offered outside of Russia is unknown, however, it is likely.

#pompeii #Bruillov #801 words

Something Happened on the Way to Heaven || Mirror of Erised Challenge

If it wasn’t for his need to complete all assignments and follow every order, Ben probably wouldn’t have even gone to visit the mirror at all. After all, he already knew exactly what he was going to see there. The mirror held no secrets or surprises for him, only confirmation of what his heart had already told him, what he felt with certainty deep in his bones. Sure, he also felt a little lost at times, but that was normal, just part of living in a world where you don’t get to read the script in advance. And while he had been struggling lately to understand Isaiah and Lilah, to truly get them, he prided himself on the fact that at least he knew who he was, and what he wanted.

So it was with little concern, and even less curiosity, that Ben stepped into the small room where the Mirror of Erised was being housed. He had a notebook and quill at the ready, just in case he felt the need to take notes for the essay he would be writing afterwards. He stepped up to the mirror with an almost cocky grin, ready to see exactly what he knew he wanted.

The image of himself swirled and twisted, flooding him with sensation as it finally settled and the coldness swept through him. The smile didn’t even have time to slip off his face as he dropped to his knees with a heavy thud, a single word echoing through his brain like gunfire.

Wrong.

This was wrong. Everything about it was completely and utterly wrong. In fact, Ben was fairly certain that the scene laid out before him couldn’t get any more wrong if it tried. The mirror was wrong and broken and twisted. “Wrong and broken and twisted,” Ben bit out, the harsh whisper laced with venom.

It was supposed to be an image from the future, maybe ten years down the road or so. A snapshot taken from the distance of a nice, even decade. Ben would be with his family, a beautiful Pureblood wife on one arm, and two angelic little ones at their feet. Isaiah and Lilah would be there, too, of course, each with their perfect marriages and perfect children. And the young ones would run around and play and make promises on stars the same way their parents always used to. It wouldn’t be easy, necessarily, but it would be right. The right marriages, the right careers. And the little bits of happiness they had managed to still carve out for themselves. This was the image Ben was supposed to see; this was what he knew his heart desired.

Instead, a lie gazed back at him from the depths of the mirror; something cold and dark and brutal. That itch he could never really scratch, that burning in his veins that nothing could fully soothe, that taunting beat that drummed in his head in the deep of the night… they were all gone. The Ben who looked out at him from the mirror was someone he barely even recognized, someone he had spent hours praying would never come to exist.

It was a Ben who had given in.

He had surrendered to the Compulsion… and the world had surrendered to him. His brother and sister gazed at him with empty eyes, because although he could make them forget that they hated him, he couldn’t make them love him. The Minister was at his feet, a smiling, incessantly-nodding ‘yes-man’. And even McGonagall, that venerable woman who he had thought he admired above all else, was made to do his bidding. There were others, too—so many others. Countless numbers of friends and family and students wandered in and out of the frame of the mirror, each one nothing more than an empty shell stuffed with Ben’s ideas and thoughts and wishes. They were as insubstantial and worthless as paper dolls, reduced to meaningless cardboard figures that he could prop up and position just the way he wanted in his masterpiece of life.

This was the world the mirror said he longed to live in, the world he wanted to single-handedly force into existence. Ben stared at the mirror for ages, waiting for eternity to end and swallow him up and make the vision cease. This wasn’t what his heart most desired. It couldn’t be. This was wrong.

“Wrong and broken and twisted,” Ben repeated, echoes of pain and anger and something even darker lurking in his voice. And as the words left his lips, he knew with a sudden, cold certainty that he wasn’t talking about the mirror, or even the image he saw there. It was himself that was wrong and broken and twisted.

And he was running out of ways to hide it.

#tngachallenge #801 words

I'm reading something I wrote last night at around eleven.

I don't even know what I was thinking at that time, oh well, just another unfinished story.

And I called it "That alien feeling"

""Isn't it easy to figure out? You watch the sky, but you don’t gaze at it. You concentrate, as if you’re looking for something, but it’s not looking for shooting stars to wish on, you take down notes. Furthermore, you look like you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a long time. You don’t do it for fun; you do it as a job.” The figure moved closer, until he could make out the shape of his face."

As I read this, I imagine Sherlock's voice saying this.

Ahh, why did I write this????

#writing #story #801 words #ahaha #that alien feeling #it's really short BUT OH WELL.