seen from T1
seen from South Korea
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Ukraine
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
Baloo is a bit overwhelmed…
Ace Showdown (Ace Off) - Round 2
Who is the better Ace?
Ace London - Talespin
Ace Rimmer - Red Dwarf
You got that right.
Ace London doodle because I think he's cool
The self-proclaimed ace pilot himself.
My sketches for the #SixFanarts thing on Twitter, because following established formatting guidelines is for wimps.
Obelix, from the Asterix comic series
Ace London, villain-of-the-day from TaleSpin
Shere Khan, from Disney's The Jungle Book
Murobo, from Kohryu Densetsu Villgust
King Harkinian from the Zelda CD-i games
Tom Nook, from that stupid batch of landlord discourse
Naked Boys Reading Presents: Short Serials with Season Butler
Photo by Christa Holka.
In the journalistic heyday of Victorian-era fiction, the serial was a place to feast on the literary prowess of the writers and cultural denizens of their time — a place to bear witness to a writer's creative process in episodic installments, from Charles Dickens in The Pickwick Papers to Harriet Beecher Stowe in The National Era.
Naked Boys Reading (NBR) — a literary salon presented at Ace Hotel London Shoreditch every other month — is curating a set of serialized fiction by some of their favorite queer authors and allies. "Short Serials" began last month with “AM” by Season Butler. The journey of Gwendolyn MacAurthur continues with Broad Daylight this month.
Join Naked Boys Reading for their next live reading on May 30 in Miranda, Ace Hotel London’s on-site bar and venue.
"Broad Daylight” by Season Butler
When I was seven, once on a Friday afternoon, I walked into the living room and found my mother collapsed on the floor. I’d been watching my usual after-school cartoons, and when one that didn’t interest me came on, I went looking for her to ask for her signature on a permission slip, and found her lying in the living room, sobbing silently.
Her eyes were squeezed in pain and in denial, forehead lined with the stress of the situation’s irredeemably. She must have known that it would come to this eventually; maybe she was hoping that the problem would just fix itself somehow. Sometimes hoping is all there is left to do. Sometimes hoping is enough. But not this time.
She was on her back, arms in an X across the place where a seven-year-old caesarean scar marked her abdomen. I knew that scar, under her t-shirt, because it had been my fault. Sometimes her knees would pull upwards and make her body twist to one side or the other. When she gasped, I felt I couldn’t breathe either.
When she could get her breath, she managed to explain that the problem was the new baby. On its way to the place where it was supposed to settle in, it got stuck in the tube and started to grow in a different place, where it wasn’t safe. A simple enough mistake, it seemed to me. I knew the number to call in emergencies, but she wouldn’t let me because we didn’t have enough money for emergencies. Instead, I lay there with her while she told me everything she wanted me to know before she died.
I often find myself in exactly the same position. Even here on my concrete floor, it’s effortless. We learn to be human the way all animals learn everything: through mimicry. Shame it’s not always in our best interest. Too bad that that our nature and our culture have no real need to cooperate. My speech, posture, the shapes I’m able and not able to make with my back and limbs – all copies. Copies with their fair share of generation loss.
I started doing this in my early twenties, obeying a vague command from a nagging new compulsion. I’m on my back, lifting my knees from time to time, letting it twist my spine and wrinkle my forehead, and moaning in a voice that is familiar, not quite mine but coming from my own belly. A very good imitation, in my opinion.
The thing is, she told me everything she wanted me to know before she died, and I made all the noises of attention and comprehension. But I wasn’t listening at all. Weeks later it dawned on me that I hadn’t understood a word of it. I couldn’t even remember enough of those incomprehensible words to repeat them to another adult and find out what my mother had meant. I’d let names and dates and warnings and pointers wash over me in the confusion and drama of the moment. At least she was still talking, I thought, while at the same time wondering why it was that I couldn’t call an ambulance, why the instructions for potential baby heroes – say your name and address, ask for the police or firefighters or an ambulance, stay on the line, do whatever the operator tells you – had lost their relevance, since I wasn’t allowed to go to the phone and make the call for help. Why life outside was going on as usual, but in here, on the floor, in broad daylight, everything had stopped. Was there something else I was should do instead? An alternative authority to defer to? Does she, secretly, want me to disobey, or is obedience more important than ever at a time like this?
In that confusion, I hadn’t listened, and now I can’t remember a single thing she told me. I wince and grab my own blank belly, and it feels all wrong to cry in the afternoon.
When my phone buzzes, I’m grateful for the distraction.
A cheerful voice twinkles over the phone. “Hi there!”
“Hello?” I reply, sure I don’t know anyone with this much energy.
“Hi there!” A pause follows while I wait for the caller to offer something more. But it seems like she’s waiting for something from me. When I decide to go ahead and answer back with an impatient, Yes? her next line collides with mine:
“Is that Gwendolyn MacArthur?”
“Who is this?”
Another strange pause, and then she says again, “Is that Gwendolyn MacArthur?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“Hi Gwendolyn! I’m Sherri.” She announces her name with odd enthusiasm, but still somehow sounds like she’s not entirely sure. “Is it okay to call you Gwendolyn? Or do you prefer Miss MacArthur?”
“I would prefer if you told me what this call is about.”
“Great, Miss MacArthur. It’s fantastic to speak to you.”
“Is it?”
“Sorry, I didn’t quite understand. Could you rephrase the question?”
“No, I can’t. Just tell me what this is about, please? And please don’t say you want to talk about the weather.”
This time, instead of a pause, she giggles. “Yes, the weather is really something!”
“Tell me why you’re calling now, please.”
And again, the same giggle. Exactly the same. “Right. Thanks. Miss MacArthur, our records show that you were in an accident that wasn’t your fault. Is that right?”
“Depends how you look at it,” I answer and hang up. Then I place my phone on the countertop, intent on leaving it behind, bundle up against a chill I know I will not find and head outside into the ageing day.
Season Butler is a writer, artist and dramaturg, based between London and Berlin. She is interested in the opportunities and traps of hindsight and hope, coming-of-age into unprecedented change and what it means to look forward to an increasingly wily future.
Her recent art work has appeared in the Baltic Centre for Contemporary Art, Latvian National Museum of Art, Barbican Centre and Tate Exchange.
Her debut novel, Cygnet, is out now from Dialogue Books in the UK and Harper Collins in the US. A launch event will take place at Ace Hotel London’s Miranda on 9 May, 2019, with more details soon.
Baloo and Ace London are totally bitter exes and this song fits them so well I had to do this
