Did you have a look yet at our last issue? The topic was Mental Health. Works include how your #medicalschools deal with #mentalhealth, #depression, a #shortstory, and some #artworks. Print or digital copies are available on magcloud.com (link in bio). Remember, proceeds are donated to UNICEF. And a reminder that the deadline to submit for the next issue is June 19th. Theme: “Love, Death, and Dying.” However, since “Mental Health” is always an important topic, works will also be accepted on that topic as well! . . . #art #community #health #humanities #latinx #medstudent #physician #healthprofessionals #science #prisonindustrialcomplex #writing #essay #narratives https://www.instagram.com/p/CA1a7tPhI5o/?igshid=1hoktsph7jvcg
Aries:An emperor decked in robes made from spiders silk, attendants watching silently as the room fills with pipe smoke. The rain outside the palace grows louder, he is deep in thought.
Taurus:The usurper, the hunter of kings. Golden Diadems crushed underfoot. A twisted hunting horn, a gift from something thought long dead.
Gemini:A philosopher king, a holy king, a conqueror and a liberator. Evenings in the palace archives filled with tea and chess and maps of lands he has never met. A veil, a crooked walking stick.
Cancer:A dead queen, but a queen nonetheless. Clothing covered in shimmering azure beads. Exposed bone and fossilized flesh deftly manipulate sewing needles made from her fathers ribs.
Leo:A young king, a king who never should have been. Watery blue eyes, and grit teeth, trying to stay composed till the last moment. A king that would give everything.
Virgo:A wild queen, more scars than flesh, disfigured by years of war. A cruel, damaged blade at her side, festering with the scent of a recent kill. Gauze strips inlaid with arcane symbols, glowing faintly in the starlight.
Libra:A mysterious ruler, ever silent, ever masked. A great, white steed with unblinking eyes and decked in barbed armor.
Scorpio:A holy queen, though none would rightly guess so. Sight beyond. Grisly rituals. Quiet dead. A queen of rest.
Ophiuchus:A pontiff, a shepherd, a leader, but by no means a king. A guide, one who stayed behind to show his disciples the way. Evenings in meditation, gazing at the horizon, silently envious of those who found their wings and teeth.
Sagittarius:A queen in finery that strolls the boulevards of the castle town. Her affect is not one of carelessness, it is one of confidence. Bodyguards watch her every step, moving in the shadows like cats.
Capricorn:A lost king, hidden far from the sun and wind. Those who venture too far north slowly begin to hear him. How sweetly he sings, how lonely his song. A ruined, sunken court.
Aquarius:A mad king. Whispers in the night of impending treachery, of spies in the walls, of lying allies. He assembles his cabinet in the dark of night, and makes plans for war.
Pisces:A queen of thieves. She sits sideways on the throne, idly twirling the crown around her finger.
I reblog this every time I see it, because the part that makes this so horrific to me, is that the room is a direct callback to Goodnight Moon. It takes this memory of safety and security and turns it directly upside down and I love it.
Image description: A still image from the 90’s TV sitcom Saved By The Bell. Slater stands between Jessie and Kelly. Everyone is wearing gym gear and looking into the camera. Slater is grinning and pointing at both women with his thumbs. The caption reads “When women are talked about, the focus tends to be on white women.”
Part of the beauty of an object, or a museum collection, lies in its capacity to respond to more than one gaze and to unlock more than one story. We’re committed to hearing and telling as many of those stories as possible.
One of the ways we’re doing this is through ‘Our Museum: Our Voices’, a programme in which we asked 24 students to write alternative labels for objects on display in our galleries. The labels are written from personal experience as well as expertise, with participants considering their ethnicity, gender and sexuality in responding to the collections.
Keep an eye out for 'Our Museum: Our Voices’ labels as you roam the galleries during your next visit, and explore a virtual exhibition of the objects and their labels here: https://www.ashmolean.org/omov
Tomorrow at 2pm PST my partner Deepthi Welaratna is teaching a workshop on personal myth-making and processing trauma using creative invention, retelling the stories of ourselves and the stories that shape us. In this workshop Deepthi will talk about her experiences and work and lead us in some exercises redefining the narratives that have been important in our lives. I will also share a bit about the process and meaning behind my project, In A Walled City, during this session.
The workshop is priced starting at $10 however if you cannot afford this you are welcome to join us for free using the discount code W231T6A. You can buy a ticket here - and if you are using the code simply enter it on the checkout page.
Join us in the David L. Dickirson Fine Arts Gallery to view our newest exhibition “Narrations: Stories in Art.” In Narrations, juried Tamarack artists and artisans from across West Virginia share the stories that inspired them to create the works on view. From mixed-media collages and paintings to photographs and glassworks, Narrations is a mosaic of unique experiences told in visual art, the collection of which attests to the varied influences that inspire our region’s talented artist community
Ceramic pot by Randy Selbe of Kanawha Co.
Two ceramic works by Kanawha Co. potter Randy Selbe
Glass platter by Martha Reynolds
Left to right: “Nick, Legacy of the Lines” by Tiera Floyd, “October at Otter’s Creek” by Kevin Woodcock, “Dark at the Top of the Stairs” & “Pilot House” by Vernon Howell, and “Terpsichorean” by Amy Stout
“World Garden” by Homaira Ahmed
Clockwise: “Sparky” and “Making Tarts” by Barbara Marsh Wilson, “Rosie: Legacy of the Lines” by Tiera Floyd, “McKinley” & “Park Street” by Jamie Lester, and “On a Clear Day” by Ed Rehbein
Clockwise: “Random Sharp #21″ by Tsukasa Kambara, “A Perfidy of Butterflies” by Jorn Mork, “Parvati’s Heart” by Meredith Gregg, “Chameleon” by Marianne Deaver, “Slabcamp Run” by Kevin Woodcock, “Some More Sayn’s” by Vernon Howell, and “Aqua Doors, Ceret” by Deborah Herndon
Above: “Troutman Farm” by Charly Jupiter Hamilton; Below: “The House with the Orange Roof” by Ann Grimes
Above: “Lost in the Weeds” and “Matador” by JP Owens Below (Left to Right) “Bulldog Lady,” “The World’s Smallest Policeman,” and “Sword Swallower” by Robert Villamagna and “Building a Nest” by Barbara Marsh Wilson
Above: Mixed Media Works by Robby Moore; Below: Photographs by Daniele Piasecki
People love stories. We find it easier to remember events when they are part of an overarching narrative. But in real life, the chapters of a story don’t follow smoothly one from another. Other things happen in between. A new brain imaging study from the Center for Neuroscience at the University of California, Davis, shows that the hippocampus is the brain’s storyteller, connecting separate, distant events into a single narrative. The work was published in Current Biology.
“Things that happen in real life don’t always connect directly, but we can remember the details of each event better if they form a coherent narrative,” said Brendan Cohn-Sheehy, an M.D./Ph.D. student at UC Davis and first author on the paper.
Cohn-Sheehy and colleagues at Professor Charan Ranganath’s Dynamic Memory Laboratory at the Center for Neuroscience and Department of Psychology used functional MRI to image the hippocampus of volunteers as they learned and recalled a series of short stories.
The stories, created specifically for the study, featured main and side characters and an event. The stories were constructed so that some formed connected, two-part narratives and others did not.
The researchers played recordings of the stories to the volunteers in the fMRI scanner. The next day, they scanned them again as the volunteers recalled the stories into a microphone. The researchers compared the patterns of activity in the hippocampus between learning and recalling the different stories.
As expected, they saw more similarity for learning pieces of a coherent story than for stories that did not connect. The results show the coherent memories being woven together, Cohn-Sheehy said.
“When you get to the second event, you’re reaching back to the first event and embedding part of it in the new memory,” he said.
Hippocampus weaves memories
Next, they compared hippocampal patterns during learning and retrieval. They found that when recalling stories that formed a coherent narrative, the hippocampus activates more information about the second event than when recalling nonconnected stories.
“The second event is where the hippocampus is forming a connected memory,” Cohn-Sheehy said.
When the researchers tested the volunteers’ memory of stories, they found that the ability to bring back hippocampal activity of the second event was linked to the amount of detail the volunteers could recall.
While other parts of the brain are involved in the process of memory, the hippocampus appears to bring pieces together across time and form them into connected, narrative memories, Cohn-Sheehy said.
The work is part of a new era in memory research. Traditionally, in neuroscience, researchers have studied the basic processes of memory involving disconnected pieces of information, whereas psychology has a tradition of studying how memory works to capture and connect events in the “real world.” These two camps are starting to merge, Cohn-Sheehy said.
“We’re using brain imaging to get at realistic memory processes,” he said.
Research on memory processes could ultimately lead to better clinical tests for early stages of memory decline in aging or dementia, or for assessing damage to memory from brain injuries.
(Image caption: A new brain imaging study shows that the hippocampus (green) is the brain’s master storyteller, weaving memories of past events into a coherent narrative. Credit: Brendan Cohn-Sheehy, Center for Neuroscience)
People watch tragedies on purpose. People watch stories about hope on purpose. Pulling the rug on the narrative promise of your story and switching tracks isn’t clever or interesting, it’s just lying about the genre.
If Midsummer Night’s Dream ended with everyone brutally dying, I’d feel kind of betrayed. If Macbeth ended with everyone getting happily married, I’d also feel kind of betrayed.
Yes! You have to earn your ending. They’re not supposed to be twists. They have to be built to throughout the story
You need to have the payoff match the kind of investment you set your audience up with.
To clarify, twists can be well done! But they shouldn’t be “Gotcha! You thought you were watching Type A show but you’re really watching Type B show!”
Like, the Red Wedding is an appropriate twist for Game of Thrones.
It would not be a good twist for something like Doctor Who.
Also, a good twist should feel random, but make sense in retrospect.
“There is the potential for failure, of course. Present in everything we do. Yet that can not blind us. All lies in our ability to adapt to unforeseen factors. In such adaption we find our purpose. In such purpose we can not fail. There is only path, not destination. Where the road ends is where we allow.”
“The shores are calm, now.” The goblin muttered, fingers nervously twitching over the half-chewed cigar clutched in his grip. The elf at his anterior looked up from the letter than had until this moment arrested his attention. He made a fact to nod to the cigar in the goblin’s hand.
“They are.. but if you continue to pick at that cigar you’ll have nothing left to smoke, Clipsaw. Have a drink and -ease- into the evening. You are raising my blood pressure with your worries..”
Clipsaw’s aggravation with the dismissal was evident, though he cooled his objections by allowing his free hand to run along his forehead and back through his hair. With a flick he tossed the ruined cigar to swallow into the dark waters below.
“You think they won’t come here? Honestly, this.. this is absolute madness, you know..” He paused, but upon receiving no reply he spun. “Nareth? Hey, Silverthorn!”
The elf finally looked back to the goblin, exasperated and making very little effort to conceal it.
“Yes, I hear you. And I’m getting tired of reading the same paragraph seven times because you interrupt me.”
Clipsaw’s brow twitched, matched to the scowl on his features. He moved over to the sitting elf, reaching to rip the letter from his hands and toss it aside.
“Listen. To. Me.” He articulated, much to Nareth’s annoyance. “When I signed on to this deal, you didn’t tell me I’d have a fucking criminal syndicate gunning for me! The Collective already hit the Council’s proxies. Why the fuck do you think they’d draw the line at me!? I.. I want out of th-”
The elf rocked forward, fizzling the Goblin’s protests out into a silent stare. He met the gaze of the other, indicating a moment of absolute restraint as the aggression burned behind those glowing eyes. Slowly, the elf settled back into his chair, fingers tracing to the letter that now settled upon the tabletop beside.
“There is no ‘out’, Mr. Ridgeweld. You know this. The Council entrusted you with production, and thus.. the means of. You know too much on their merit. The Twins would sooner bury you in a drowning box at their word. I wouldn’t have to lift a finger, so, instead, allow me to assist you and explain in no uncertain terms that your employment with us is non-negotiable.”
Clipsaw’s shoulders deflated as he was met with the truth of the matter, twisting to settle his gaze once more out to the water.
“What happens if the Collective come after me next?”
Sharpened edges, blunted tips, forceps and picks, scoops and peelers. Each tool, every tool, had purpose. Aligned neatly in row with inanimate anticipation of her selection. Was it glee that such implement felt as cold fingers wrapped it? Was it excitement that it felt as it tasted warm skin?
The Ebon was ripped from her moment of pondering by the sound of coughing. The wet gasps as the prisoner’s arms wrenched back and drew her face from the trough. The woman sputtered out the sullen water from her lungs as air asserted itself once more to her life.
“We’ve talked about this. Cooperation is what delivers us from adversity.” The Ebon’s words were low, soft, almost deceptively gentle. She lifted a plated hand to dust a few loose hairs stuck against the shivering features of her captive. “We’ve talked about your friends.. but you don’t seem to know much about the ‘Council’ you mentioned. Why?”
The woman maintained her eyes closed, blood leaking fresh from recent cuts against her lips. When she did speak, her voice was cracked and carried upon it the twisted affect of an abused soul.
“..no one knows about them. We don’t. We-” She was violently cut off as her head was pressed down below the waters. Primal panic took over, driving her into a frenzy of kicking and grasping against the hand firmly tied up in her hair. As her head was pulled back from the moment of demise, she expelled the darkened waters from her lungs and stomach with violent wretch.
“One reason.. one.. that’s all I need. If I can give a reason why you deserve to live, you will likely walk away from this. So.. the Council..”
“I don’t know..” She muttered, but as she felt the grip tighten in her hair she blurted out a desperate “Wait!”
It was enough, enough to draw pause to the inevitable. The Ebon turned her captive’s features so they could meet eye to glowing eye.
“Yes?” Magda noted with the slightest hint of interest. The woman leaked only a few more droplets of stirred blood from her mouth before she repealed her last bastions of secrecy.
“Old Town.. a tavern called the Wounded Hound. The people there.. know more than me. It’s the only lead..”
Magda released the woman’s hair, rising up to full height. Her finger lifted to her ear where she depressed the small metal earpiece placed within.
The voice rang out in the hollows of the deep wood. The lantern squeaked as it was swung aside, illuminations cast from the eye of the metallic chamber to cast glow on the sturdy copse of wood ahead. The man holding the lantern narrowed his gaze, free hand lifting to draw thin strands of chestnut hair from his brow.
“It will do. Mark it.” His reply was simple and straightforward, coupled with a slight shiver as the chilly air bit through his jacket. There was a calm to the process. Something that made him feel at ease despite their presence in an otherwise hostile place.
“Right.. this should make twelve.” His counterpart stated. The slender man stepping forward and drawing a brush from a smooth tube of metal. The white paint on the tip was laced into the wood, marking the tree for their purposes. “Think twelve will be enough?”
“Enough..” The brunette replied, almost with a hint of amusement to his tone. “Never. Last week we doubled this.”
“Fantastic! That’s more work for us, you know that right, Davin?” The slender male walked back to his partner, lifting the brush to flick the air aside. “What happened to assassination? Simple, quick, and clean. Now it’s all about sending messages..”
Davin spun to face his counterpart, lifting a hand to slide fingers around the smooth crease of fabric at the crown of his tie. He lifted with a small shimmy to set the tie into proper place against his neckline.
“You are letting your common blood show, you know. This is the mouth that your wife warned would get you into trouble. Remember the gamble with the goblin brothers?”
“A misstep at most..” The slender man replied, turning his head and his body in time. He moved to another tree and lifted his brush to trace against the wood. The sound registered before the pain. A whistle, a crack like a gunshot, and his hand now spilling with bright red blood.
The man howled as the nerves of his hand fired off in full. Each painful spasm of his fingers laced new waves of agony as they twitched around the thick metal bolt that now pierced through his digits.
“You’ve had enough missteps, Terrance.” Davin stated, fingers laying a second bolt into the slot on his hand crossbow. “We appreciate you marking your own tree for us, though. Saves us the time.”
“Davin! Please! ..I called you my damn brother! Lucille.. Alexandra.. they see you as family. Don’t do this!”
Final words silenced as the second bolt entered his maw and pierced his spine against the tree. Silence that now saturated the space. Davin pulled on his bow to fold the arms inward and slide them under his sleeve. A dust of both hands to remove any blemish from his coat.
“You never were family, Terrance.” He stated with a measure of disgust in his tone. “Just a common blooded lie pretending to matter.”
