#Bank of Folly

[thefollyflaneuse]

April Folly

Although these pages usually explore ‘folly’ in the sense of an ornamental, quirky, or extravagant building, the word has of course another definition: what the Oxford English Dictionary describes as ‘foolishness or deficiency in understanding; lack of good sense’. Such was the ethos of the short-lived Bank Of Folly, established and closed down within a day. (more…) “”

[fluffy-raccoon-artist]

Tales from Rust Bank: The Book of Shadows

So I really wanted to bring back an old idea of Kat learning more about Hell Maidens and their powers, and what better way than with a classic, dusty Book of Shadows that she and Raul finds deep within the dusty cracks of RBC.

[notdysfunk]

GOT MY ART SUMMARY DONE IN TIME!!! This year was super rough, so there was a lot of months with no bangers... and a lot of months with multiple bangers !!

[droughtofapathy]

"Welcome to the Theatre": Diary of a Broadway Baby

A Little Night Music in Concert

June 29, 2024 | Lincoln Center | David Geffen Hall | Evening | Concert | Limited Engagement | 2H 20M

All else aside, Jonathan Tunick's new orchestrations played by the 53-piece Orchestra of St. Luke’s were enchanting to listen to. There is a sublimeness to such a full symphony of instruments that we'll sadly never get on a Broadway stage again, owing to the sheer expense. But the tempo dragged, and the liberal cuts to the book muddied the story. And of course, rehearsal time is so limited for these special events. For what they had, it was a nice night.

And now it's time for me to be a bitch.

The casting for this concert was baffling from day one. The first mistake was casting an opera Diva and not an actress capable of musical theatre. Sondheim is meant for actresses who can sing, and vocal quality is far lower on the list than acting. While Susan Graham sounded lovely, her lush operettic voice is less suited to lyrics that require specific diction rather than soaring high notes. And she is just not up to acting this role. She is also 63, and while you all know I adore old broads, especially with greying hair, she would have made a better Mme. Armfeldt, at least in age, though again...not acting. She's fifteen years too old for Desiree. And Ron Raines as Frederick is about twenty too old for that. At least Raines did an admirable job of committing himself to the role and the acting. It mattered less that his strongest vocal days are past him. But their advanced ages unbalanced the whole narrative. The actress playing Anne was similarly too old, being in her late twenties, at least, though she did a fine job portraying youthful naivety. The girl cast as Fredericka was also a few too many years old, and her similar stature to Henrick made their interactions more charged than they should have been.

Marsha Mason did a better job than I think many expected, though not spectacular. Shuler Hensley as the Count was another odd casting choice, but he managed well enough. Cynthia Erivo as Petra on this final night did not live up to the hype. Perhaps because she fucked up the lyrics at the matinee and made the whole orchestra stop and start over, she seemed to be overcompensating tonight by relying too heavily on her script. She spent most of the song with her eyes trained on the pages, and did little to make it really pop. "The Miller's Son" is one of Sondheim's best, and I have seen it done many, many times. There's about 70/30 odds on whether it'll go well or not. This had to have been one of the least exciting renditions. It sounded beautiful, sure, but there was no euphoria for me. No delight at an actress nailing those tongue-twister lyrics. No joy and pride. Nothing memorable at all, not even a mistake.

What does fill me with some degree of pride is the fact that the strongest showings came from the two Asians in the cast. In a thankless role, Jin Ha was able to bring back "Silly People" (though it's clear why that song is cut because narratively it does the story no favors). Off-book, he performed the hell out of it. And Ruthie Ann Miles stole the show as Countess Charlotte. This is the role that you can really run away with, and boy did she ever. This dry rancor is her at her best. I adore her once again. (I had some...quibbles with her in Light in the Piazza, but that's neither here nor there anymore.)

In all, many mistakes and poor judgments from the producers deadened what could have been a night for the ages. Still, it was a night I don't regret. Though I wish I'd paid less.

Verdict: Well...I'm Glad I Saw It

A Note on Ratings

[kayephotog]

lucky charms tiramisú

[probablyasocialecologist]

Being a “centrist” sounds eminently reasonable, doesn’t it? A centrist is a moderate, right? Someone who is rational and practical and takes the middle ground. Someone who isn’t extreme like those crazy ideologues on the far right or far left. A centrist, logic dictates, is really what everyone should strive to be. But stop for a moment and ask yourself how you would define a centrist in more specific terms. When you start spelling out what the word really means, it becomes clear that it obfuscates more than it illuminates. The word does not describe a set of ideas so much as it reinforces a system of power. This, of course, is a feature not a bug of political language. As George Orwell wrote in his famous essay Politics and the English Language: “In our time, political speech and writing are largely the defence of the indefensible. Things like the continuance of British rule in India, the Russian purges and deportations, the dropping of the atom bombs on Japan, can indeed be defended, but only by arguments which are too brutal for most people to face, and which do not square with the professed aims of political parties. Thus political language has to consist largely of euphemism, question-begging and sheer cloudy vagueness.” Orwell wrote that essay in 1946. Today, 78 years later, it feels just as relevant. Look, for example, at the carnage in Gaza and the West Bank. Look at the statements from Israeli leaders that clearly suggest genocidal intent. Look at the tragedies that barely make a dent in the public consciousness any more. Last week, for example, an Israeli airstrike killed four-day-old twins, along with their mother and grandmother, when their father went to collect birth certificates in central Gaza. Look at the levels of brutality that barely seem to register any more: there is video evidence of the sexual abuse of Palestinians at a notorious Israeli military prison (though the more accurate term is “torture camp”) and, even with that evidence, we know there will be no real accountability. Look at the dead. Nearly 40,000 people in Gaza are now dead, including nearly 15,000 children. When you look at the scale of devastation, it seems likely that those figures are an underestimate. Further, counting the dead is excruciatingly difficult: kids are being blown into fragments so small that their surviving relatives have to collect pieces of them in plastic bags. Then there are the tens and thousands more who are now dying from starvation, or facing a looming polio epidemic. Look at the West Bank, meanwhile, where Israel has published plans for new settlements, which violate international law. Since 7 October, the Israeli army and settlers have displaced 1,285 Palestinians and destroyed 641 structures in the West Bank, according to the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs. Ethnic cleansing is taking place before our eyes. Now look at how all of this is being justified. This war isn’t just being waged with bombs, it’s being waged with “euphemism, question-begging and sheer cloudy vagueness”. When you lay out what is happening in clear language, it is indefensible. So political language dresses all those dead and starving children up in euphemism. It obscures ethnic cleansing with vagaries. Don’t believe your eyes, political writing says. What you are seeing is far more complex than your eyes can possibly comprehend.

[...]

In order to defend the indefensible, politicians and political writers move away from concreteness, from clear language, and hide behind the respectableness of terms like “centrism”. Pro-Palestinian protesters are labelled the far-left or extremists. Continuing to unconditionally send arms to Israel and shield the country’s far-right government from accountability, however, is considered a centrist – and therefore reasonable – position.

[...]

As Orwell wrote, atrocities can be defended, “but only by arguments which are too brutal for most people to face, and which do not square with the professed aims of political parties”. If the Democratic party were to be honest about why it is doing very little to stop the carnage in Gaza and the settlements in the West Bank, the bluntest argument would be along the lines of: “Israel is an important tool in maintaining US imperialism and western interests. The ethnic cleansing of Palestinians is expedient to those interests. Human rights law doesn’t apply to atrocities enabled by the west.” Of course, being pro-ethnic cleansing doesn’t quite square with the do-gooding branding of the Democratic party. Instead, we are bombarded with the idea that massacring children is somehow a centrist and moderate position.

22 August 2024

[tytarax]

Our Father, of all of us

Of the poor, of the homeless

Of the marginalized and the unprotected

Of the disinherited and the owners of misery

Of those who follow you and those of us who no longer believe in you

Come down from the heavens

For there is Hell

Come down from your throne

For there are wars, hunger, injustices

You don’t need to be one and three

With just one who wants to help

It would be enough

What is your kingdom? The Vatican?

The Banks? High Politics?

Their kingdom is misery, violence.

Their daily bread is rape

Gender violence

Pedophilia, dictatorships

In temptation, I fall daily

There is no tomorrow in which I am not tempted to create a humble, just God

A God who is on Earth

In the valleys, the rivers

A God who lives in the rain

Who travels through the wind

And caresses our soul

A God of the sad, of the homosexuals

A more human God

A God who does not punish, who teaches

A God who does not threaten, who protects

That, if they fall, will lift them up

That, if they get lost, will extend a hand

A God who, if they sin, will not blame them

And who, if they doubt, will understand them

For that is why you gave them intelligence

To doubt everything

Our Father, of all of us

Why have you forgotten them?

Our Father, blind, deaf, and idle

Why have you abandoned them?

The words of her prayer echoed in the void, a lament carried through the stillness of the place. Here, between the layers of existence, where neither Heaven’s light nor Hell’s fire reached, she ruled—a gray wasteland of wandering souls, where time bent, and judgment lingered out of reach.

Y/N, known as Death, walked its shadowed paths, her form draped in flowing obsidian, her wings like a torn night. The souls in her care trembled when she passed, for even here, in the land of waiting, her presence bore weight. She was not cruel, but she was absolute. She was not forgiveness, nor was she condemnation.

She simply was.

And she had been since the moment mankind first erred.

Her existence began in the garden, on the day a man and a woman stood before a tree and chose to defy the divine. With a single bite, sin entered the world, and through sin came death. She appeared as the shadow cast by their choice, a being neither blessed nor cursed, but necessary. As their naked shame drove them from Eden, the golden angel and his lover fell, casting themselves into the abyss. Their rebellion birthed Hell, and with it, she found her purpose.

From Adam to Moses and beyond, her reign stretched, a silent witness to the rise and fall of countless souls.

Her wings stirred the air as she walked, trailing whispers of a timeless truth: Where sin began, so too did Death reign.

Lately, however, something was shifting. Heaven, for all its proclamations of purity, had dirtied its hands. The boundaries between realms grew thin, with rumors of clandestine acts spilling across the planes. The Exterminators, Heaven’s sword, had begun to cut deeper, venturing beyond their mandate to cull Hell’s chaos. It was not their place to meddle with the balance. It was hers.

Y/N paused, her sharp gaze cutting through the haze that veiled her domain. She spoke, not to the wandering souls, but to the realms above and below. Her voice was calm, almost gentle, but it carried the weight of a thousand ages.

“Sin entered the world through man’s folly, and death through sin. Through me. You could not escape me then, and you cannot escape me now.”

Her fingers brushed against the mist, parting it to reveal Hell in the distance. Its sprawling expanse flickered with life and fire, chaos and control. At its heart were the Seven—monarchs of sin who wielded power as old as her own.

And if Heaven thought it could encroach on her realm, bypassing the laws of balance, it would find its reckoning not in fire or light but in her shadow.

A faint smirk curved her lips, though it carried no warmth. “You cannot rewrite the beginning, and you will not dictate the end.”

With a final glance back at the stillness of her domain, she stepped forward into the parted mists. The paths closed behind her, and the gray silence was left once more to the wandering souls.

Death was no longer watching. She was moving.

Taglist: @ultimate-percussionist

[try-set-me-on-fire]

Hiiii 💕💕💕

For the wip game (the highlighted ones)

-❤️🪐

Hello!! For you since you’ve been interested in it for awhile and i promised you a scene ages ago and only just now finished it: big heart, I wanna let it bleed, aka buck joins the team younger fic! Here’s a complete drabble about them running into Phillip on a call…

They’re not in an enclosed space but, somehow, the kid’s laughter is still echoing around them. Bobby tries to bite down on his smile as he calls a vaguely warning “Buck,” though he’s not too worried about professionalism seeing as the surfer — who’s trunks are truly mystifyingly tangled on his board — is cracking up even harder. He’s sort of… hung up there, board stuck nose down in the sand, man dangling up on the back end of it. They seem too far up the beach for a wave to have done this, but what does Bobby know, he’s from a landlocked state.

“Sorry, Cap,” Buck wheezes. “Do we, uh… need the ladder?”

Bobby takes a measured inhale as he hears some kind of frantically smothered squeak sound coming from — is that Chimney? One of the paramedics, anyway — and shakes his head. “I think we can just lower the board down, if you’ll give me a hand. That sound alright to you, sir?”

The surfer gets through a few more wheezing chuckles before he can say “Yeah dude, lower away.”

They manage it pretty smoothly, with him and Buck on either side and Hen and Chim ready to catch the weight of the surfer. Hen starts off the next small round of laughter as she tries to de-tangle the swim trunks to move their vic, but everybody manages to calm down as they get to the actual medical examination.

As Hen and Chimney poke and prod, Buck chatters. “I learned to surf a few years ago, over in the Carolinas.”

“No shit?” The surfer grins. “Like Charleston? I gotta cousin over there.”

“Yeah, Folly Beach sometimes, but mostly went up to the Banks.”

“Sick.” The surfer gestures to where Hen’s wrapping some gauze around his bloodied elbow. “What’s your worst wipeout?”

Buck laughs again, a little delighted sound, always happy to be included. “Oh man- My first time out on the water, like the second wave I ever caught, just tossed me right off completely.” He tugs up his shirt before Bobby dawn shake his head not to, and twists around to show a jagged old scar on his lower back. “Landed on some rocks, needed fourteen stitches.”

The surfer whistles as Hen shakes her head. “I don’t think you’ll need any stitches for this one, but there’s enough debris in there I’m gonna recommend we take you to the hospital so they can get it all out.”

“Sure thing,” the guy says, looking more relaxed than Buck taking a nap on the couch after second helpings of mac and cheese. “Thanks man.”

“No problem,” Bobby says, definitely no trace of a chuckle in his voice no matter the delighted glances his team sends him.

The surfer tries to twist towards Buck once they get him on the gurney, winces, and then just turns his head. “You ever surf out here?”

“Have a few times, but I don't have a board or anything.”

“Man, you should come out and join us! We got a group most weekday mornings, I'm sure somebody could get you set up.”

Buck looks happy as a dog with a bone, glancing at Bobby with a mile wide grin. It's a familiar kind of look, though it takes until they're almost at the ambulance — Buck chatting away all the while — for him to place it, and it nearly makes him stumble when he does. Robert would give him that look when he made a new friend on the playground and got invited to hang out. Please, Dad, can I go? He's sure Buck didn't mean anything by it. Bobby doesn't have that authority in his life, nicknames and Springsteen concerts nothing that adds up to a tangible connection. And the kid- well, he's not a kid. 25 years old, can arrange his own playdates perfectly well. Still, Bobby feels a little off kilter as they load the ambulance.

“Rad, man, see you around.” The surfer is grinning at Buck, two happy little suns shining at each other. “Ask for Stevey,” he says, loosely pointing at himself. Steven Barney, he'd given as his name to dispatch.

Buck smiles, waves goodbye. “I'm-”

“Evan?”

Buck turns like a man in a haunted house, startled at an impossible sound with all the color draining out of him. The apparition takes the appearance of a white man a little older than Bobby, wearing neat, pale clothes and a sort of constipated, caught expression. They see that look on calls sometimes, with men who are going through an emergency with women who are not their wives and who are still trying to pretend they've done nothing at all untoward.

“D-” Buck blinks, a few times, hard. “Dad?”

Bobby can't help joining in Hen and Chin's shared oh shit look. There's not an overly familiar resemblance between the two — perhaps a shared stake in forehead real estate — but the man doesn't refute it. “I'll let you get back to work,” he says, glancing towards the sea, the ambulance, eyes landing briefly on Bobby before jumping away again, startled.

“Wait, wh-” Buck steps forward, hand wandering out in front of him before dropping back to his side. “What are you doing in LA? Did you have- a-a work trip?”

Buck's father clears his throat. “It's Brian’s birthday.”

“Oh,” Buck says, blinking again, rapidly this time, a fish thrown in new water. “He- he lives in California now?”

“No, no,” the man says dismissively, like he doesn't know why anyone on earth would choose to live in California. “He’s retiring early, wanted to make a weekend of it.”

“So-” Buck scrambles, visibly, and it makes Bobby aware of the small audience of first responders (and surfer), so he closes the ambulance door despite Hen and Chim’s wide eyes and shaking heads, and thumps the back so they pull away. Buck doesn’t seem to notice either way. “You’re- you’re here for a few days? We should- we could go get lunch? I-I have to work until tomorrow morning but-”

“It’s a busy weekend,” the man grumbles, doing a motion with his hands almost like he's patting himself down to make sure he has his wallet, the movements of someone making sure they're good to leave. “I won't have the time.”

Buck stands there, looking more wounded than any of the times he's been banged up on calls. “I- haven't seen you in- in like four years-”

“And who's fault is that?” His father laughs dismissively. “If you want to run off and throw your life away you can't complain about it later.”

“I-I didn't, I like what I- I have a job, I- I found…” Buck frowns, and Bobby worries for a moment he's going to cry out here in front of his father and colleagues and the beach goers of Santa Monica. He holds it together, though. “I like it here, and I like my job, and I'd like to tell you about it-”

“I won't have the time, Evan.” He doesn't even consider for a moment backing out of his obvious lie. “You can call next week if you want. Your mother will be glad to know you're in one piece.”

“Okay,” Buck says, shoulders sinking down and turning in. He goes from a 6’3” wall of muscle to a lost child right before Bobby’s eyes, hell of a magic trick. “Sorry,” Buck says, as Bobby does some math, works backwards a little. Fourteen stitches, definitely more recent than four years ago. He thinks about the laws of physics, or at least traffic, he’d break if he knew Robert was bleeding in an ocean somewhere in the world. “Sorry,” Buck says again — why, why should he be apologizing — and nods a few times. “I’ll- I’ll make sure to call.”

His father nods back. “We still work, so-”

“Yeah, after five, I know.”

“And your mother has book club on Tuesdays.”

“Okay.” Smaller, and smaller. Bobby remembers reading Alice in Wonderland to Brook, wonders how big Buck’s pool of tears is to shrink him so much. “I’ll just-” Buck clenches his fists, just for a moment, and then hides them in his pockets. “I’ll just try. If you’re busy you don’t have to pick up.”

Oh, God, give an inch and they’ll take a mile. Buck’s father looks visibly relieved at the offer of plausible deniability. “Alright.” He doesn’t move to hug his son, doesn’t even reach out for a handshake, staying a careful several feet away. “I’m sure you need to get back to your job,” he says, raising eyebrows in Bobby’s direction. It makes him bristle, he doesn’t want to be a forced coconspirator in judging Buck for something he hasn’t even done wrong. Buck wilts even further beside him. His father gives one final nod. “Goodbye, Evan.”

He’s already walking away by the time Buck says “Bye, Dad.”

And then they’re all just standing there. Hen and Chimney went off to the hospital, sure, but there’s still a handful of firefighters lingering around, either trying to make a lot of eye contact or no eye contact at all. Buck stares firmly at the ground. Bobby clears his throat.

“Alright, let's pack it up.” If they were operating under any other circumstance Bobby might compliment his crew for how quickly and quietly they get loaded into the trucks.

The ride back to the station is quiet, too, usual engine chit chat locked in everyone’s throats. Bobby’s pretty sure he sees Nichols subtly and somewhat frantically typing on his phone. Mostly, though, he watches Buck in the rearview. The kid is staring resolutely out the window, but Bobby would bet he’s not seeing a thing. His leg bounces on the seat, and Rodriguez doesn't even do the polite cut-it-out cough. Bobby wonders how many of Buck's stories he's overheard, if he's also now watching them tilt, shift, rearrange in his head. Dumb little boy stuff, skateboard-bike-motorcycle stunts, climbing up trees to fall out of them, all told with class clown energy, wasn't I stupid but wasn't it fun, wasn't it funny? Bobby got up to some shit when he was a kid, trailing after Charlie and taking any ill-advised dare the older kids tossed out to him, but he got hurt and he went home, his mom kissed his scrapes, even his dad would ruffle his hair and grab the first aid kit on his good days. Bobby looks at Buck looking out at nothing and tries to count the broken bones scattered between the big grins and his audience’s corresponding groans, tries to imagine Buck — all his silliness, all his sunshine — going home hurt to parents whose care comes with office hours.

When they pull into the station everyone flees the engine like there’d been a chemical spill, leaving Buck standing alone silhouetted against shiny scarlet paint. Bobby hesitates, one foot still up on the truck bed. He doesn’t want to overstep, but- he can’t stop thinking about how far away Buck’s father stood. The kid deserves someone to come closer. He only wished there was someone better than himself around to do it.

“Hey, kid-”

“I never knew what I did wrong.” Buck is frowning into middle distance, shoulders still tucked in around him. “I- I know I was stupid in- in high school, and college, but-” he looks right at Bobby, eyes wide, and he looks- oh, kid, come home. You’re hurting, come home, you’ll be taken care of, I got a first aid kid at least and I’ll learn to do better than that. “It was always like this- I-” Buck shrugs and here, finally, come the tears. “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing,” Bobby says, and it's only two steps over to him, and he’s never even casually side hugged this kid before but Buck sinks right into his arms.

“You can’t know that-”

“I can.” Buck’s so tall. Bobby’s not sure the last time he hugged somebody taller than him. He wonders how tall his dad was, looming so large in memory but an unknown in actual imperial measurement. He wonders how tall Robert would’ve gotten. “You were a kid. You were their kid. There’s nothing you could have done that was so bad they shouldn’t have loved you anyway.”

Buck shudders against him, and his shoulder is getting wet, and the ambulance will be back soon and there’s firefighters milling about and, always, work to do.

But they can take a little time here. Bobby’ll bend it around, if he has to. The laws of traffic, the laws of physics. It startles him, scares him a little, but- he’d break them for Buck, too.

[radianttulsibabe]

because my very real-time post about my garden blooming in freezing weather apparently wasn't up to par, I will grant the boon of @zeherili-ankhein and make a post about what happens when one asks Sri Krishna for water.....

Careful what you wish for...sometimes spurring a river to quench thirst can result in consequences greater than one is prepared to accept...

A long, long time ago, in a land far beyond India, Lord Ram and Lady Sita lived 14 years in exile from their kingdom, called Ayodhya.

During their journeying in the forest, they were often without water. Sita was becoming exceedingly weak from exhaustion- she was a princess from a fine kingdom-not a woman built for the long hot days of the dense jungle forests.

On a day when her constitution was rapidly weakening, Lord Ram went in search of water. But as the life force of his Shakti was fading, his journey came without luck.

A peacock heard of the Lady's failing constitution and would not let the incarnation of Lakshmi perish, in exile, in an untamed wilderness. The peacock greeted Lord Ram and offered to guide him and his family to refuge, and to the water which they needed so desperately in order to survive. However, with every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

As the forest was dense, and the peacock was quicker to fly than to walk, only the dropping of the peacock's feathers from his tail for a marker would allow the travelers to arrive safely to the water source- in time to save the life of the Lady Sita.

With each dropped feather, the life's journey for our peacock came nearer to its close. When the family finally arrived to the water's edge, the peacock lay at the bank- the feathers missing from his once glorious tail.

In return for such a sacrifice, Ram promised to ever honor the peacock. In each incarnation following, the Lord Vishnu adorns himself with gifted feathers shed from a peacock who found its mate.

As the 8th Avatar of LakshmiNaryana, Sri Krishna and Devi Rukmini continued to honor the sacrifice from the life of the devoted peacock they met as Ram and Sita. Sri Krishna wore the feathers in his crown and MaaRukmini tended the birds that needed her care.

When MaaRukmini found herself again traveling without water and a weakening constitution, Sri Krishna stomped his foot into the earth. Where he struck, a spring rose up to quench her thirst.

The first drink from this new river was offered to the Queen of the Dwarkadish. The Sage Durvasa offended by her receiving the first offering instead of being asked himself if she could take the first drink- according to the customs of the time- cursed the two to live 12 years of exile.

As LakshmiNaryana only ever incarnate as a pair, the separation of the two parts of their soul caused much grief for MaaRukmini. Her consolation was the beauty of the forest created around the new River Ganga by the gods who sought to bring comfort to their MahaRani.

Their separation came to be redefined into a lesson from their 8th incarnation. It also came as a time to grow the newly formed river Ganga into a beautiful and powerful landmark. As Durvasa began to understand his folly. He pleaded with the Divine couple for clemency.

Unlike the noble peacock who immediately recognized the divinity-and without hesitation, gave the ultimate sacrifice to his Lord and Lady- Durvasa let his pride become offended by the acts of Naryana providing sustenance to Lakshmi before giving concern to another.

Are many not the same in their pride? is pride greater than devotion to that which the creator deems worthy of his attention? do not many seek to first take from the heart of Vishnu before he is able to even sustain the needs of his Shakti? Do not summer flowers blooming in winter take as much of a miracle as water coming from the earth at the command of its creator? Each petal grows with the same fervor of the water that courses in a river; each atom carries a role of equal importance in the divine story of this world.

Anywho, thanks for reading through to the end of story time with Rukmini! have a lovely day. remember to light sambrani dhoop for Lakshmi this week she would probably really like that.

<3 Rukmini

[youremyheaven]

angel imagery and vedic astrology 👼🏼🧚🏼‍♀️

i had previously made an observation that angels in cinema are often played by actors who have deva gana nakshatras. upon looking into it more, i noticed that people who repeatedly use angel imagery often have pisces rashi nakshatras, mrigashira, swati, punarvasu or purva & uttaraphalguni placements.

sufjan stevens on stage. he has ubp moon, mrig mercury, jup revati amk, punarvasu saturn amk

this is the album cover of nirvana's last studio album. kurt cobain has mars and ketu in swati. swati is associated with eggs and conception and creation. the album heavily features themes of birth and death, nurturance and violence. the original title was supposed to be i hate myself and want to die (kinda ominous considering the fact that kurt took his own life not long after) but the final title was taken from a poem written by Courtney Love, who has punarvasu sun & moon.

ill make a separate post about this but punarvasu & swati are deeply intertwined nakshatras. both deal with the nature of the universe, creation and reality itself.

Van Halen's 1984 album. this is singer David Lee Roth's last album before his exit from the band. David has swati mercury and saturn with pbp moon

swati sun & stellium, katy perry at met gala wearing angel wings

here she is at the grammys wearing angel wings

david beckham has a large back tattoo of an angel, mrig venus atmakaraka, revati jup punarvasu saturn

revati moon rihanna has the winged egyptian goddess isis tattooed on her chest

angel of the north sculpture by antony gormley. it is said to be the largest sculpture of an angel.

he has purvaphalguni sun, revati moon and swati mars, uttara phalguni ketu

this depiction of an angel is a very modern and "high-tech" and to me the polarity between depicting an angel (in itself a very archaic and otherworldly concept) in a very human albeit futuristic way is 100% the influence of his revati moon and swati mars.

the angel and the woman (1977) is about a murdered woman who is brought back to life and becomes romantically involved with the angel who rescued her. carole laure who plays the rescued woman has purvaphalguni stellium punarvasu mars atmakaraka and revati jup amk meanwhile the angel is played by lewis furey who has mrigashira sun and swati moon

l'ange or the angel (1982) is an experimental art house film and its letterboxd description says its about "The climbing of an immense staircase made up of the most varied stairs- Symbolic scenes occur on different levels where characters seem to be prisoners of their deeds and of their own folly. The steep staircase leads little by little towards the zones of great light where human beings and nonhuman beings meet."

the director has pbp moon, revati mars atmakaraka, mrigashira saturn amk

the character of Angel/Archangel in the X-Men movies has been played by two people

ben hardy, pushya moon and ketu plays Archangel in X Men. like i said in my previous post, angels in cinema are often played by deva gana nak natives and pushya is a deva gana nakshatra.

thisrole was previously played by ben foster who has swati sun, punarvasu moon, uttaraphalguni venus and jupiter

i married an angel 1942 is a very punarvasu coded film

its about a wealthy man, Willie who swears he'll only marry an angel. soon enough an angel comes into his life but due to her divine nature, she is unable to fib and has no human failings. Her honesty alienates her husband's high society acquaintances and his biggest customer and causes a run on his bank. His sister, Countess Palaffi, saves the day by teaching the angel about the real world. Willie and his now Earthier angel live happily ever after.

jeanette macdonald who plays the angel has mrigashira sun, punarvasu moon and mercury and pushya rising with purvaphalguni mars

The Vintner's Luck 2007 is a queer coded movie about a man who is visited by an angel every year. gaspard ulliel plays Xas, an angel, he has anuradha sun and ketu with ubp rising. the movie is directed by niki caro who has uttara phalguni sun, anuradha moon

its based on a book by elizabeth knox who has ketu in revati

Angel's Bone is a one act opera, which follows the plight of two angels discovered on earth who are forced into spiritual and sexual slavery at the hands of a financially troubled couple.

the angels longed for earthly delights and that has, mysteriously, brought them back to our world. they're found by a couple who nurse the wounded angels back to health. but they keep them as prisoners and decide to exploit the magical beings, clipping their wings and forcing them into prostitution to earn back their plucked feathers.

Do Yun who composed this piece has mrigashira sun revati ketu with venus and mars in bharani

Bharani is karma and concerns itself with purging and purifying whatever it touches. everything that is dirty, impure, false or frivolous is stripped away to reveal what is true and real. this specific work of art displays Bharani themes with both the couple and the angels facing their karma in different ways.

in the tv show Touched by an Angel, Roma Downey plays monica who is an angel. she has bharani sun and purva phalguni moon

Bharani is karma and bharani is also tasked with guiding souls to other realms. in this show, Monica is an angel in heaven who travels across to the earthly realm to help and guide people.

Gisele Bundchen has Pushya sun, Swati moon, punarvasu mercury mrigashira venus

Swati moon, Kylie Jenner frequently wears angel wings

she also has revati saturn as her atmakaraka and ive already talked about how much pisces girlies love butterflies<3

here's the whole clan wearing angel wings one halloween

swati sun, ubp moon, kendall jenner dressed up like a fairy

rihanna, revati moon wearing angel wings

mrigashira venus atmakaraka megan fox

as to why these specific nakshatras are drawn to angel imagery, i have a few thoughts.

mrigashira is associated with shape shifting, as Brahma's daughter assumed the form of a deer. angels are divine beings who can assume different forms and travel to different worlds.

punarvasu and swati are both connected to the universe and creation itself. it shouldn't be surprising that these natives are drawn to angel imagery.

purvaphalguni and uttaraphalguni nakshatras are both symbolised by the marital bed, union and consummation of love/marital bliss. again coming back to conception and creation. it seems to me that wherever there is creation, there are angels protecting it.

pisces rashi (pbp, ubp and revati) is the point of dissolution. its the final rashi and here, all that's been learned through all the other rashis is contained, it reaches its absolute point. its the height of moksha. spiritual liberation is the aim and again, it makes sense as to why natives of this rashi of completion and surrendering would be drawn to heavenly and angelic imagery.

[gintrinsic-writing]

CW: war-related violence/death.

--

The sergeant doesn’t bother hiding his skepticism. “Over yonder,” he answers, head barely moving as he indicates a direction. The drawl in his voice marks him as a farmer. The darkness in his eyes screams soldier, survivor. “He’s takin’ inventory.”

“Thanks,” Legend answers, motioning for the others to lead the way. The sergeant clears his throat a second later. 

“He’s shoulderin’ a lot, ya hear? Best not waste his time with… follies.” 

Legend barely holds back a sigh. He gives the sergeant a two-fingered salute, ignoring the frown this earns him, and turns toward the grisly field in the distance. 

Twilight’s eyes are already watering. He takes a bandana from Wind with a quiet murmur of thanks, then ties it across his nose. 

“It’s muddy out there,” Four notes, squinting faintly against the sun. “But it hasn’t rained since we arrived in this world.”

Legend hopes it doesn’t need to be said, the why and how. He keeps his eyes on the stranger ahead, already cataloging what he can—lean frame, slight limp, confident posture, hair more red than blonde. The captain barely spares them a glance in return. 

“It’s blood,” Hyrule answers Four quietly. “Blood did that.”

“But that’s—” Sky’s mouth shuts with a click as they reach the first of the caltrops. Low wisps of black smoke scatter into thousands of buzzing flies. The field is ripe with bodies. 

“Oh,” someone whispers. Legend’s not sure who. He doesn’t look anywhere but at the captain, and still his stomach rolls from the stench and the constant, gluttonous buzz. 

“...accounted for yet,” a second-lieutenant is saying, her cold expression doing little to mask the grimness in her voice. “Seventy-two from Squabble Company; the remaining infantrymen will need to be reassigned.”

“I see. And Major Koza?”

The second-lieutenant flips a page in her stained notebook. “Unaccounted for.” Her eyes sweep over the field as if she might glimpse the major in question. She frowns when she spots Legend and the others instead. “Sir...”

The captain waves a hand dismissively. “Aries Company?”

Before she can answer, Time closes the distance between them. His boots squelch disturbingly. “I sincerely apologize, but we need to speak with you, Captain Link.”

The captain doesn’t so much as twitch. “Aries Company?” he repeats.

“Thirty-four and counting. They held the bank as long as they could.”

The captain steps over a severed hand with only a mild frown. “Make sure the field is cleared by sundown. We can’t afford disease to—”

“Captain Link,” Time tries again, and Legend can’t help but wince, “it really is urgent that we speak with you.”

The captain is slow to turn. What little emotion he shows can be found in the disdainful curl of his lip. “Whatever you wish to say will have to wait.”

“It really can’t,” Four begins quietly, but the sudden way the captain rests his hand on his sword pommel charges the air with fresh tension. 

“I’m afraid you caught me at a bad time,” he tells them with false charm, his smile never reaching his eyes. “Forgive me if I’m disinclined to care.” 

“We’ve been summoned from across timelines,” Sky explains hurriedly. Legend knows almost instantly that it’s the wrong thing to say. “The goddesses need us to—”

“Fuck the goddesses,” the captain answers succinctly. “I know why you’re here. Zelda warned me in a letter. I cannot fight two wars at once, and frankly, my allegiance is here.”

Wild speaks up for the first time in two days, his voice rasping slightly. “You don’t get it. Your entire world could be at stake.”

The captain laughs mirthlessly. It chills Legend in a way even his empty smile had not. “Look around,” he tells them, gesturing to the field. “It already is. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have letters of condolence to write.” He strides straight past them, clipping shoulders with Twilight. Swarms of flies orbit him like dead stars.

“What now?” Wind asks, pinching his nostrils with young, sword-calloused fingers. 

Legend sighs and resigns himself to an evening of misery. He spots pallets in the distance and knows the smell will be worse once the fires are lit. “You heard the man,” he answers tiredly. “The field needs clearing.” 

[hyperbolicreverie]

Been rereading A Crown of Flowers recently and I kinda have to ask cause I don’t think I’ve seen it discussed anywhere in the fic itself (though it is pretty irrelevant to the main story so I can see why not) but how the hell did Law get Cora’s house under his name? Or is it still Cora’s house and Law’s just living in it but been paying the bills under Cora’s name? Cause if it’s the later I am busting a gut laughing at the image of 13 y/o Law committing identity fraud as a nigh ageless fae to the IRS

See, this question is funny for two reasons, and that's because I 100% believe Law would have committed identity fraud as a teenager (and I've already implied he did commit massive amounts of fraud or at the very least some underhanded trickery to get his home clinic tricked out), but also because I work in the loan department of a financial institution in real life, and this perhaps makes me weirdly qualified to know the logistics of this.

It is mentioned in passing in Chapter 12 that Sengoku helped Rosinante buy the house. But, given that Sengoku is well aware that asking an immortal to comply to the payment schedule of a thirty year mortgage is the highest of follies, and he was not trusting enough that at some point Rosinante's identity wouldn't bear investigating, the deed was amended to add Law's name to it during the six months they were together, because Law has things like, you know, a birth certificate and other proof of identity. (There are provisions for adding minors to deeds in many places). Then, smart person that he was, he set up a house account on automatic payment so that Rosinante didn't have to think too hard about it.

Law being Law, he was aware of this account and its details before Rosinante disappeared (if only because you know Rosinante didn't think to keep stuff like that where a precocious teenager is going to find it, and because Law too would be curious to know the details of Gentry owning a house), so when Rosinante disappeared, he just...kept using it. He had definitely planned for what to do if for some reason it stopped working, and he's probably figured out at this point that Sengoku's the one responsible for it. Doesn't mean he won't take advantage of it.

Did he commit massive amounts of fraud to pay for medical school and all his supplies? Absolutely. If you could magically avoid college debt, wouldn't you? Hilariously, the house is the most legally straight and narrow thing he owns outside of his personal bank account.

[fluffy-raccoon-artist]

Dreamfaire Follies: The Devil went out for Lunch Pt.4

Hey guys! It's been a while since I've updated my little comic, mainly because I'm gonna be daring and spice up the panels. I wanted to get you guys a little Holiday treats, so hope you like it!

The previous part is here

also big thanks to @molly-gru for helping me comb out the knots of the plot. Please go check out their work! It heavily inspired this comic.

[black-ak9]

do you have any hc about martha and dracs relationship?, i would love to hear abt your different ideas for them 💕

Hello! Here are some headcanons

They have a deep understanding and shared passion, their strengths and weaknesses complementing each other's. 🧩

They always try to learn from each other, and teach what they know. A couple of centuries of age are not in vain. 📚🤺⚔️🔮🌎

While one is more introverted, the other is more extroverted. But they support each other's follies without hesitation.

Martha seeks to update herself on human technology and that things, and be able to fuse them with her monstrous tastes so that Dracula adapts easily by finding his own style that suits him.

This is how they found their modern style in clothing such as gothic, punk and rock and roll.

When they started dating, they controlled themselves not to murder or hunt in front of each other so as not to be rejected. They were very much in love and had to behave, but then they understood that they shared the same "addiction" and fell even more in love. (After almost a century)

When there is a crisis involved, they sit together to contemplate the problem with a bottle of wine/blood and a cigarette 🍾🍷🚬

Your dates can range from a classic romantic candlelight dinner to a romantic bank robbery attempt. Because why not?

Martha has a collection of weapons ⚔️🏹🗡️of various types (Swords, axes, crossbows, spears) as a hobby, Drac doesn't see the point but when he can he gets her more from a few catacombs.

They almost never fight, and when they do argue they even change the language and various insults are heard in many languages.

For these were their wedding vows: "...and I will always love you, in this life and the next, in death and eternity, till the devil do us part." (I made this one inspired by a poem)❤️🖤

Their friends always believed they were the least qualified to take care of a child, and they ended up being the best. For pride and being right

Dracula is jealous of any man who approaches Martha, but she is not so jealous, on the contrary, she has fun watching them try to flirt with her count.

These were some headcanons, I don't want to go on too long but I think these are my favorites :D

[iheartgracie]

jude duarte sad quotes

“She wasn’t even scared. She wasn’t sure she felt anything at all.”

“She couldn’t imagine how it had felt, and as the years went by, she couldn’t make herself feel it again. The horror of the murders dulled with time. Her memories of the day blurred.”

“I know it’s an honor to be raised alongside the Gentry’s own children. A terrifying honor, of which I will never be worthy.

It would be hard to forget it, with all the reminders I am given.”

“We are getting older and things are changing. We are changing. And as eager as I am for it, I am also afraid.”

“You may think salt is sufficient protection, but you children are forgetful. Better to go without. As for dancing, once begun, you mortals will dance yourselves to death if we don’t prevent it.”

I look at my feet and say nothing.

We children are not forgetful.”

“To go inside, we must ride between two trees, an oak and a thorn, and then straight into what appears to be the stone wall of an abandoned folly. I’ve done it hundreds of times, but I flinch anyway. My whole body braces, I grip the reins hard, and my eyes mash shut.”

“Oriana steps forward, probably to remind Taryn and me of all the things she doesn’t want us to do. I don’t give her the chance.”

“I turn my gaze to the floor. Though I hate it, I sink to the ground on one knee, bend my head, and grit my teeth”

“Valerian gives my braid a hard tug. I wince, useless fury coiling in my belly. He laughs and moves on.

My fury curdles into shame. I wish I had smacked his hand away, even though it would have made everything worse.”

“I want to feel something, something besides a vague queasiness. I want to feel more, but every time I look at it, I feel less.”

“I’m so tired,” I say out loud. “So tired.”

I sit there for a long time, watching the rising sun gild the sky, listening to the waves crash as the tide goes out, when a creature flies up to alight on the edge of my window. At first it seems like an owl, but it’s got hob eyes. “Tired of what, sweetmeat?” it asks me.

I sigh and answer honestly for once. “Of being powerless.”

“He doesn’t understand how much that makes them loathe us.

Not that I am not grateful. I like the lessons. Answering the lecturers cleverly is something no one can take from me, even if the lecturers themselves occasionally pretend otherwise. I will take a frustrated nod in place of effusive praise. I will take it and be glad because it means I can belong whether they like it or not.”

“There is nothing I can say to make them stop, and I know it. I have no power here. But today I can’t seem to choke down my anger at my own impotence.”

“What they don’t realize is this: Yes, they frighten me, but I have always been scared, since the day I got here. I was raised by the man who murdered my parents, reared in a land of monsters. I live with that fear, let it settle into my bones, and ignore it. If I didn’t pretend not to be scared, I would hide under my owl-down coverlets in Madoc’s estate forever. I would lie there and scream until there was nothing left of me. I refuse to do that. I will not do that.”

“When I was little, I used to sit at the bank all day, staring at faerie countenances instead of my own, hoping that I might someday catch a glimpse of my mother looking back at me.

Eventually, it hurt too much to try.”

“I want to scream at him: Do you know how hard it is to always keep your head down? To swallow insults and endure outright threats? And yet I have done so. I thought it proved my toughness. I thought if you saw I could take whatever came at me and still smile, you would see that I was worthy.

You’re no killer.

He has no idea what I am.

Maybe I don’t know, either. Maybe I never let myself find out.”

“I pinch my leg until pain washes everything away.”

“Do you know why Madoc won’t let me try for knighthood? Because he thinks I’m weak.”

“Jude,” she cautions.

“I thought I was supposed to be good and follow the rules,” I say. “But I am done with being weak. I am done with being good. I think I am going to be something else.”

“when the fun wore off and I still couldn’t stop, it was just terrifying. It turned out that my fear was equally amusing to him, though. Princess Elowyn found me at the end of the revel, puking and crying.”

“Here’s why I don’t like these stories: They highlight that I am vulnerable. No matter how careful I am, eventually I’ll make another misstep. I am weak. I am fragile. I am mortal.

I hate that most of all.

Even if, by some miracle, I could be better than them, I will never be one of them.”

“Is this fun?” I call to the shore. I am so furious that there’s no room for being scared. “Are you enjoying yourselves?”

“My foot slips on slick rocks, and I am under, swept downstream helplessly, gulping muddy water. I panic, snorting into my lungs. I thrust out a hand, and it closes on the root of a tree. I get my balance again, gasping and coughing.”

“We can curse you to wither away for want of a song you’ll never hear again or a kind word from my lips. We’re not mortal. We will break you. You’re a fragile little thing; we’d hardly need to try. Give up.”

“Never,” I say.”

“I think about how much I hate them and how much I hate myself.”

“a different person is looking back at me.

Maybe the person I might have been if I’d been raised human.

Whoever that is.”

“But when I see human families all together, especially families with sticky-mouthed, giggling little sisters, I don’t like the way I feel.

Angry.

I don’t imagine myself back in a life like theirs; what I imagine is going over there and scaring them until they cry.

I would never, of course.

I mean, I don’t think I would.”

“Knighthood would have been boring anyway,” Vivi says, effectively dismissing the thing I’ve been working toward for years. I sigh. It’s annoying, but also reassuring that she doesn’t think it’s that big a deal, when the loss has felt overwhelming to me.”

“not giving her the satisfaction of being shocked by what she said about our parents. She acts like we don’t remember, like there’s some way I am ever going to forget. She acts like it’s her personal tragedy and hers alone.”

“A wave of panicky frustration comes over me at the sight of her intent expression. I so badly wanted her to choose me to be one of her knights. And though she can’t now, a sudden awful fear that I couldn’t have impressed her comes over me. Maybe Madoc was right. Maybe I lack the instinct for dealing death.

If I don’t try too hard today, at least I never need know if I would have been good enough.”

“My stomach is sour with the lack of food, but I no longer feel hungry. I feel sick, eaten up with nerves. I try to ignore everything but the exercises I move through to limber up my muscles.”

“There’s no shame in surrender. As Taryn said, they’re just words. I don’t have to mean them. I can lie.

I start to lower myself to the ground. This will be over quickly, every word will taste like bile, and then it will be over.

When I open my mouth, though, nothing comes out.

I can’t do it.”

“I stagger past the tournament tents to a stone fountain, where I splash my face with water. I bend down, starting to clean the gravel from my knees. My legs feel stiff, and I am shaking all over.

“Are you all right?” Locke asks, gazing down with his tawny fox eyes. I didn’t even hear him behind me.

I am not.

I am not all right, but he can’t know that, and he shouldn’t be asking.”

“What happens when they turn out my pockets? What happens when they rip my stockings? What happens when they scatter my salt in the dirt?”

[kvetchlandia]

Poet Delmore Schwartz, New York City Uncredited and Undated Photograph

Twenty-eight naked young women bathed by the shore Or near the bank of a woodland lake Twenty-eight girls and all of them comely Worthy of Mack Sennett's camera and Florenz Ziegfield's Foolish Follies.

They splashed and swam with the wondrous unconsciousness Of their youth and beauty In the full spontaneity and summer of the fieshes of awareness Heightened, intensified and softened By the soft and the silk of the waters Blooded made ready by the energy set afire by the nakedness of the body,

Electrified: deified: undenied.

A young man of thirty years beholds them from a distance. He lives in the dungeon of ten million dollars. He is rich, handsome and empty standing behind the linen curtains Beholding them. Which girl does he think most desirable, most beautiful? They are all equally beautiful and desirable from the gold distance. For if poverty darkens discrimination and makes perception too vivid, The gold of wealth is also a form of blindness. For has not a Frenchman said, Although this is America…

What he has said is not entirely relevant, That a naked woman is a proof of the existence of God.

Where is he going? Is he going to be among them to splash and to laugh with them? They did not see him although he saw them and was there among them. He saw them as he would not have seen them had they been conscious Of him or conscious of men in complete depravation: This is his enchantment and impoverishment As he possesses them in gaze only.

. . .He felt the wood secrecy, he knew the June softness The warmth surrounding him crackled Held in by the mansard roof mansion He glimpsed the shadowy light on last year's brittle leaves fallen, Looked over and overlooked, glimpsed by the fall of death, Winter's mourning and the May's renewal.

-- Delmore Schwartz, "A Dream Of Whitman Paraphrased, Recognized And Made More Vivid By Renoir" 1962