So I found the exact butterfly that we got a close up of in the teaser trailer. It is called the Purple Emperor and I feel like there are some points that I should lay out there about this butterfly.
Firstly it is native to temperate areas of Asia as well as, and–most notably–the British Isles. It’s conservation status was threatened for a long period of time due to WWI and WWII as their former habitat was being used in large quantities for timber during the war.
Furthermore it is fondly nicknamed “His Majesty” and it doesn’t feed off of flowers like many butterflies do. Instead it subsists on honeydew from aphids, oak tree sap, waste, and most interestingly in my opinion, the carcasses of other animals.
Now given the destruction of Kingsman and the use of “My Way” by Sinatra being used in the first trailer, I’m starting to wonder if Kingsman will be essentially dismantled, and this feels like a hint that maybe Harry will be the next Arthur charged with rebuilding it from the ground up.
This could mean nothing of course, but it should be noted that they took pains to make sure that even the Family and Genus/Subfamily listed above were correct. The depictions of the ovum, larvae, and pupa are also accurate.
Even it’s life cycle table is almost exactly on point if you place ovum on the bottom row and imago up top.
I gotta say, that is a lot of detail to put into something that they aren’t using for some intentional foreshadowing.
Some awesome apps i have for stimming. Most are free, I believe Shadowmatic and Monument valley aren’t free anymore.
Heat pad is really nice and colorful. Its super cool, i’d check it out… And you earn new color schemes by playing the app! No purchase necessary!
Fluid Monkey is the second app and it’s a liquid paint stim game where you drag your finger across the screen to make pretty colors swirl everywhere.
Thisissand is a really calming game in which you draw with colored sand. There are some in-app purchases that only enhance your experience. They’re not necessary.
Relax melodies is a really nice app that has calming sounds. Some purchase necessary to have a full library of sounds and to import your own music to mix with the sounds.
Magic piano is a rhythm game in which little glowing orbs go across the screen and you then tap them to create pleasant piano music. Subscription required to have access to songs labeled “VIP”
Twist is a Ketchapp game (i mention that because there’s a few ketchapp games on here) thats really good for taking out your frustrations. Its a simple “tap at the right time” game, and i got really good at it! My high score is 118! If you get good enough at it, it’s mindless!
Smash hit is a game that can be frustrating, but hear me out. Its so satisfying to hear the glass shatter when you hit it with the metal marbles. This is by far the most frustrating game on this list, but i think the frustration is worth it.
Flutter and Flutter: Starlight are two very calming games in which you take care of butterflies and moths (respectively). If you turn on notifications for these apps, beware, they send you at least one a day (if that bugs you (pun!))
Stack is another game by Ketchapp that is very satisfying to play and it’s actually very pretty. The blocks/bricks are in gradient and its nice to look at.
Shadowmatic is a relaxing (paid) game in which you rotate objects to make the shadows look like easily identifiable silhouettes.
Zen koi is similar to flutter, but instead you play as the fish. You breed them and upgrade them and try to collect rare fish.
Pigment is a very calming coloring book app that’s ios only (sadly :
Monument valley is a paid puzzle game. I consider it an anti-physics game, if that makes sense? Its kinda trippy.
imago is similar to 2048 but with colors!
bridges is basically the same as flow, where you connect two dots of the same color. I love getting all the stars by completing the puzzles in the least amount of moves possible!
some apps that are helpful but not pictured are:
listen on repeat (i have this in another folder actually)
You’re supposed to be my paddle. I am. Did you just smell me? I was worried you were dead. I feel like I’ve dragged you into my world. I got here on my own.But I appreciate the company. I’m your friend, Will. I don’t care about the lives you save, I care about your life. I’m as alone as you are. You never condemned me. Even under oath. You’ve always been my friend. I wanted to dispel your doubts once and for all. My doubts about what? Me. I want you to believe in the best of me, just as I believe in the best of you. I don’t want to kill you anymore, Doctor Lecter. Not now I finally find you interesting. With all my knowledge and intrusion I could never entirely predict you. I can feed the caterpillar. I can whisper through the chrysalis but what hatches…follows it’s own nature and is beyond me. Problem solving is hunting. It’s a savage pleasure and we’re born to it. A pleasure we can share. You must understand that blood and breath are only elements undergoing change to fuel your radiance. An imago is the image of a loved one, buried in the unconscious. Carried with us all our lives. We could disappear now. Tonight. I let you know me. See me. I gave you a rare gift…but you didn’t want it. Didn’t I? I forgive you Will. Will you forgive me? I do feel closer to Hannibal here. God only knows where I’d be without him. Hannibal. I forgive you. You cannot control with respect to whom you fall in love. I’ve never known myself as well as I know myself when I’m with him. Because he was my friend. And because I wanted to run away with him. If I saw you everyday forever Will, I would remember this time. I looked up at the night sky there.
Orion above the horizon and, near
it, Jupiter. I wondered if you
could see it, too. I wondered if
our stars were the same. I believe some of our stars will
always be the same. You entered
the foyer of my mind and stumbled
down the hall of my beginnings. Where does the difference between
the past and the future come from? Mine? Before you and after you.
Yours? It’s all starting to blur. You and I have begun to blur. We’re conjoined. I’m curious whether either of us can survive separation.I would have liked to have shown you Florence, Will. I want you to know exactly where I am. Where you can always find me. You’re family, Will. You called us Murder Husbands. Is your wife aware of how intimately you and Hannibal know each other? Is Hannibal…in love with me? Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you and find nourishment at the very sight of you? Yes. But do you…ache for him? You turned yourself in so I would always know where you were. But you’d only do that if I rejected you. I need you Hannibal. Please. Going my way? My compassion for you is inconvenient, Will. I don’t know if I can save myself. Maybe that’s just fine. See? This is all I ever wanted for you, Will. For both of us. It’s beautiful.
a/n: birthday present for @buffysummere. my dearest lucie. happy, happy birthday dear. i love you more than anything else in the world. including james potter and popcorn.
Ginger Newt Press 8th February 2009
A Catcher in the Eye By Lily J. Evans
Film: The Wind in the Whomping Willows. Director: Bathilda Bagshot. Genre: Classics, fantasy.
The Wind in the Whomping Willows is an epic fantasy tale from
renowned director Bathilda Bagshot, of which I was very lucky to attend a
screening of last Friday. The story entails the lives of several close,
esteemed friends who attend a picnic together in a copse of magically enchanted
willow trees. Chaos and revelation ensues.
pleasantly surprised by this viewing. The cinematography and filming techniques
used were simple yet effective, an homage to Bathilda’s earlier work and the
style that has brought her so much praise, and I thoroughly enjoyed watching
the plot play out on screen.
found myself riddled with the misfortune of being in an extremely busy cinema,
and my viewing was continually disrupted by a rather noisy patron who made a
habit of throwing popcorn at the screen despite my polite requests to remain
silent during the film.
not occur and I found myself frequently distracted—from the naturalistic and
impressive acting of Elphias Doge, the unostentatious and utterly convincing
efforts of the costume crew, and the enchanting and well-designed sets—by the
ever-present throwing of popcorn, lewd chewing and ungainly remarks.
part-way through this unassuming, whimsical and gripping plotline, dear
readers, that I sustained an injury at the hand of the extremely disruptive
patron, one that resulted in hours of eye-appointments and optometry scans, but
you will be glad to know that whilst my vision has not been effected, my pride
has, however, been wounded.
give this delightful film a total of four and a half stars (★★★★½), even though I did not see the second half of the film and therefore
missed out the rest of the companions’ sublime antics. I thoroughly enjoyed
this exhibit from Ms. Bagshot, but let it be known that I will be filing my eye bill to the rude and
inconsiderate customer who dealt the fatal blow to my left eyeball.
Ginger Newt Press 3rd March 2009
The Tipping Point or Who Sank the Boat? By Lily J. Evans
101 Fantastic Beasts is a truly enthralling tale to have
hit our screens, directed by none other than the beloved and dedicated Mr.
Newton Scamander, whose work, despite sceptical reviews, we have all grown up
with and come to cherish. This feature focuses on the mischievous antics of
several different and enchanting creatures that are almost too whimsical and
fantastical to be true, yet Mr. Scamander brings them to life with poise and
extremely excited to be seated for this viewing; Mr. Scamander’s work holds a
special place in my heart and I couldn’t wait to bear witness to his next edition.
However, it was somewhat interrupted by the same noisy patron who I encountered
during the last screening I went to. After voicing my displeasure to this same
customer (who, for privacy reasons, we shall only refer to as Jim the Wanker),
and copping an earful of his profane and explicit nagging (don’t fret, dear
readers; Jim responded to my complaints about my eye injury with equal and yet
unnecessary fervour, and I put him in his place by tipping his container of
popcorn), the screen was flooded with the technicolour and awe-inspiring
animations from Mr. Scamander.
cinematography was visually stunning and flowed beautifully, and welcomed the
voices of actors such as Miranda Goshawk, Inigo Imago and Wilhelm Wigworthy. The
story and its design were rife with subtle humour and lively characters, which,
coupled with the stunning graphics, made for a very pleasant viewing
experience. However, at the end of the film (where, giving nothing away, there
was a tear-jerking moment), I could’ve sworn I bore witness to Jim the Wanker
sobbing like a child in the row in front of me, which I’m sure had nothing to
do with the on-screen death of a fluffy animal and everything to do with him
being bitter over having his popcorn spilt and his (extremely large) ego wounded.
would give this wondrous tale a total of five stars (★★★★★),
which, to be sure, dear readers, we don’t encounter often, and, if anything,
the viewing experience was only made better the blubbing hysterics boasted by
Jim the Wanker who was sitting in the front row. And for the questions as to
who started the argument in the first place, I could not tell you who the sank
the boat, ladies and gentlemen, but I can tell you that I was the one who
Letter to the Editor 5th March 2009 Annie
Writchley St. London SW13
Thoughts on Miss Evans and the March Issue
Dear Ginger Newt Press, I am
writing to you because I have recently been loving Miss Evans’s film review
column. I think has very witty and endearing insight on the film industry and
I’d love to see more of her work. Also, I think her relationship with James
Potter is so cute—how long have they been dating?
Response 11th April 2009 Minerva
Dear Annie, Thank you
for writing to Ginger Newt Press
regarding our March Issue. I sincerely agree with your comments on Miss Evans’
skill with a pen—she has a considerable amount of talent as a writer and as a reviewer,
hence why I hired her. I have taken your feedback into account and was already
planning to have her pick up more duties at Ginger
Newt Press in the New Year. As for your observations on her relationship
with Mr. Potter, I showed your contribution to Miss Evans, as I thought it best
(and she insisted) that I put in her own response to your remarks.
10th March 2009 Lily Evans,
Film Review Columnist.
Dear Annie, Thank you
so much for your compliments! I truly enjoy writing and it is a pleasure being
able to do what I love in my position at Ginger
Newt Press. I would love to pick up more work in the future. But I must
correct you on one point, as it seems to have been gaining a lot of attention
recently—James Potter and I are not
dating. In fact, I don’t seem to recall ever even meeting a Mr. Potter in my
life. The name only begs familiarity to some incredibly horrific botanic
disease, which one would be truly unfortunate to contract.
Ginger Newt Press 11th
Panic! At The Theatre By Lily J. Evans
Film: The Cupboard Under the Stairs. Director: Gilderoy Lockhart. Genre: Horror, thriller.
The Cupboard Under the Stairs is a classic retelling of the
classic horror flick by Beedle the Bard, reimagined in all its glorious terror
by Gilderoy Lockhart. Mr. Lockhart—who still maintains his amateurish approach
to directing, despite his many years in the industry—also took it upon himself
to star in his own retelling, which is a difficult line to toe, especially when
it is done so in such a way that lacks talent.
I did not
have high hopes for this viewing, and was therefore not disappointed; though
the cinematography was strong, the dialogue was poor, and the characters were
unrealistic. In fact, the drab quality had taken its impression upon me so much
within the first few minutes that I did not even notice (I will not go so far
as to say that I did not mind, because I did) when Jim the Wanker sat down
beside me, thankfully not munching on any popcorn, because if he was I would
not have hesitated to throw it back in his face for the second time.
the one thing Jim the Wanker and I were able to agree upon was how boring the
film was; so boring, in fact, that he took to the childish antics of using me
as his personal pinching bag fifteen minutes into the movie. In my retaliation,
I am glad to say that I won the pinching war, and consider it a personal
victory, however Jim the Wanker and I were thrown out by the unaccommodating
(and apparently having no sense of cinematic calibre) ushers, and found
ourselves on the scratchy floor of the lobby, making up the rest of the plot by
ourselves (which I’m sure would’ve been a great improvement upon the original
story, considering that it has very little to contest with).
And for all
the highly anxious and somewhat relentless readers who want to know more about
the not-at-all delightful Mr. Potter, I spent the rest of the evening finding
out that we actually have more in common than I originally anticipated. He, for
instance, is a pretentious asshole who likes the Great Gatsby (I have not read
it, which he gave me considerable—and, in my opinion, unwarranted—shit for);
Quentin Taratino is his favourite director (avid readers will know that my
favourite is Wes Anderson, which he wrongly scoffed at, undoubtedly because he
has terrible taste in cinema, I don’t understand how he ever became a film
reviewer); He is also an avid fan of Star Wars (as everyone should be).
the considerable amount of time I spent in Mr. Potter’s company, I still give
this film a grand total of zero stars, which, I can tell you without a doubt, would
have been my rating even if I had seen it.
Lily, dear, I did get
your last letter—thankfully it came on time!
here has been dismal; raining non-stop for the past few days! Your father
enjoys it well enough, but it’s been a struggle to get all the wood undercover—he’s
not as able as he once was, but the medicine the doctor’s been giving him for
his back seems to be working well—no more endless complaints of back pain!
I know that
things have been difficult with Tuney after the last fight, but do try to patch
things up with her—I know she can be hard to deal with, but she means well. I
really do hope you’ll come to the wedding—she has invited you, after all.
so, so glad to hear you’re doing well. I’ve been absolutely loving reading your
columns—they keep getting better and better! It’s such a great position for you
to have and your father and I are so proud of you. Hopefully they make you
editor some day!
But as for
this business with the Potter chap, you really ought to make a move. I saw the
pictures from the premiere and the way he was looking at you—my goodness! That
kind of admiration is not something you see every day.
you’re going to be as stubborn as ever on this subject, but just give it a
shot! You have no idea of the amount of happiness you could get out of
something like this.
goodness sake, you talk about him often enough, it’s a wonder you aren’t
amounts of love,
good to hear from you,
it’s stopped raining by now! Did Dad ever think of asking the boy down the road
to help him out? He could use the extra hands. Also, I’m glad he’s feeling
better. Nothing like endless days at your desk to give you an appreciation for
back pain. I’ve been trying to get out more to stretch it out, but with all the
attention my column is getting I’ve been strapped to my pad and pencil.
know how I feel about Petunia—I don’t expect you to cut off all ties with her,
but I can’t keep making excuses. And I haven’t decided if I’m coming to the
Mum. I’ve been really enjoying myself! The reviews are great and McGonagall
seems really happy with my work. Editor doesn’t seem too far off, but I don’t
see McGonagall retiring any time soon. Assistant editor, maybe. I’d love to
pick up more responsibilities.
want to talk about the Potter boy. He probably had something in his eye that
day. Or maybe he was hyped up on cold medicine. He did sound a bit like he had
a cold. Don’t push me on this, Mum.
I’m stubborn, but that’s because I’m right! He’s an ass.
only reason I talk about him is because he annoys me. Endlessly. Like a fly
that just won’t go away. Or chronic back pain.
I love you
(and give my love to Dad),
never ached as badly as you do now, sitting in front of your desk while the
light is dying, trapped inside the opaque glass panels of the windows.
Everything is plumish and purple, like a red wine stain across the sky. You
have not been able to think of anything else since that night. When you close
your eyes all you can see is him, looking at you, looking into you. The
numbness is a like a crypt lodged in your sternum. Even when you are running
down the stairs, your coat on your arm and your conscience on your other, and
hailing a taxi, nothing shocks you quite like the first glimpse of rain in the
sky. A rivulet hits your cheek and runs down, as though you have been crying.
You lean against the window the whole way home, tracing patterns in the droplets,
watching them chase each other down the windscreen. You pay your fare, slip on
your coat, walk inside. You don’t want to watch a film. You don’t want to watch
a film because no matter how much you love it, it will never be as good as if
he was sitting here next to you, flicking popcorn at you and talking about
Quentin Taratino and looking at you,
looking at you with those eyes of his, like you are something out of a dream but better, because he is awake
and breathing and witnessing you in all your glory, like you are a piece of
artwork hanging in the London Art Gallery, like you are a monument in Trafalgar
Square, bronzed and standing on a plinth, like you are you. So you pour
yourself a glass of wine and hope that it’ll stain your dress because you want
to see the colour seeping into the fabric, something concrete, proof that you
exist, curl up on the couch and try to reconcile the fact that you’ve been
waiting to see him every day for the past week. You barely even notice when the
rain starts chucking down outside your window, crying like you can’t. He knocks
at the door. You are at the threshold, looking at him as the rain buckets down
beside him. He is soaked. He is standing in front of you and asking you out and
you do not know how to say no. You want to be beside him in that theatre,
throwing popcorn at him, but you can’t stop thinking about how the salt and
butter would taste if you licked it off his fingers. He is standing in front of
you in the rain and telling you, ‘7 o’clock, Saturday. I’ll pick you up,’ and
it isn’t a question. You don’t want it to be a question.
you up at 7:15. You are wearing a dress made of red velvet and the leather
jacket you stole from Sirius. ‘Where are we going?’ you ask him, and just
smiles at you, and your stomach falls out of your ass, and he says, ‘It’s a
surprise.’ You knock him with your hip and tell him, ‘Sure thing, Jim,’ and
when he winks at you it’s like something grating against your skin, so abrasive
and cutting you can barely breathe, because you want to feel those
feather-light lashes tickling your cheek, like a gust of air circling your
skin. You need him more than you need to breathe. He takes your hand and leads
you out to the car, the sensation of his skin against yours all at once too
much and not enough. You watch the streetlights roll past the car, dimmed and
unfocused lamps, each of them softened by the rain. You think you know where
you are a moment before you get there, a glimmer of recognition etched onto the
back of your brain like a memory, and you don’t even realise he’s watching your
face as you walk into the lobby, like you are better than all these lights and
richly upholstered carpets and antique ticket booths. You are holding your
breath, like the tremor of your exhalation will rupture the vision and cause it
to disappear. He is still holding your hand. You are in the lobby of one the
original and restored cinemas in London and it’s like walking into dream. He
buys your tickets and you are just stranded in the lobby in a tide of red and
white, wondering if you are quiet enough if the dream you are living in will
engulf you, because you want it to, and his hand gently closing around yours
brings you back to reality, a better reality, a better dream, where he is smiling
at you and waving the tickets in your face and dragging you up the stairs and
into the theatre. You are walking beside him in the dark and feeling the
calluses on his hands and quietly thinking that you could fade away into the
darkness, into the night, with him next to you.
is immense, a mausoleum, and there is only one of them. You feel like you are
being presented, like you are in a palace, with intricately carved and
immaculate ceilings and endless lengths of red curtain and rows upon rows red
leather seats. ‘I thought you might like it,’ he whispers in your ear, the
fabric of his suitcoat brushing against your side. ‘I do,’ you tell him,
because that is all you can say right now. I
do, I do, I do. You endlessly do. ‘Thank you,’ you whisper as you take your
seats. His thumb is drawing circles on your palm. ‘You’re welcome,’ he tells
you. There could very well be stars on the ceiling, in his eyes, on your skin.
And when what little light there is goes down and the screen goes up and it is
flooded with light, and it hits you, like a moonbeam, they are playing your
favourite movie, Casablanca is
roaring out across the screen, you can barely breathe, you are looking at him.
You didn’t even tell him your favourite film and he is grinning madly back at
you. You want to kiss him. You could kiss him, he is sitting next to you in the
dark and smiling and wearing suit pants and white shirtsleeves rolled up to the
elbows and aftershave that makes your toes curl. ‘James,’ you whispers to him, and
he leans forward, and you say, ‘where’s the popcorn?’, and he tells you that he
didn’t get any because his eyes are damaged enough already and he didn’t want
to take the risk with you considering how you first met, and you are laughing
so hard you can barely breathe and thank God there is no-one else in the cinema
because you lean forward and kiss him, kiss him like you’ve wanted to do for
the past six months or more or possibly even before you met him, because he is
lovely and wonderful and moonshine incarnate, here beneath this palace of
stars, his skin tracing yours, gravitational. You give him five stars. You’d
give him all the stars in the world, had he not given them to you.