good-stack

“it’s not like a stab wound you can protect me from. it’s a million little paper cuts every day.”

alec lightwood talking to his sister about the homophobia he has to deal with in “city of lost souls” i’m emotional

Librarian Cowboys

what in administration

what in sources of information

what in proper documentation

what in document preservation

what in digital restoration

what in bibliographical citation

what in rare book collation

what in community education

what in interdepartmental collaboration

Layered matcha 🍵 and chocolate 🍫 pancakes 🥞 Sunday ! How good does this stack look with fluffy pancakes, fresh fruit, warm berries and coconut shreds ✨ My Sunday is spent studying home for a lot of assignments before the end of the semestre. Hope your weekend is more exciting ! Recipe for around 12 pancakes : 1 + ¼ cup plant based milk whisked with 3 tablespoons of lemon juice 1 cup flour 1/3 cup sweetener of choice 1 teaspoon baking powder Optional : 1 teaspoon matcha, 1 tablespoon chocolate powder or vanilla extract Le the milk and lemon juice sit while you combine the dry ingredients. Pour in the liquid and whisk until your dough is nice and thick without lumps. In a non stick pan, pour the batter and flip when bubbles are starting to form at the surface (should take about 20-30 seconds)

Nidus

Infested Frame has been officially named “Nidus” + Spear Gun
It’s also stated that this isn’t a completed model (he is missing his attachments, and will eventually be added to him. They raise i think depending on stacking)

His move set is rather really good, he stacks up to 4 (about 10 enemies) and CC’s, and his final move is only usable when you stack up to 4.
He has no shields, but he has natural health regen. (Similar to Inaros, but instead of life steal, he depends on time)

anonymous asked:

phichuuri as camp counselors?

Ooooo, good one!

So Phichit would totally be every kid’s favorite camp counselor since he’s outgoing and is really friendly. Yuuri is good with kids too, just not as well as Phichit on the first day, but he does get along well with the quieter kids.

Phichit has the best ideas for games. Yuuri shoots down the crazy ideas, but for the most part they consist of try to tell a funny story without laughing or go on a scavenger hunt with items like “your best friend’s left shoe” or something ridiculous but funny. 

Phichit would so get all the kids to watch The King and The Skater. He’d teach them how to sing all the songs too, both in Thai and in English.

Yuuri makes the best smores. He’s good at making huge stacks of them. Phichit always burns his marshmallows because he’s too busy looking at Yuuri’s creations with amazement.

Yuuri’s also good at making crafts. He’d make little charm bracelets for each kid on the first day, and on the last day each kid makes one in return before they leave on the last day. Phichit walked into their office to see Yuuri crying over all the beautiful charms the kids gave to him.

Yuuri is the mom friend that always has a first aid kit or anything needed for small emergencies in case one of the little kids gets hurt.

Phichit takes selfies with all the kids piling on top of him or doing dramatic poses.

Phichit and Yuuri would have a mini competition to see whose group could perform the best skit for the entire camp (is that the right word? like they perform a little show).

Send me an AU and I’ll write 5+ headcanons for it!

Steeple Envy and Other Quibbles.

I think I got pretty good work done today. Not a ton read, not as much as I might hope for on a day when I have no classes–but I got a head start on synthesizing the notes from things I already have read in preparation for what is always the worst part for me, learning/remembering the damned titles. The ecclesiastical architectural history reading continued, and I must thank @plinytheyounger for welcoming with my related rantings in good grace! I also took a crack at rewriting, outside of any connection to my narrow topic, the chaos vs. order essay prompt I had done for my independent study this meeting. I think the “point” is even less clear; I had such a struggle to find words in which to write about the aesthetics of Milton Babbitt–not a topic in which I regularly exercise myself–that I wanted the time to write a proper concluding paragraph. 

Now it’s 10:00, and I have no lesson plan for tomorrow. Whoops.


Question: How does the tension between chaos and order—liberty and structure—manifest itself in American culture, history, and society?  

In the few decades immediately following World War Two, American composers of concert music faced a new series of challenging problems regarding whether their works should have stylistic disjuncture or stylistic continuity with those within the repertoire. The tastes of concertgoers were now bound to an unprecedented degree to a canon that ran the course of the nineteenth century and little further; at the same time, modernism that enjoyed limited popular support was earning more and more intellectual prestige within the somewhat closeted world of connoisseurs and conservatories. This conundrum was most pressing for composers who, regardless of their stylistic orientation, maintained an essentially classicist vision of art as ideally   transcendent and cosmopolitan. Those who remained within the world of high modernism, and more particularly serialism, risked alienating their audience with compositions that won the approval of fellow composers but were perceived as chaotic and incomprehensible by much of the concertgoing public. Those who instead worked with neo-Classical and neo-Romantic idioms had to compete with the tried-and-true (and recognizable) canonical composers of old, while also fending off accusations of derivativeness and irrelevance from their professional fellows. Thus, it became increasingly difficult for composers to pursue a stylistically consistent path while also making a living and maintaining a professional reputation. Despite the current perception of the twentieth century (and the twenty-first) as an era without a guiding aesthetic, the hegemony of the canon in the concerthall and serialism in the university made it difficult for some postwar composers to successfully forge a middle path.

The conundrums troubling composers were one facet of a more general societal sense of uncertainty in the face of changing circumstances over which individuals felt little sense of control. The conclusion of World War Two certainly brought Americans some sense of triumphalism and renewed security, but it was one that was admixed from the beginning with unease. The interwar years had in a limited way been a honeymoon period for modernist music within the United States, in both avant garde and populist forms. Yet the support structures that had allowed that brief flourishing were either gone or rapidly changing. Populist modernist music in particular had been very closely associated with leftist political agitation. Indeed, the hope of involving ordinary people in political causes by using music that appealed to them was the main reason that some composers originally more aligned with high modernism turned toward a more populist idiom in 1930s or early 1940s, as Mark Blitzstein did in his pro-union musical The Cradle Will Rock. The general turn toward political conservativism in the postwar years, followed most dramatically by the renewed red scare in the 1950s, rendered this kind of path more personally and professionally risky for composers than it had been. Another disappearing advantage for modernist composers was the lively connections that, particularly in the 1910s and 1920s, had given (North and South!) American and European artists access to an international public and allowed such figures as Antheil, Slonimsky, and Varese to forge cross-continental careers as advocates of musical modernism. This situation began to deteriorate leading into World War Two, and the flood of emigres into the United States that began in the early 1930s left American composers at least temporarily feeling that everyone worth competing with was suddenly competing for the same jobs and the same audiences. A final reason was that the Works Progress Administration that had provided infrastructure for some of the modernist art of the 1930s and early 1940s (including Blitzstein’s mentioned above) had outlived its Depression-era purpose and was dissolved just before World War Two.

The problem was felt all the more deeply by composers who aspired to have their works viewed as transcendent and cosmopolitan, and who therefore could not take refuge in the extreme avant garde nor yet in particularism. Even though this essay addresses composers who were one or another flavor of modernist, this view is still an essentially classicist one, very much indebted to nineteenth-century aesthetics in particular. For those who did not ascribe to it, it was possible to create art that was openly unserious and ironic, or that was specifically tied to time and place by borrowings from popular music or an overtly nationalist focus. For those who did aspire to write music that was meant to be “serious” and “timeless” in outlook, there was little option but to continue working within conventional performance and academic institutions, even if those institutions, as alluded to above, were growing somewhat hostile toward one another and inculcating very different sorts of musical styles and cultures.

For many a non-specialist listener, high modernism of this era must have sounded chaotic, since it borrowed so little of its frame of reference from music with which they could be expected to be familiar. Recordings and radio—particularly given the prominence to which concert broadcasts rose during the Depression years—would have provided the casual listener of classical music with a framework of nineteenth- and some eighteenth-century music, interspersed only occasionally with more recent works. Popular music was equally at an aural and indeed conceptual remove from high modernism. For those who took their listening more seriously and were regular attendees at orchestral or chamber concerts or the opera house, that same framework would generally have been true, with some conductors of the time “slipping in” recent works but only a few ensembles (such as, toward the end of the time period discussed, the Louisville Symphony) clearly invested in continuing to perform contemporary music. Who, then, would listen to high modernist music? The most notorious answer to this question was surely voiced by Milton Babbitt in his (unintentionally so titled) article “Who Cares If You Listen?” and who embraced with unusual fervor the increasing relegation of high modernism into the world of academe. Babbitt, whose father was a mathematician and who had considered going into math himself, was inclined to view music as a scientific area of study. Like other forms of science, its basics could be appreciated by anyone, but its more specialist levels, in order to contribute something important to the field, would almost inherently be unintelligible to the layman. This view was cogent because Babbitt’s particular interest at this point in time was the strain of high modernism—serialism—that became a kind of new gospel in academic composition of the 1950s–1970s, led by Babbitt’s “Princeton School.” For integral serialist works like Babbitt’s to be fully appreciated, the ideal listener would have such a finely attuned ear and familiarity with the technical intricacies of the style as to actually apprehend in the moment the interplay of repetition with variation. Babbitt’s infamous essay is about of a period with some of his most dedicated forays into integral serialism, such as the second string quartet.

For Babbitt, the question of who would perform and who would listen to this music was a relatively simple one; it would be appreciable by his fellow-specialists, within the academy. Although perceived as ungrammatical or unsyntactical from outside this specialist frame of reference, serialism aptly addressed the anxieties of the postwar period for those who chose it as their own language. Its newness, particularly within Babbitt’s “scientific” conceptualization, had the promise of progress. The contrast between its apparent incomprehensibility to the layman and its endless fascinations for the specialist, certainly provided a sense of meaning, if of a gnostic bent; people were reassured of their ability to find significance within apparent confusion. Finally—and again particularly in Babbitt’s language for it—serialism offered the impression of objectivity and emotional distance, something that was both of a character with the postwar ethos in general and at as much of a conceptual as a stylistic disjunction from the Romantic-dominated concert canon in which it was in practical if not intentional conflict.

By comparison, the imagined frame of reference for an “average listener” of this era described above would have lent neo-Classical and neo-Romantic works at least largely familiar-sounding and comprehensible—yet this did not necessarily make them eager to listen. As much as the availability of radio and audio recordings had helped to spread the sound of classical concert music to more and more Americans, they had also accustomed those listeners to a comparatively narrow frame of reference. The ability to hear a particular performance over and over again on recordings, in particular, must have been a potent solidifier of the canon—not merely certain works, but certain works in certain ways. Unlike the taste for novelty that had characterized American audiences well into the nineteenth century, those of the mid-twentieth overwhelmingly wanted to hear music they knew they liked, or music by composers they knew they liked. Thus, even contemporaneous composers whose works were overtly and happily indebted to that canonical repertoire struggled to get their own pieces premiered. Even composers who managed to successfully strike that balance risked mockery from fellow-musicians or from critics who were more aligned with high modernism. Since academic music of the time was so focused on a style so alien to the canonical concert repertoire, it was easy to level criticisms of derivativeness, unoriginality, or simple pandering on others who were not. One such composer was Gian Carlo Menotti, who perhaps had the most success of anyone in the mid-1940s through mid-1960s in seeing new operatic works premiered to popular success. Opera was perhaps even more bound than any other sort of music to its canon, one that was (with scattered earlier works) almost exclusively Romantic. The idiom of Menotti’s vocal writing aptly reminded listeners of Puccini or late Verdi, but in other ways his operas broke strongly with what they were used to, with English (invariably self-written) libretti in contemporary settings and often that often address sensitive social issues. Moreover, he overlaid that vocal writing onto an overall musical structure that was clearly more aligned to neo-Romanticism than a simple imitation of Romantic idiom, often more modal rather than tonal and flavored with dissonance and quartal and quintal harmonies.

Menotti’s own aesthetics were not far removed from those of some of the nineteenth-century composers to whom his style was so cheerfully indebted (viz. the quite clearly articulated philosophy in the ballet The Unicorn, the Gorgon, and the Manticore): art was first and foremost idealistic self-expression, and he did not need the benefit of anyone else’s approval to formulate the style he preferred to. Nonetheless, he was unusually successful in getting traditional operatic audiences to accept his music, typically by entering their awareness by the “back door” of other publics more inclined to have a taste for novelty—hence, his early involvement in writing opera specifically for radio and television, and the premiere of such works as The Consul (very much an opera in style and scope) on Broadway. Once his works had won a reputation in these nontraditional arenas, they often had successful second premieres with regular opera companies who were already convinced of their value. Menotti was subject to the endless derision of more academically-inclined musicians and critics, however, and none of his non-operatic works have had either significant popular success or significant critical acclaim, certainly none in the most “serious” abstract genres. Despite this failure to strike a balance between the demands of very different audiences, Menotti’s music certainly addressed the anxieties of his time as much as Babbitt’s did. Within the comfort and stability of a familiar genre and idiom, it could address uncomfortable contemporary problems; rather than the deliberate “objective” remove of the Princeton composers, the neo-Romantic and especially the operatic idiom was a natural outlet for intensely felt, often overtly pessimistic emotion. In the case of The Consul, for instance, Menotti’s libretto deals perhaps surprisingly frankly with the paranoia, alienation, and helplessness many people felt during the Cold War.